She Comes to Kill Me Then Forgets Everything Chinese Drama

I built my husband' s career from nothing. I was the architect of his rise, the woman who would make him mayor. But the one thing I didn't plan for was the cheap perfume on his collar-the scent of our new intern.

When I confronted him, he didn't apologize. He called me a burden.

"She's simple," he said. "She's not... complicated like you."

He claimed the affair was a necessary escape so he could tolerate coming home to me.

Then, when his campaign fraud was exposed, he tried to pin it on his mistress and used the deepest wound of my life-my brother's death, which he caused-to demand I clean up his mess.

He looked at me, the man I had sacrificed everything for, and warned me not to "fall apart on him now."

He wanted me to bury the scandal. I looked him in the eye and agreed.

"Fine," I said. "I'll bury it."

He didn't realize I meant I would bury him.

Chapter 1

April Acevedo POV:

I had built my husband' s career from nothing, crafting every speech, every handshake, every lie. The one thing I didn' t plan for was the cheap perfume clinging to the collar of his custom-tailored suit.

It wasn't just any perfume. It was 'Summer Fling,' the kind of saccharine, fruity scent you could buy at any drugstore for ten dollars. The kind our new intern, Kennedy Williamson, bathed herself in.

The realization didn' t crash over me like a wave. It was more like a slow, seeping cold that started in my chest and spread to the tips of my fingers.

Our wedding photo sat on the mantelpiece, a testament to a decade of calculated partnership and, once upon a time, love. Harman, smiling his perfect, camera-ready smile. Me, looking at him as if he were the sun.

I picked up the heavy silver frame. My fingers traced the smooth glass over his face.

Then, with a force that surprised even me, I hurled it against the opposite wall.

The sound of shattering glass was sharp and final, a gunshot in the tomb-like silence of our home. Shards rained down onto the polished hardwood floor, glittering like fallen stars.

My campaign manager' s voice, sharp and panicked, crackled through my phone' s speaker. "April? What was that? Is everything okay?"

I had been on a conference call, finalizing the strategy for Harman' s biggest campaign rally-the one that would launch his mayoral bid. The one I had orchestrated down to the last detail.

"April, talk to me."

I couldn't. The breath was trapped in my lungs, a painful, heavy weight. My gaze was fixed on the wreckage of the photo. Harman' s smiling face was now bisected by a jagged crack. It was strangely fitting.

I sank onto the plush white sofa, the phone slipping from my numb fingers and clattering to the floor. I felt nothing and everything all at once. A hollowed-out cavern where my heart used to be.

An hour later, Harman came home. He looked exhausted, the way a man does after a sixteen-hour day of pressing the flesh and selling a version of himself that I had invented. His tie was loosened, his hair slightly disheveled in a way that was calculated to look boyishly charming.

He stopped short in the living room, his eyes landing on the shattered frame on the floor.