Chapter 2My Arranged Husband Lost His Memory

I almost forgot.

Delivering the most shameless remarks with an utterly straight face had always been Victor's greatest talent.

Back then, the Sinclair Enterprise's sole condition for bailing out my family's failing gallery was my hand in marriage.

Even knowing I was deeply in love with my boyfriend, he refused to back down an inch.

"Leave him. I am a much better fit for you."

Victor and I were virtually strangers.

As the youngest heir and ruthless CEO of his family's empire, he was notoriously unpredictable and fiercely guarded.

I had only seen him once from a distance at a charity gala. We had never even shared a conversation.

"With your wealth and status, you could have anyone you want. Why force a woman who does not love you?"

He had leaned back in his leather chair, staring at me until a slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.

"That sounds like a personal problem, Miss Isla. Am I truly that impossible to love?"

He played the perfect gentleman that day. When I rejected him, he did not lose his temper. He even put on a flawless mask of understanding, claiming he respected my choice.

It wasn't until our family's debt spiraled out of control, and not a single bank in Boston dared to offer us a loan, that I understood the reality.

Victor held the city in his palm. The moment he extended an olive branch to my family, he silently banned anyone else from stepping in.

He made it look like I had a choice, but he systematically burned down every other bridge until his path was the only one left.

I had no choice but to surrender.

The day I broke up with my boyfriend, the rain was pouring in sheets. I sat in the passenger seat of Victor's Maybach, sobbing until my chest ached.

Victor lowered his dark eyes, patiently using his expensive silk handkerchief to wipe the muddy water off my bare calves.

"There is actually another way you can be with him."

"After we get married, you can slip a slow acting poison into my morning coffee. Once I am dead, your lovely boyfriend can take my place."

His tone was thick with dark humor, but his eyes were completely serious.

For a terrifying second, I couldn't tell if he was joking. I just stared at him, paralyzed.

Then, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, genuine amusement dancing in his eyes.

"You really want to kill me, don't you?"

"I suppose I would allow it."

I glared at him through my tears. "You are despicable."

The smile never left his face. He simply reached over, intertwining his long fingers with mine, completely ignoring my resistance.

He looked incredibly satisfied.

"You can think whatever you want about me. It does not matter."

"All that matters, Isla, is that you are going to be my wife."

Victor leaned back against the hospital pillows, that exact same half smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

It was the exact same arrogant smirk from three years ago.

I took a deep breath, swallowing down the curse words burning on my tongue.

I could not yell at him. The man literally had brain damage.

Grabbing my designer tote, I turned to leave, nearly colliding with Simon as he walked in.

He held out a sleek, rectangular velvet box.

"Mrs. Sinclair, Mr. Sinclair asked me to bring this for you."

Inside rested a vintage Italian sable watercolor brush. I had lingered on a picture of it in an art magazine for maybe two extra seconds last week.

It was always like this.

Whenever I showed the slightest flicker of interest in something, it miraculously appeared in my hands a few days later.

I cast a sideways glance at the man in the bed. He was deeply engrossed in his paperwork, acting as if the entire exchange had nothing to do with him.

That familiar, suffocating knot tightened in my throat again.

I tossed the velvet box onto the edge of his mattress.

"I do not accept gifts from strangers."