Page 70 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

The moment we reached the house, I went straight to the bedroom. The manila envelope was right where I’d left it, tucked safely in the cupboard. My hand closed around its crisp edges, then dropped to the suitcase standing beside it. It was already packed, zipped, and ready. I’d done that yesterday.

When I’d arrived a week ago, I’d brought nothing with me. My old life was already waiting in these closets. But over the last few days, I’d taken inventory and found suits and dresses that were too good to leave behind.

Everything else—the life, the wife, the memory—could stay.

My hand closed around the suitcase handle. In the other, I held the manila envelope.

It was time.

I turned to leave when my gaze landed on the sword.

The memory from earlier that week came rushing back: me curled up on the sofa with my book, while Cassian hovered nearby.

“I’m sorry, did you just say you want a sword?” he asked, disbelief coloring his tone.

I didn’t look up from my book. “Yes.”

“Like… a sword sword?”

I finally lowered the book, meeting his bewildered stare. “Is there a different kind? If so, you can get me that one, too.” I returned to my reading.

“But… why do you want a sword?”

I turned a page. “It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to own one.”

Silence hung between us for a long moment. I glanced up.

“I genuinely can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not,” he admitted.

“When have I ever been sarcastic?”

The very next day, I found it leaning against my door: an antique cavalry saber, beautiful and lethally sharp.

I stepped forward and took the sword from its stand. Its weight felt solid and right in my hand. I carried it with me as I left the room and walked into the living room.

Cassian was there, slumped on the sofa, eyes closed, head resting against the back cushions. His jacket was draped over the arm of the sofa beside him.

I walked up to him, pulled a chair opposite the sofa, and sat. His eyes fluttered open, finding me. A flicker of warmth appeared, only to be extinguished the moment his gaze landed on the suitcase.

His body went rigid. “What is that?” he asked, his voice low.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I opened the manila envelope, slid the documents from inside, and laid them carefully on the coffee table between us.

The first page landed faceup.

A petition for dissolution of marriage.

My signature was already there, dark and final at the bottom of the page.

His eyes locked onto the papers, and I watched as they hardened from confusion into sheer, unadulterated horror. He refused to look away, especially from my signature, as if he could erase it by force of will alone.

“You can fight it,” I said, my voice chillingly calm. “But I am divorcing you. I don’t have any more time to waste on this. On you.”

He shook his head, a raw, betrayed look in his eyes. “You said you’d give me a chance.”

“I am,” I said, my voice steady. I waited until his tormented gaze lifted to meet mine. “So, here’s your chance. Tell me your side. Explain to me how you became so consumed by your work that you forgot you had a wife.”

I don’t give people chances?