The Wife He Tried to Erase

My doctor told me I had two weeks before a cerebral hematoma erased all my memories. I called my husband, Griffith, my rock, desperate for his comfort. He hung up on me.

A text message followed: Come to the Aurora Gallery. Now. There, I was drugged, stripped naked, and put on a rotating pedestal as a live art installation for his mistress, Beryl. He watched from the crowd, smiling, and kissed her as the audience applauded my humiliation.

When I discovered I was pregnant, he hid the sonogram. Then, for Beryl's next "art concept," he had his men drag me to a hospital and forced me to abort our child. He put our baby's body on display in the gallery.

After I was kidnapped by men Beryl hired, I called him one last time, begging for my life as they held me over a cliff. He was with her. "Stop this nonsense," he said, annoyed, before hanging up. They cut the rope, and I plunged into the icy sea.

But I didn't die. I woke up in Florence with no memory, a new name, and a kind man named Conner who nursed me back to health.

Two years later, I returned to New York on Conner's arm, ready to attend our engagement party. And I saw him in the crowd, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Adelia?" he whispered, his face a mask of hope and horror. "Is that really you?"

Chapter 1

Adelia POV:

It happened again. The ninety-seventh time. I stood outside our apartment door, my bag heavy on my shoulder, keys nowhere to be found. A cold wave washed over me. Not just from the New York winter, but from the creeping fear that had become my constant companion. I closed my eyes, trying to picture them, to remember where I' d left them. Nothing. Just a blank space where the memory should be.

My doctor, Dr. Albright, sat across from me, his face etched with a kindness that only deepened my dread. The MRI scans glowed on the screen behind him, a blurry map of my brain. He pointed to a small, dark area. "Adelia," he started, his voice gentle but firm, "the cerebral hematoma is larger than we initially thought."

My breath hitched. Cerebral hematoma. A fancy name for a bruise on my brain. From a fall, he' d said, when I was ten. A fall I couldn't even remember.

"What does that mean?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. My hands were clammy.

He took a deep breath. "It means, Adelia, that the pressure is increasing. And based on its current rate of expansion, you have about two weeks before you lose all your memories." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Completely. Everything."

Memory loss. Two weeks. My entire life, gone. The world tilted. The room spun. I felt a cold, metallic taste in my mouth. Panic clawed at my throat. My love, my life with Griffith, our home, our dreams - all of it would vanish.

I stumbled out of his office, the sterile white walls blurring into a tunnel. My phone felt like a lead weight in my hand. I needed Griffith. I needed his voice, his calm. He was my rock, my anchor in this swirling chaos. I dialed his number, my fingers shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone.

One ring. Two. Three.

"Adelia," his voice was clipped, impatient. "Is everything alright? I'm in the middle of something important."

"Griffith," I choked out, tears already streaming down my face. "It's... it's bad. The doctor said..."

A click. The line went dead. He hung up. My heart twisted, a sharp, searing pain. He always did this when he was busy. I knew it, but it still hurt. A text message popped up immediately.

Come to the Aurora Gallery. Now. Don' t be late. Important meeting.

No "Are you okay?" No "What's wrong?" Just an order. A command. But it had to be important. He wouldn' t just dismiss me like that otherwise. He loved me. He had to. I had to believe that. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, trying to steady my breathing. I had to go to him. He needed me. Or maybe, I needed him to need me.

The taxi sped through the city, a blur of yellow and red. My mind raced. What kind of meeting was so urgent he couldn't spare a minute? Was he in trouble? My heart pounded with a mix of fear and a desperate need to be by his side. He was my entire world. The thought of losing him, of losing us, was unbearable.

The Aurora Gallery was a sleek, modern building, all glass and steel, stark against the brick facades of Soho. I hurried inside, scanning the bustling crowd. Art installations, some abstract, some jarring, lined the walls. But no Griffith. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from him.

Back room. Hurry.

I pushed through the throng, my eyes darting, searching. The back of the gallery was darker, quieter. A heavy velvet curtain beckoned. I stepped behind it, pulling it closed. The air was still. Too still. A strange, sweet scent filled my nostrils. Before I could process it, a hand clamped over my mouth from behind. A sharp prick in my neck.

Darkness.

I woke up to a searing headache and the cold, smooth feel of marble beneath my skin. My eyes fluttered open. Blurry figures. A soft murmur of voices. I tried to move but my limbs felt heavy, disconnected. My mind was foggy, a thick cloud dulling my senses. Then I felt it. The cold, empty space where my clothes should be.

A gasp escaped my lips, but it was weak, raspy. My body felt alien. A sudden, uncontrollable warmth spread between my legs, a horrifying gush. I was incontinent. Publicly. My cheeks burned. Shame, hot and consuming, swept through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing for the darkness again.

But the voices grew louder. Whispers, then murmurs, then outright snickers. I forced my eyes open again. I was on a pedestal. A rotating platform. A spotlight blinded me. Faces. Hundreds of them. They stared, their eyes raking over my exposed body. Some smirked. Others pointed. Disgust. Judgment. It was all there, etched on their faces. I was an object. A spectacle.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" A woman's voice, full of theatrical flourish, cut through the din.

I turned my head with immense effort. A tall, striking woman with sharp features and a malicious glint in her eyes stood beside the pedestal. Beryl Aguirre. The infamous performance artist. She wore a tight, avant-garde dress that made her look like a predator.

"The raw, unadulterated reality of the female form," Beryl continued, gesturing towards me with a manicured hand. "Stripped bare of societal artifice. The complete vulnerability. The 'Postpartum Reality' installation is a commentary on the true nature of existence. The body, untamed. The mind, untamed."

The crowd applauded. Laughter mixed with impressed murmurs. "Brilliant!" someone shouted. "So provocative!"

My mind screamed. This wasn't me. This wasn't art. This was a nightmare. I tried to speak, to tell them, to explain. But my tongue felt thick, my lips numb. The drug. It held me captive, a silent, helpless prisoner in my own skin.

Then I saw him. Griffith. He stood near the back, a proud smile on his face. Not looking at me with concern, but with a strange, almost proprietorial approval at Beryl. My heart plummeted. He was here. He knew. And he was approving.

Beryl, basking in the applause, turned to Griffith, a triumphant smile on her face. She reached out, placing a hand on his arm. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh, a harsh, brittle sound. He kissed her cheek. A long, lingering kiss. My world shattered into a million pieces.

I loved him. I loved him with every fiber of my being. He was my first love, my only family since going through the foster system. He had promised me forever. He had promised to protect me. What was happening? Why was he doing this?

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time blurred. The cold marble, the burning shame, the constant turning of the platform, the endless stares. Every muscle in my body ached. The drug kept me in a haze, barely conscious, barely moving, utterly helpless. It was a torture I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

Finally, the spotlight faded. The crowd began to disperse. The drug's grip slowly loosened. My head cleared, just enough to register the hushed tones coming from a darkened corner of the gallery. Griffith' s voice.

"Honestly, Beryl, she was perfect. So utterly... pathetic. Exactly what you needed for 'Postpartum Reality.' Her orphan background, her desperation for acceptance. It just radiates that raw, animalistic vulnerability you crave." Griffith' s voice dripped with disdain, a tone I had never heard directed at me.

My blood ran cold. He. He said that. About me.

"Oh, Griffith, darling," Beryl purred. "You always understand my vision. She's so utterly low-class. Her suffering is truly a gift to high art."

My breath hitched. He had arranged this. He had drugged me. He had stripped me naked and put me on display. My husband. My Griffith.

"She's a stepping stone, Beryl. Nothing more," Griffith said, his voice hard. "An unfortunate necessity for my early career. But you... you are my equal. My true partner. Her blandness, her simple-mindedness, it's all just a backdrop to your brilliance."

A sharp pain, like a knife twisting in my gut, made me gasp. He called me bland. Simple-minded. A stepping stone. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms.

"Are you going to divorce her, then?" Beryl asked, a hint of impatience in her voice.

Griffith sighed dramatically. "Eventually. But not yet. She still has her uses. Besides, I owe her something for all those years. Call it... compensation. But know this, Beryl. My heart, my future... it's all yours. She means nothing to me anymore."

My world collapsed. It wasn't just a betrayal. It was an annihilation. Every loving word, every tender touch, every shared dream – it was all a lie. His love wasn't cheap. It was nonexistent. It had been all along. He had never loved me. He had used me.

A cold, clear resolve settled in my heart. The tears stopped. The pain was still there, a dull ache, but it was no longer consuming. It was a catalyst. I would take back my love. Every single shred of it. It wasn't his to discard.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers steady now. I booked the first flight out of New York. Florence, Italy. A new beginning. Then, I opened a blank note. Goodbye, Griffith. Goodbye to the woman I was. Goodbye to the love I thought we had.

My hand found the neurologist' s report in my purse. The one that detailed my fading memories. Two weeks. Not a tragedy anymore. A blessing. A chance to erase him from my mind, just as he had erased me from his heart. I tore the paper into tiny pieces, letting them fall like snow around my feet. A symbolic burial of my past.

Just then, Griffith stepped out of the shadows, buttoning his shirt. He spotted me, still on the pedestal, now fully awake. His eyes narrowed. "Adelia? What are you doing here?" He paused, noticing my composed demeanor, the lack of tears. "And why are you dressed like that?"

Before I could answer, Beryl' s voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the air. "Griffith! Come back here, darling! We have so much to celebrate!"

He glanced at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, then back at Beryl. He didn't hesitate. He turned and walked away, not looking back. His footsteps echoed, fading into the distance. He was hers. Completely.

I watched him go, the last vestiges of hope flickering out like candles in a storm. He was gone. The man I loved was dead. All that was left was a stranger, a cruel, calculating monster. My heart, once a fragile glass, was now a block of ice.