The Wife He Tried to Erase

toma erased all my memories. I called my husband, Griffi

aked, and put on a rotating pedestal as a live art installation for his mistress, Beryl. H

s next "art concept," he had his men drag me to a hospital and forced m

my life as they held me over a cliff. He was with her. "Stop this nonsense," he sa

ith no memory, a new name, and a kind man

ngagement party. And I saw him in the crowd, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Ad

pte

lia

nd. A cold wave washed over me. Not just from the New York winter, but from the creeping fear that had become my constant companion

he MRI scans glowed on the screen behind him, a blurry map of my brain. He pointed to a small, dark area. "

for a bruise on my brain. From a fall, he' d said

sked, my voice barely a wh

sed on its current rate of expansion, you have about two weeks before you lose al

un. I felt a cold, metallic taste in my mouth. Panic clawed at my throat. M

lead weight in my hand. I needed Griffith. I needed his voice, his calm. He was my rock, my anchor

g. Two.

atient. "Is everything alright? I'm

ready streaming down my face. "It'

harp, searing pain. He always did this when he was busy. I kne

lery. Now. Don' t be l

dismiss me like that otherwise. He loved me. He had to. I had to believe that. I wiped my face with the back o

gent he couldn't spare a minute? Was he in trouble? My heart pounded with a mix of fear and a desperate

acades of Soho. I hurried inside, scanning the bustling crowd. Art installations, some abstract

room.

et curtain beckoned. I stepped behind it, pulling it closed. The air was still. Too still. A strange, sweet scent

kne

. Blurry figures. A soft murmur of voices. I tried to move but my limbs felt heavy, disconnected. My mind w

mth spread between my legs, a horrifying gush. I was incontinent. Publicly. My cheeks burned. Sh

al. A rotating platform. A spotlight blinded me. Faces. Hundreds of them. They stared, their eyes raking over my exposed b

an's voice, full of theatrical

malicious glint in her eyes stood beside the pedestal. Beryl Aguirre. The infamous perf

icured hand. "Stripped bare of societal artifice. The complete vulnerability. The 'Postpartum Reality

with impressed murmurs. "Brilliant

ried to speak, to tell them, to explain. But my tongue felt thick, my lips n

Not looking at me with concern, but with a strange, almost proprietorial appr

placing a hand on his arm. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh, a harsh

my only family since going through the foster system. He had promised me fore

ng of the platform, the endless stares. Every muscle in my body ached. The drug kept me in a haze, b

rip slowly loosened. My head cleared, just enough to register the hushe

ity.' Her orphan background, her desperation for acceptance. It just radiates that raw, animalistic vul

ld. He. He said

ys understand my vision. She's so utterly low-cl

had drugged me. He had stripped me naked and

fortunate necessity for my early career. But you... you are my equal. My true partne

p. He called me bland. Simple-minded. A stepping stone. My

r, then?" Beryl asked, a hin

ides, I owe her something for all those years. Call it... compensation. But know th

word, every tender touch, every shared dream – it was all a lie. His love wasn't che

till there, a dull ache, but it was no longer consuming. It was a catalyst.

New York. Florence, Italy. A new beginning. Then, I opened a blank note. Good

t a tragedy anymore. A blessing. A chance to erase him from my mind, just as he had erased me from his heart

n the pedestal, now fully awake. His eyes narrowed. "Adelia? What are you doing here?" He p

demanding, cut through the air. "Griffith! Come b

at Beryl. He didn't hesitate. He turned and walked away, not looking back

rm. He was gone. The man I loved was dead. All that was left was a stranger, a c