He Forgot Me, But His Heart Remembers

The System wiped every trace of me from my fianc Declans memory, all to ensure he would effortlessly fall for the predestined female lead.

I couldn't help but laugh out loud.

What the System completely failed to realize was that I had manipulated my way into his bed. Declan actually loathed the very ground I walked on.

Once he and the female lead made their relationship official, I packed my bags, left the city behind, and flew across the globe to Europe.

I never expected to bump into him on a cobblestone street in Florence.

His eyes locked onto mine. A furious blush crept up his neck, and he clutched his chest, breathless. "Who are you? Can we get to know each other?"

What an absolute idiot.

He was probably having heart palpitations from the sheer rage of seeing me, and his broken brain actually mistook it for love at first sight.

My family survived entirely on the Sinclair family's charity. From the time I could walk, I was groomed to be their perfect daughter-in-law.

When the eldest son, Arthur, passed away, the second son, Declan, became my only target.

But Declan despised me.

Whenever I tried to get close to Arthur when we were kids, Declan would tremble with anger. I honestly thought he was just jealous. So, I threw myself at Declan with reckless abandon, trying to win him over. The boy rolled his eyes so hard he nearly passed out on the spot.

Once, the Sinclair family's puppy and I both tumbled into a muddy ditch. Declan marched right over, scooped up the shivering puppy, and left me sitting in the muck.

In the end, it was the dog who led the estate staff back to rescue me.

That was the exact moment I knew Declan hated my guts. After all, he was severely allergic to dog hair. He was willing to risk a severe allergic reaction for a dog, but wouldn't lift a finger for me.

When the System finally manifested in my head, I was busy snapping covert photos of Declan in his mahogany study. I was reporting his every after-hours move to his grandfather, the patriarch of the Sinclair empire.

I texted the old man. Grandfather Sinclair, he just finished dinner and went straight to the study. He is likely handling the Silver Coast port project. He is on a video call with the European valuation team right now.

I reported everything with robotic precision.

Right then, Declans sharp gaze shifted from his glowing monitors directly to me. He flinched slightly, then let out a long, heavy exhale. His dark eyes bored into mine, brimming with severe impatience.

He always knew I was his grandfathers little spy, which explained the constant scowl.

I offered him an apologetic smile and turned to leave.

That was when the static buzzed in my skull, followed by the Systems voice.

"Apologies, supporting character. The female lead arrived far too late to capture the male leads heart. I never calculated that you would actually be on the verge of marrying him."

A sharp crackle of electricity echoed in my mind.

"To ensure this world functions correctly, the core programming demands that the female lead successfully romances Declan Sinclair. I am required to purge every single memory he has of you. As compensation, your family's assets will remain untouched. Grandfather Sinclair will not retaliate against you. Feel free to state any other demands."

I nodded vigorously, like my life depended on it.

The System was stunned into silence, clearly not expecting me to agree so eagerly. "Do you not feel any regret? You are literally about to get married."

Regret? Absolutely not.

It had no idea that Declan would never have agreed to this arranged marriage in his right mind. I had followed Grandfather Sinclair's ruthless instructions, slipped sleeping pills into Declan's drink, and staged a series of highly compromising, half-naked photos of us tangled in the sheets.

It was pure blackmail. He was forced to marry me.

He hated me with a burning, venomous passion.

The Systems intervention meant Declan got his freedom, and I finally got to breathe. What was there to regret? It was a miraculous pardon for two miserable enemies.

Right after finalizing the deal with the System, my phone buzzed. It was the wedding planner, brightly asking if I preferred a garden ceremony or a private island getaway.

"Either is fine," I brushed her off.

Soon, Declan would forget my face. Grandfather Sinclair would let me off the hook. I would fade into the background, a ghost of a supporting character in this sprawling world. Nobody would remember me. Nobody would speak my name.

The planner sounded slightly awkward. "Mr. Sinclair explicitly said to follow your preference. The aesthetics for those two options are drastically different."

She was highly tactful. Declan would never utter those words. She clearly couldn't reach him and was forced to consult me instead.

I sighed. "The island, then."

Hanging up, I stepped out of the guest room and nearly collided with Declan in the hallway. He had just stepped out of the shower. A single white towel hung low on his hips. His damp hair was pushed back, revealing sharp, handsome features and an aura of cold detachment. He radiated the oppressive authority of a man born to rule.

I gripped my phone and shrank back against the wall, trying to make myself invisible.

Declan let out a dark chuckle. He raised a brow. "What? Do you need to report my shower schedule to the old man too?"

He took a step closer, towering over me, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Want to take a picture right now?"

His sculpted chest and abs were right in my line of sight. A pale, jagged scar rested just above his hip, moving as he breathed. The owner of that scar was glaring down at me with pure hostility.

Financial magazines always painted the Sinclair heir as a paragon of gentle, refined elegance. The city's most eligible bachelor. Why was he such a menace around me?

Right. Because he hated me.

"No," I muttered softly. "I don't report this."

Declan shot me a lethal glare. "You better not."

He walked away with a slow, measured predatory grace. The shifting muscles in his back looked like a masterclass in Renaissance sculpting.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out.

He stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head slowly. "What did you just say?"

Then realization dawned on him, followed by a scoff. "Camellia, don't you think it's a little too late for apologies?"

It really was. I had missed countless chances to apologize. I could have apologized for invading his childhood, for intentionally falling into that mud puddle, for the drugged photos, for the constant surveillance.

So now, I just looked at him. "I'm sorry, Declan. And you are going to be free."

My voice was barely a whisper. I wasn't even sure if he caught it.

His jaw clenched. He stared intensely at my face, lips parting as if he wanted to argue. But then his eyes flicked to a hidden security camera tucked in the crown molding. He snapped his mouth shut and walked away without another word.

The very next morning, I stopped waking up early to force him into having breakfast with me. I stopped sending daily briefs to Grandfather Sinclair.

Declan obviously did not care about my sudden absence. Surprisingly, Grandfather Sinclair did not call to reprimand me either.

I spent my days lounging around the sprawling estate, snacking, and binge-watching television. I was just biding my time, waiting for the System's final cue to vanish.

An entertainment news segment flashed across the screen, detailing Declan's latest romantic exploits. He always had a revolving door of tabloid rumors, mostly smoke and mirrors. But not a single article ever linked him to me.

Even when we visited the ancestral estate and paparazzi caught us in the same frame, Declan would either physically block me from the lens or spend exorbitant sums to kill the photos. He treated any association with me like a plague.

Ever since our engagement was forced upon him, he had kept his name out of the gossip rags. But this time was different. The woman in the headlines was the actual female lead. She was Olivia, a stunning, highly capable prodigy who had just returned from overseas and was immediately parachuted into an executive role at the Sinclair conglomerate.

The wedding planner called again to confirm dress fittings and casually asked me to nail down the groom's tuxedo style.

Sure, why not. Declan had met his destined soulmate; he had zero time for this charade. The wedding was doomed anyway, so I just played along to keep up appearances.

While I secretly arranged my international visa, Declan started leaving before dawn and returning long after midnight. We rarely crossed paths.

Until one random Tuesday afternoon.

He burst through the front doors, looking frantic. He practically tore through the mansion, hunting for something. He flung open a second-story window, spotted me walking the dog in the courtyard, and froze. He was sweating, his chest heaving as he stared down at me with wild desperation.

I jumped. Did he find out I had been secretly skimming cash from his black card? I only took five thousand at a time. Would a billionaire CEO really lose his mind over a few grand?

"Do you need something?" I called up, suddenly feeling very guilty.

He let out a shaky breath. The frantic energy drained from his face, replaced by a deep frown. He stayed silent for a long time before speaking. "Have you seen my black onyx tie clip? Never mind. Asking you is worse than asking this fat dog."

The dog, Tank, tilted his head in confusion.

I stood there utterly bewildered. I wasn't even sure which one of us he was insulting. But at least I was safe. I really thought he was coming after me for the twenty grand missing from his account.

We ended up eating a painfully awkward lunch together.

Maybe I was imagining things, but I could feel his gaze constantly sticking to my face. The System chimed in to reassure me. This was a normal side effect. As his memories of me dissolved, his brain was trying to fill in the blanks, causing mild confusion.

As the memories vanished, the hatred vanished with them.

He no longer looked at me with sheer disgust or cold distance. Instead, his eyes held a complex, murky blend of bewilderment and hesitation.

Slowly but surely, he was forgetting I even existed. We went two full weeks without seeing each other. When we accidentally bumped into each other in the kitchen, he would just stare at me, his brows knitted together in deep concentration, looking like he wanted to ask a question but didn't know the words.

It was almost comical. He probably thought it was strange to have a random woman living in his house.

Everything was going perfectly. The media was buzzing with news of him and Olivia. I was just waiting for the perfect moment to slip away.

Then, I woke up in the dead of night to find a tall silhouette standing right beside my bed.

I let out a muffled scream. It was Declan. He was standing perfectly still in the dark.

He stared down at me for an eternity before finally speaking. "Oh. It is just Camellia."

Then he turned and walked out, leaving me stunned.

I actually found this non-toxic, confused version of Declan slightly endearing. He wasn't biting my head off anymore. I suppose taking away the memory really does take away the venom.

I immediately contacted the System. "If you keep dragging this out, your precious male lead is going to develop schizophrenia. Change my flight to tomorrow morning."

At the crack of dawn, armed with the twenty grand I had siphoned from his accounts and a single suitcase, I headed for the airport. Tank circled my ankles whining before I walked out the door for good.

Right before takeoff, the wedding planner called one last time.

"Ms. Sinclair, apologies for the intrusion. The custom rings you ordered have arrived, but yesterday you also selected a ready-made pair from our showroom. Which set would you prefer for the ceremony?"

She texted me two photos. The first set was clearly a bespoke masterpiece, far more exquisite than the showroom rings.

I frowned at the screen. I never ordered custom rings. Declan certainly wouldn't order them either. They must have mixed up their billionaire clients.

The intercom announced that all electronic devices needed to be switched off. I didn't have time to argue. "Just go with the second picture."

I felt terrible making this poor woman work on a wedding that would never happen. I quickly added, "If he hasn't paid the final balance, just hold off on everything. The wedding might not even happen."

Dead silence on the other end of the line. Finally, the planner spoke. "Rest assured, we offer premium service. Mr. Sinclair already paid the entire balance in full."

I let out a dry laugh. "You definitely have the wrong file. We didn't order custom rings."

She made a confused sound, but before she could reply, a flight attendant tapped my shoulder, gesturing to my phone. I gave an apologetic smile and ended the call.

I wasn't sure if the System orchestrated the weather, but outside the tiny window, the rain was coming down in sheets, looking determined to wash away every trace of my existence in this city.

Thankfully, the flight wasn't delayed.

Goodbye, male lead.

Halfway across the world, Declan stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Sinclair corporate headquarters. He had just wrapped up a grueling international conference call, finally securing the elusive Silver Coast project.

His perpetually tense jaw relaxed. A faint, triumphant smile touched his lips. His dark eyes caught the reflection of the city lights.

He stared out at the ink-black sky with a lazy arrogance. A single drop hit the reinforced glass. Then, an overwhelming deluge.

Declans smile froze. His expression went dangerously blank.

Why did he fight so viciously for this project?

Was it to prove a point to the old man? To prove he could break free from those suffocating chains and become the absolute ruler of the Sinclair empire?

And then what?

He becomes the patriarch. Then what?

A man known for his ruthless corporate slaughter suddenly looked completely lost. Yes, it was about power, but it wasn't just about power.

Panic flared in his chest. He literally could not remember why he had spent the last three years locked in a brutal power struggle against his grandfather.

His hands twitched. He started looking frantically around his pristine office. He paced the thick carpet for twenty minutes until his newly appointed assistant knocked, asking if he needed a driver to take him home.

He stopped. Right. Home. There was something at home he needed to find.

The assistant asked if she should accompany him. Declan shot her a cold look and declined. The tabloids were having a field day with the two of them. Even sharing an elevator resulted in leaked photos. The media loved the narrative of the playboy billionaire and his gorgeous, starlet-level assistant, but he had zero intention of touching her. He hired her for her brutal efficiency, not for a fabricated romance.

He walked out alone.

The storm was violent but brief. By the time his car pulled into the estate, the rain had stopped.

Martha, the housekeeper, brought out his dinner. Declan chewed the Michelin-star food mechanically. Tank sat nearby, loudly crunching his kibble.

The massive house felt suffocatingly quiet.

Halfway through his steak, Declan looked up at Martha. "Do I normally eat alone?"

Martha blinked, thoroughly confused. She thought he was offering to share the meal. "I have already eaten, Mr. Sinclair."

Declan didn't say another word.

He had no idea what was missing from his brain. He just knew there was a massive, gaping hole in his reality.

He stared out the dining room window at the beautiful camellia tree in the courtyard, its delicate red petals battered and scattered across the wet stones by the storm. Suddenly, he felt a hot drop of liquid slide down his cheek.

Absurd. Why the hell was he crying over a rainstorm?

He wiped his face. He told himself he was just burning out from the endless negotiations. But why wasn't he celebrating the Silver Coast victory? Why did his chest feel like it was trapped in a vise?

He pushed his chair back and walked over to Tank. Just as he reached out to pet the golden fur, Martha gasped. "Sir, please! Your allergies!"

Declans hand froze mid-air.

He distinctly remembered telling people he was highly allergic to dog hair. But a quiet voice in his head called him a liar. He was faking it.

He faked the allergy so people would praise his boundless empathy for keeping a dog he was allergic to.

No, that wasn't right. Why go through all that trouble?

Oh. It was because he wanted someone specific to worry about him. He wanted someone to pay attention to him instead of spending all their time rolling in the grass with a fat dog.

Did he really fake an allergy just to compete with an animal for affection? Did he stoop that low just to make someone choose him over the dog?

Declans head began to throb violently. He pulled his hand back.

Who was that someone? Who dared to treat him like an afterthought?

The pain in his skull flared hot and sharp. He decided to medicate and sleep it off. He would figure out the missing pieces tomorrow.

But a blurry, indistinct silhouette kept flashing behind his eyelids.

He couldn't stay in bed. He got up to grab melatonin from the downstairs bathroom. But instead of turning toward the stairs, his body moved on autopilot. He walked down the silent corridor and pushed open the door to the guest suite.

It was completely empty. Not a single personal item remained.

Declan had no idea why he was standing in a room nobody used. But he walked over to the neatly made bed and stood there in the dark for a very, very long time.

He was not a sentimental man. Even surviving years of Grandfather Sinclair's psychological warfare hadn't broken him. He never threw pity parties.

But standing next to that empty bed, Declan felt his soul hollow out.

He collapsed onto the stark white sheets. Out of nowhere, all the loneliness, agony, and bitter resentment in the universe crashed down on him, burying him alive.