Chapter 3My Arranged Husband Lost His Memory

The sky outside the studio window slowly bled into a bruised purple.

I had been sitting at my easel all afternoon, ruining sketch after sketch. My mind was an absolute mess.

Victor losing his memory should have felt like a massive victory.

But instead, a heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest.

It wasn't sadness. It wasn't pity. It was a bizarre, irrational wave of anger.

It felt like... I actually cared that he had forgotten me.

When he asked about our marriage today, my answer wasn't entirely a lie.

In the beginning, it truly was terrible.

For the first two months of our marriage, I refused to eat at the same table as him.

I treated him like a ghost haunting my own house.

Even when I caught a horrific fever in the middle of the night, and he scooped me out of bed to force medicine down my throat, I just slapped him across the face.

He didn't even flinch. He just took the hit, his expression completely blank, and muttered, "You have no strength left. Take the pills, then you can hit me again."

Victor seemed to possess an infinite threshold for my anger.

And somewhere along the way, my bitter resentment slowly morphed into a quiet, reluctant reliance.

When exactly did the shift happen?

I couldn't pinpoint the exact day.

Maybe it was the night of that corporate gala, when he introduced me to his ruthless business partners as "Isla, the brilliant artist," rather than "Mrs. Sinclair."

Maybe it was during the Autumn Art Expo, when a rival gallery intentionally moved my pieces to a dark, hidden corner. Victor canceled a multi million dollar board meeting just to show up and tear the organizers apart.

Or maybe it was the time I went on a mountain retreat to paint and got caught in a massive mudslide. The roads collapsed, the bridges washed out, and he walked five miles through a torrential downpour just to find me.

Three years. He moved into my life like water, silently seeping into every single crack and crevice.

By the time I finally noticed, he was everywhere.

But now, he had wiped the slate clean. We were right back at square one.

I sat in the dark for a few more minutes before throwing my brushes into the sink and grabbing my coat.

The crisp night air hit my face, carrying the sweet scent of blooming jasmine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar black luxury car idling near the curb. I froze.

Simon quickly stepped out and opened the rear door for me.

And there, sitting in the leather backseat instead of a hospital bed, was Victor.

"What are you doing here?"

The white gauze was still taped to his temple, though his color looked much better.

"I was on my way."

I didn't even have the energy to roll my eyes.

"This road leads to a dead end. Where exactly were you heading?"

Victor let out a low chuckle. "Who said it leads to nowhere? It led me straight to you, didn't it?"

I ignored his smooth talking and slid into the seat next to him.

The amber glow of the streetlights flickered across the tinted windows, illuminating the sharp angles of his face in flashes.

"What do you want for dinner?"

I turned my head to stare out the window. "I am not hungry."

Victor gave a soft laugh. "Are you not hungry, or do you just not want to eat with me?"

I couldn't stop myself from shooting him a deadly glare. His eyes only crinkled with deeper amusement.

"Well, that is a shame, because I really want to eat with you."

"You are just going to have to suffer through it."

Even with his memories completely wiped, his ability to get under my skin remained absolutely flawless.