Divorced Her When Her Memories Returned

I had no interest in being a trophy husband.

The first thing my wife did after her memory returned was go back to her powerful, wealthy family. The second was to find the man from her pastthe one shed always been meant for.

She once told me Id hit the lottery by marrying her, that I should cherish the incredible luck Id stumbled into. She even suggested that a truly "supportive" husband shouldn't pry into his wife's private life.

Too bad for her, I'm not that kind of man.

The tenth time she brought him back to the villa we shared, I placed a signed divorce agreement on the table in front of her.

...

"Let's get a divorce."

I spoke to Isabelle as she sank into the sofa, just home from a business dinner.

She looked up, her eyes glassy with wine. "What did you say?"

She was drunk, and the words hadn't registered.

I was about to repeat myself when our housekeeper walked in, her arms full of clothes.

"Ma'am, these are the clothes from last season you asked me to clear out. What should I do with them?"

Isabelle didn't even glance at them. "Just throw them out."

I looked at the pile. Most of the dresses had been worn only two or three times. The old Isabelle, the one I had married, wore the same simple t-shirt for three years because she couldn't bear to buy a new one. Now, she tossed away clothes that cost thousands of dollars without a second thought.

She seemed exhausted. After drinking a glass of water, she went upstairs to bed.

I looked down at the divorce papers in my hand, a storm of emotions churning inside me.

Id spent the afternoon at a lawyer's office. Hed drafted the agreement according to my wishes, explaining the mandatory thirty-day cooling-off period before the divorce could be finalized.

Isabelle Sinclair was the sole heiress to the Sinclair Group, a woman of almost unimaginable wealth. But I had no interest in her fortune. I'd never wanted a cent of her money, so there would be no messy disputes over assets.

I was a chef. That's all I'd ever wanted to be.

Five years ago, on my way home from a shift, I found her injured on the side of the road. I took her to the hospital. When she woke up, she had amnesia, no memory of who she was. With nowhere else for her to go, I took her home.

Living together, we fell in love. We were married within a year.

Then, a clumsy fall, a knock to the head, and just like that, her memories came flooding back.

She remembered everything. She was Isabelle Sinclair, born into a world of privilege and power.

I went with her back to her family's estate. Her parents were overjoyed to have her back, but their joy soured the moment they saw me. They did not approve. They couldnt accept our marriage. I wasn't good enough for her.

I was just a line cook. No distinguished family, no respectable career.

But Isabelle insisted. She told them she wouldnt be with anyone else, that if they forced me to leave, she would leave with me. Her parents, seeing no other choice, reluctantly relented.

But their acceptance was a fa?ade. In their eyes, I was still beneath them. They never looked at me without a hint of disdain.

I loved cooking. It was my passion. But Isabelles parents declared that their son-in-law could not be a "cook." My job was a disgrace to their family name. I had to quit.

Even then, they never warmed to me.

The next morning, I was up early, preparing breakfast as usual.

When I brought the food out, a man was sitting at our dining table. He was handsome, with an air of effortless class.

Tristan Everidge. Like Isabelle, an heir to a fortune.

He glanced at me, a provocative smile playing on his lips. He picked up a dumpling, popped it into his mouth, and turned to Isabelle. "Izzy, your chef's skills are impressive. Much better than the one we have at home."

I said nothing, just placed the platter of pancakes on the table.

Isabelle looked at him. "Why don't you wait for me in the living room?"

Tristan shrugged and stood up, strolling casually out of the room.

She turned to me. "He didn't know you were the one who cooked. That's why he said that."

"I know," I said. It was a lie. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was in love with Isabelle and wanted nothing more than for me to disappear.

Isabelle sighed. "He's here to take me to meet a client. It's nothing, Arthur. Don't overthink it."

"I won't."

As she spoke, my eyes fell on the watch on her wrist, and my body went rigid. It was identical to the one Tristan was wearing. A matching set from a luxury brand.

I knew he had given it to her for her birthday last month. The simple silver bracelet I had saved up to buy for her was still sitting in her jewelry box, untouched.

I looked at her. "I need to talk to you. We need to..."

Before I could get the word "divorce" out, she cut me off. "I'm incredibly busy. Whatever it is, it can wait until I get home tonight."

She stood up and walked toward Tristan. They left together, their laughter echoing down the hall.

When she was with me, she was usually quiet. I was always the one trying to bridge the ever-widening gap between our worlds, struggling to find topics we could share.

Once, I came home from the market and mentioned how much the price of vegetables had gone up.

She told me not to bother her with such mundane things. It didn't matter. She could buy whatever she wanted; the price was irrelevant.

I stood there for a long time after she said that, the silence heavy between us. It was then I truly understood the problem. To her, the only things that had meaning were nine-figure business deals.

At noon, I packed a lunch and brought it to her office, just as I always did.

Her assistant told me she was still in a meeting, so I let myself into her office to wait.

Nearly an hour passed before she emerged.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, sitting down at her desk.

I placed the insulated lunch box in front of her. "It's lunchtime. I brought you food."

She pushed it aside without opening it, her eyes already fixed on her computer screen. "Don't bring me lunch anymore. My assistant can order something for me."

I froze.

She used to say that eating my food every day was the happiest part of her life. When she first took over the company, she begged me to bring her lunch, complaining that takeout was unhealthy. Now, the look in her eyes was one of barely concealed annoyance.

I didn't even know when she had started to change.

I gave a bitter, silent laugh. It didn't matter. None of this mattered anymore. We were getting a divorce soon anyway.

"Alright," I said.

As I turned to leave, she stopped me.

"And you shouldn't be cooking at home anymore either. Just let the household staff handle it."

I looked at her, then nodded. "Okay."

I walked out of her office. As I passed the main bullpen, I paused.

"Mr. Everidge is so good to our CEO. He even drove her to work this morning."

"They look so perfect together, like a match made in heaven."

Someone noticed me standing there and coughed loudly, silencing the others. The air went still. They looked at me with cautious, worried expressions, as if afraid I might explode.

"Mr. Reed, we were just talking nonsense. Please don't take it to heart."

I wasn't angry. I just managed a tight smile. They weren't wrong. Isabelle and Tristan belonged to the same world.

After leaving the Sinclair Group building, I drove to a rundown residential block in an older part of the city.

The apartment my parents had left me. Less than five hundred square feet.

I hadn't been back in years. The air was thick with the smell of dust. Looking at the familiar, cheap furniture, memories washed over me.

Before her memory returned, this was our home.

We were so poor then. Some nights, we shared a single bowl of instant noodles. But Isabelle never complained. She would smile and tell me it was the most delicious thing shed ever tasted, encouraging me, believing in me.

At night, we lay on a small, cramped bed. We couldn't even turn over without falling off, so we held each other tightly all night long. In those moments, holding her, I felt like the happiest man alive.

Then her memory returned, and our world was turned upside down.

In the beginning, she would take me to galas and high-society events. But I never fit in. I was awkward and tense while she moved through the crowds with an easy grace. I hated the fake smiles and empty conversations. When she suggested a job for me at the Sinclair Group, a desk job in a suit and tie, I refused. I offered to stay home, to manage the house and take care of her.

She agreed. And just like that, I became a stay-at-home husband.

She built her empire, and I managed our home. For a while, it worked. I told myself that as long as I could be with the woman I loved, giving up my own dreams was a small price to pay.

Then, one day, I overheard her talking to her parents. They called me a freeloader, a man living off their daughter's money.

She didn't defend me.

All my hard work, everything I did to create a perfect home for her, meant nothing. She had grown tired of me...

For the next couple of weeks, things were quiet.

One evening, Isabelle came home to find me packing boxes.

"What are you busy with?"

My hands stilled. "Just clearing out some old things we don't need."

She glanced at the boxes, then her attention drifted back to her phone.

If she had looked closer, she would have seen it wasn't just junk I was clearing out. It was our past.

I carried the box downstairs to the trash bins. It was filled with things we had brought from the old apartment.

I crouched down and picked up a small, pink stuffed animal. It was the first gift I ever gave her. She loved it so much she couldn't sleep without it.

I picked up a necklace. It cost me six hundred dollars, all my savings at the time. It was her first birthday gift from me. She had been as happy as a child, wearing it every single day. After she returned to her family, she took it off and never wore it again, replacing it with far more expensive jewels.

There were so many things like that, each one holding a memory.

Now, they were all meaningless.

After throwing the box away, I went back upstairs. Isabelle was working in her study. I took a shower and went to bed.

I woke up in the middle of the night and turned to look at the woman sleeping beside me.

I once loved her so much I would have given my life for her. I swore I would never leave her.

I never imagined we would end up here.

But she didn't love me anymore. She was in love with another man. It was time for me to get out of her life.

I let out a long breath. Twelve more days until the cooling-off period was over. Twelve more days until we could be officially divorced. I felt nothing but a calm emptiness...

Isabelle was busy, rarely home, which made it easier for me to pack the rest of my things. She never asked what I was doing.

A few days later, my phone rang while I was taking a nap.

It was an offer. The interview Id had a few days ago at a prestigious hotel had been a success. They wanted me to start as a chef.

I asked if they could wait a week. The divorce cooling-off period would be over then. They agreed.

I was ecstatic. I truly loved being a chef. The joy of creating something beautiful and delicious for people, of bringing them happiness through foodit gave me a sense of purpose.

A week later, I called Isabelle.

"Can you be home for dinner tonight?"

She was gone before dawn and back late every night. We lived under the same roof but were like strangers.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, her tone impatient.

"No. I just thought... we haven't had a meal together in a long time."

She was silent for a moment. "Alright. I'll be home early tonight."

I smiled. "Okay."

After hanging up, I went to the kitchen and began to prepare the meal.

I had just finished the last dish when she walked in.

She frowned at me. "Didn't I tell you not to cook anymore?"

I gave her a small, sad smile.

"This is the last meal I'll ever cook for you."

She looked at me, a flicker of confusion in her eyes, but her expression quickly smoothed over. She thought I meant I was finally giving up my place in the kitchen for good.

In a way, she was right.

She sat down and picked up her chopsticks. Just as she was about to eat, her phone vibrated.

She answered. I couldn't hear the other side, but I saw her brow furrow.

"Tristan? Okay. I'll be right there."

She put her phone away and looked at me. "Something urgent came up. You go ahead and eat."

My hand tightened around my own chopsticks. "Can't it wait until after we've eaten?"

"No," she said without a moment's hesitation. "Tristan is waiting for me. I can eat when I get back."

I watched her hurry out the door.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

I had spent over three hours preparing this meal. She hadn't taken a single bite. I wouldn't be waiting for her to come back. This was the last time.

I had planned to talk to her about the divorce over dinner, to end things amicably. But she couldn't even give me that.

I ate alone, in silence. Then I went upstairs, took off my wedding ring, and placed it on the bed next to the divorce agreement.

I picked up my suitcase and walked out the door.