The fourth year of my marriage to the bane of my existence. He gets into a car accident, and just like that, he has amnesia. His memory is stuck four years in the past, right before we got married. His eyes land on the wedding band on my finger, and a smirk plays on his lips. “Who’s the unfortunate soul who married you?” 1 I glance at the gauze wrapped around his head and think, Pal, if I told you that soul was you, I’m genuinely afraid you’d hemorrhage on the spot. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, keeping my voice light. “It’s not you.” “When did you get married?” “Four years ago.” “What did I do?” he presses. A saccharine smile spreads across my face. “You gave me a huge wedding gift. Incredibly generous.” He looks down, his brow furrowing. “That’s impossible.” For some reason, a flicker of melancholy crosses his handsome features. So, even with amnesia, he’s still impossible to fool. Given our history, there’s no way he would have given me a generous gift. He would have been more likely to spike the catering with laxatives, turning my wedding into the most humiliating spectacle in New York society. As he sits there, lost in his own confused thoughts, my hand moves faster than my brain. I reach out and pinch his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go home.” “Home?” His eyes suddenly brighten, as if he’s just seen a glimmer of hope. An idea, wicked and wonderful, begins to form in my mind. “Yes,” I say, my tone turning serious. “The Donovan family went bankrupt. Didn’t you know? You’re my manservant now.” The fragile composure of Nathan Donovan, which had been threatening to crack, finally shatters completely. I believe in thoroughness. I call our staff ahead of time to get them on board. I even clear it with his parents, framing it as a necessary deception to let Nathan rest and recover at home, free from the stress of his corporate responsibilities. So, as we’re in the car, he clings to one last shred of hope and calls his father to verify my story. The answer he receives is devastatingly simple. “Son, it’s true. We’re ruined.” He lowers the phone, his eyes rimmed with red. The golden boy of Manhattan, the heir to a dynasty, now reduced to a penniless nobody. After a long silence, he finally speaks, his voice low. “So… what exactly do I do at your house?” “Oh, lots of things,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “Laundry, cooking, serving tea… and you’ll be washing my feet.” He turns his head to stare out the window. The sharp, proud line of his jaw seems to soften in his despair, lending him a fragility that is almost poetic. Anyone seeing him now would sigh and say, “That poor, beautiful man.” Inside, I’m about to explode with glee, but I manage to keep a straight face. You have to understand, the normal Nathan Donovan is an arrogant, untouchable ice king. His life has been a gilded path, a non-stop highlight reel of success and privilege. He’s the kind of man who seems to generate his own lightning. I once joked that the only way I’d ever see Nathan Donovan get misty-eyed for me would be at my funeral. The comment got back to him, of course. He’d just smiled that infuriatingly charming smile of his and said, “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d only come to your funeral to set off fireworks.” And now, seeing him this fragile, this broken? It’s a hit of pure, unadulterated bliss. I spend the entire ride home fighting back a triumphant grin. 2 When we get home, I head straight to my study to deal with a mountain of paperwork. Later, when I walk into my bedroom, I stop dead. Nathan is standing there, a basin of… foot-washing water… at his feet. He’s just standing there, looking dazed. Then my eyes catch what he’s holding, and a silent alarm goes off in my head. It’s his pajama shirt. If there’s one thing you can say about him, it’s that he’s loyal to a fault. He’s been wearing that same damn pajama shirt since college, four years into our marriage. He turns to me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “You said you were married. Why are my things in your room?” I smile and walk toward him, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer. The tips of his ears turn a bright, tell-tale red. He averts his gaze, flustered. “What… what are you doing?” My fingertip traces a slow circle on his well-defined chest. “My husband,” I purr, “is always abroad. And you know… a woman gets lonely. I have certain… needs.” His eyes go wide with shock. “So… I’m your affair? Your other man?” “Or is ‘plaything’ more accurate?” I suggest, tilting my head. I open my mouth to say more, but I stop when I see his expression. He lowers his gaze, a shadow of despair coloring the corners of his eyes. His voice is barely a whisper. “Plaything… I can live with that.” For a second, watching him stand there so lost and pathetic, I feel a pang of guilt. Maybe I’ve taken this too far. This is Nathan Donovan, a man whose pride is his entire identity. Waking up to find he’s a bankrupt servant who’s also a part-time gigolo… could that be too much of a blow? But in the next instant, all my guilt evaporates as he pulls me into a fierce embrace. His mouth crashes down on mine, a kiss that is both brutal and utterly desperate, a conquest without mercy. 3 He may have lost his memory, but his skills in this department haven’t diminished one bit. He was in the hospital for two weeks, which means I’ve been celibate for two weeks. The moment his lips touch mine, it’s spontaneous combustion. We stumble, tangled together, onto the bed. He’s more ferocious than usual, his intensity pushing me to the edge until I’m begging for him to slow down. In the pale moonlight filtering through the window, his eyes are dark pools of raw desire and possession. He bites my earlobe, his voice a low growl. “Do you like this?” “Yes… just… gentler…” “Me or your husband. Who’s better?” “…” “Answer me.” “Ah…” He bites my neck, not hard, but enough to make me gasp, his movements becoming more urgent, demanding an answer. My mind is a hazy fog. It’s not that I don’t want to answer, it’s that I honestly don’t know how. “Why him? Why wasn’t it me?” That’s the last thing I hear before I drift off to sleep, the question hanging in the air as someone pulls me into a tight, possessive hold. Turning and curling into his arms has become a kind of instinct. I nuzzle against his chin and murmur, “Honey…” The body holding me goes completely, utterly still. The next morning, I wake up and instinctively reach for the person beside me. My hand finds only cold, empty sheets. I’m instantly awake, sitting bolt upright. My heart only settles when I look downstairs and see him, a whirlwind of activity around the dining table. Habit really is a terrifying thing. When I sit down to eat, Nathan and the rest of the staff stand to the side, waiting. I reach out and tug on his arm. “Aren’t you going to eat? You must be starving after last night.” The teasing words slip out effortlessly. He sits down, a slightly awkward expression on his face. Halfway through his meal, he asks, his voice laced with a pained sort of hesitation, “Your husband. Is it… Adam Bell?” I nearly spit out a mouthful of milk. I manage to swallow it down. Seeing him look so dejected, so utterly lost, it’s clear that Adam Bell still holds a significant place in his fractured memory. 4 Adam Bell was, for all intents and purposes, my first love. Back in college, he was a senior assigned to help with freshman orientation. He was the complete opposite of Nathan. Nathan was the boy my parents always used as a benchmark for my own achievements, the rival I’d been pitted against since we were kids. We’d had a massive fight over who got to play the emperor during a game of make-believe, and from that day on, we were sworn enemies. Unfortunately, our lives seemed to run on parallel tracks. We were always in each other’s orbit, competing over everything. I took up piano; his parents bought him a new Steinway. I started oil painting; he took up charcoal sketching. I said I wanted to go to Columbia; he said he could get into Yale. In the end, he scored thirty points higher than me on the SATs and ended up at the exact same university. I called him a ghost I couldn’t shake. He said it was just my bad luck. On campus, we finally went our separate ways. I was quickly swallowed by the anonymous crowds. One day, feeling adrift, I turned and saw him. Nathan’s height and striking features made him stand out like a lighthouse in a storm. I opened my mouth to call his name, but a girl with flushed cheeks beat me to it, shyly asking for his number. He looked down at her, the afternoon sun catching in his eyes, turning them gold. The word died in my throat. I turned away, never knowing if he gave her his number that day. And that was when I met Adam. He smiled at me, a gentle, warm smile. “Hey, freshman. What’s your major?” He was nothing like Nathan. I confessed my feelings for him after a club outing. We went to an amusement park, and I challenged him to an archery game at one of the stalls. They were giving away little stuffed animals as prizes. “I bet I can win more than you,” I declared. As night fell, the park lights softened everyone’s edges. The evening breeze rustled his hair. He just smiled. “You’re definitely going to win in the end.” “Why’s that?” “Because all of my prizes… are going to you.” I froze. It had never occurred to me that someone would so easily concede, just because they knew I wanted to win. That night, I told him how I felt. And he said yes. Adam was a wonderful boyfriend. He’d bring me breakfast, and he never showed up for a date without a bouquet of my favorite flowers. Even when his pre-med schedule had him practically living in the lab, he always found time to surprise me. If it weren’t for what happened later, perhaps Nathan and I would never have ended up together. Thinking of it now, I can’t help but glance at Nathan’s profile beside me. My silence is a form of confirmation. When I don’t deny it, Nathan lets out a quiet, defeated “Mm.” “I see,” he says. I’m so used to seeing him arrogant and defiant. This wounded, submissive version of him is making me soft. “Look, actually, you—” “I know,” he cuts me off, his voice flat. “I’m just the other man. I have no right to ask so many questions.” He turns his head ninety degrees to stare dramatically out the window, the picture of melancholic despair. 5 You have to hand it to Nathan; his ability to adapt is first-class. Barely a week after his name was mentioned, Adam Bell returned from abroad. He was leading a research team that was partnering with my company. When I saw him at the office, the last traces of his collegiate awkwardness were gone, replaced by a polished, mature elegance. He takes a sip of his coffee, his voice as gentle as I remember it. “Evelyn, I’ve always felt I owed you an apology.” Back then, I was too young to understand his choice. When he told me he was leaving the country for a research fellowship, I insisted on going with him. He had looked at me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Evelyn, I don’t want you to change your life for me.” “Why can’t I go with you, but Rachel can? You two are always in the lab together, and now you’re leaving the country together. Have you fallen for her?!” “Because this is her path, Evelyn,” he’d said patiently. “This was always part of her plan. But it’s not yours. Don’t make this kind of decision for my sake. I can’t bear that weight.” The younger me was stubborn and absolute. “Either let me come with you, or break up with me.” The rest is history. He went across the ocean with the girl who shared his ambitions. For a long time, I hated him for it, convinced he’d left because he’d fallen out of love with me. But looking back, I understand. It’s a heavy burden to carry someone else’s entire life on your shoulders. Adam’s choice wasn’t wrong. I smile and shake my head. “Don’t apologize. I was being childish.” He looks at me, his eyes shining. “Have you been happy all these years?” I nod. His gaze drops to my wedding ring. “I mean… are you truly happy?” My mind flashes to a certain someone at home, who had been clinging to me, begging to come to the office, only to shrink back onto the bed like a scolded puppy when I refused. “You’re right,” he’d said mournfully. “I’m the other man. I can’t be seen in public.” A small smile touches my lips. “Very happy.” A shadow of disappointment crosses Adam’s face before he speaks again. “I heard the news, you know. That you were getting married, just two months after we broke up. I thought about coming back for you, but it was too late. I’ve always felt like I was the one who pushed you into such a rash decision. Maybe…” He pauses, looking up at me, his clear eyes holding a mixture of hope and resolve. “Maybe it’s not too late to fix our mistake.” His words fluster me, and my hand jerks, knocking over my coffee cup. The scalding liquid sears my skin, and I gasp. The back of my hand is instantly red and swollen. Adam shoots to his feet and grabs my hand. Clang. The sound of something metal hitting the floor comes from the doorway. Peeking through the crack of the open door is a devastatingly handsome face. Oh, hell. It’s my amnesiac, unfortunate husband.
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