He Said He Didn't Know Me

Three years of marriage, and my husband, Weston Hayes, still doesn't know who I am.

He can remember the entire world, but he draws a complete blank on my face.

If I get a new haircut, he’ll ask me, “Excuse me, miss, who are you looking for?”

If I wear a different dress, he assumes I’m the new housekeeper.

On our anniversary, I was trapped with him and a group of his employees in a collapsed mine tunnel, a remote asset of his corporation.

In the suffocating darkness, I felt my way to his side, my voice trembling as I told him it was me, Claire.

He shoved me away. “Stop pretending. My wife isn't here.”

It took the rescue crews three days and three nights to dig me out. That evening, at a celebratory dinner for the successful rescue, Weston raised his glass. “A toast to the team. No casualties.”

He had completely forgotten I was lying in a hospital bed.

After that, I created a uniform for myself. I wore only one color of clothing, kept my hair styled the exact same way, and used the same perfume, all in the desperate hope that Weston might finally recognize me.

But every time, he looked at me like I was a stranger.

I thought it was some kind of cosmic punishment.

Then, on the day I flew to Milan to celebrate his birthday, I saw him. I watched him cut through a bustling crowd and pull a young woman into a fierce, unerring embrace.

And I finally understood. He didn't have trouble remembering my face because of some rare neurological condition. It was simply because he wasn't in love with me.

If that was the truth, then it was best we just became strangers to each other.

1

The moment I turned to leave, I was surrounded by several Italian police officers. They were shouting, mistaking me for some wanted fugitive. My broken, panicked Italian only made their expressions harden.

One of them forced me to my knees on the cold pavement.

In the chaos, my eyes instinctively found Weston, not twenty feet away.

“Weston! Help me! They’ve made a mistake!” I screamed, my voice raw with desperation.

He heard me. His gaze swept over my face, vacant and indifferent. Then, as if looking at a complete stranger, he calmly turned away.

“I don’t know her.”

It was the coldest sentence I had ever heard in my life.

Fifteen days. I counted three hundred and sixty hours by the tolling of a distant church bell, locked away in a sunless interrogation room and a frigid cell. My innocence was finally proven by a DNA report that confirmed a case of mistaken identity.

When I dragged my exhausted body out of the police station, it wasn't Weston waiting for me, but his assistant, Arthur.

Arthur adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone dripping with reproach. “Claire, what was all that about? Do you have any idea that Mr. Hayes waited at the airport for you for two whole hours?”

Whatever little warmth I had left in my heart vanished into the cold Milan air.

The day I landed back in New York, a wall of flashing cameras and microphones ambushed me at the gate. My arrest had become a full-blown, humiliating scandal.

When I finally fought my way home, Weston’s first words were a reprimand.

“How many times have I told you? You wear the white coat when you’re out. Why don’t you ever listen?” He frowned, his tone like he was scolding a disobedient child. “You know I have prosopagnosia. I can’t distinguish between women’s faces.”

My fists clenched at my sides.

He turned a page in the file he was reading, issuing his next command without looking up. “The PR department has drafted a statement. You’ll hold a press conference tomorrow.”

“You need to clear this up. Apologize to the public.”

Apologize? For what? For Weston’s heartless indifference? For his so-called “face blindness”?

I stared at his cold profile. “At the airport,” I asked softly, “the woman you were holding… who was she?”

The hand turning the page froze. For the first time, a flicker of tension crossed his features. After a few seconds, he finally spoke. “It was crowded. I thought it was you.”

I almost laughed. The woman that day was wearing a vibrant, eye-catching scarlet dress, her hair in a cascade of voluminous curls I had never worn in my life. My closet didn't contain a single red item.

“Weston, I called out to you that day. You heard me.” The injustice of it all forced the words out.

“And?” He lifted his eyes. “Do you want me to apologize for my medical condition? Claire, you knew about this problem long before we got married.”

Looking at his completely unaffected face, I suddenly felt a profound exhaustion. He was right. This was all my own doing.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go to the press conference.”

Weston seemed distracted, his gaze fixed on the tote bag at my feet. A corner of an in-flight magazine was sticking out. I followed his eyes and saw that the open page featured a photo of a symphony orchestra.

There were dozens of people crowded together, but there, in the most obscure corner of the photograph, sat a young woman playing the cello.

It was the girl Weston had embraced.

The photo was so blurry you could barely make out her features. Yet Weston had seen her. In a single glance.

So, it was never that he couldn't recognize women’s faces. He just couldn't recognize the ones he didn't love.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise; even breathing hurt. Still, I forced a smile, pulled the magazine out, and pressed it into his hands.

“Here,” I said. “I don’t want it anymore.”

This title of Mrs. Hayes.

And these three years of being invisible.

I didn't want any of it anymore.

2

The next day, I arrived at the press conference on time. The spotlights felt like a thousand sharp knives aimed directly at me.

I was wearing a rose-colored gown, a deliberate rebellion against the white uniform Weston had demanded.

Taking the microphone from the moderator, I spoke calmly.

“The reason I was mistakenly arrested is that my husband, Mr. Weston Hayes, told the police, to my face, that he did not know me.”

A wave of murmurs swept through the room.

I paused, looking directly into one of the cameras, imagining him watching on the other side.

“I imagine it must be agonizing to be trapped in a marriage for three years with a wife you can’t even recognize.”

“So, I’ve decided to grant him his freedom.”

“Mr. Weston Hayes and I will be divorcing.”

It wasn’t until I was in the car that I noticed my hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from the liberating release of shedding a heavy chain. My phone buzzed incessantly, the name “Weston” glowing on the screen. I switched it off.

The car hadn't gone far before it was cut off.

Weston got out of his vehicle, his face a thundercloud.

“Claire, have you lost your mind?!” He yanked me out of the car, his grip so tight I thought my wrist would snap. “Who gave you the right to spout that nonsense at a press conference!”

I stared coldly at his furious face. “Which part of what I said wasn’t the truth?”

He was momentarily speechless, which only fueled his rage. “Do you have any idea the damage you could cause to other people? What if they dig up the airport security footage and drag Isabelle into this? She just barely secured her position with the Vienna Philharmonic!”

So he did know her name. He knew exactly who she was.

The pain in my chest spread, a slow, torturous bleed. “Weston, you can recognize her.”

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