The Wife He Gave Away Novel by Anonymous _ Novel




The Wife He Gave Away Chapter 01

My sister lost her memory after an injury. She forgot everyone except my husband, Carter Hayes. She remembered him as her ex-boyfriend.
My mother broke down crying in the hospital hallway. She grabbed my arm and begged me to give Carter to my sister.
Carter said the same thing. "It's just temporary. Once she gets her memory back, everything will go back to the way it was."
But he didn't know that the moment he agreed, some things could never be undone.
...
"Cora Vane, you need to move out for a while."
Carter loosened his tie as he walked inside. He didn't even glance at me.
His voice was soft, like he was handling some trivial little matter.
"Clara can't handle any stress. I'm bringing her here to take care of her. Having you around ... wouldn't be convenient."
Clara is my older sister. After losing her memory, she remembers everyone except the fact that Carter stopped being her boyfriend years ago.
I took his jacket. The scent of his cologne mixed with vanilla and cardamom—Clara's favorite fragrance, not mine.
I clenched the fabric in my hands. "What if Clara never gets her memory back?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Are you planning to play along for the rest of your life?"
Carter stopped walking. He finally turned to look at me.
He let out a sigh. It was a sigh I knew too well—patient, indulgent, like he was soothing a child who didn't know any better.
"Cora, she's your sister. She's in a really bad place right now. Just give her some space."
He reached out and patted my hair lightly. It felt like petting an obedient animal.
"Go pack your things. Don't take too much. I'll have someone handle the rest."
He walked into the living room. He pointed at the Tiffany lamp hanging on the wall.
The vintage stained-glass shade cast colorful patterns in the afternoon light.
"Take this with you too. Clara doesn't like this style."
He paused. "You've used it long enough. It's time for a change anyway. I'll get you a new one some other time."
That lamp was his first birthday gift to me. In five years of marriage, I dusted it carefully every single week.
I even changed the lightbulb three times.
To him, it had always been something meant for the trash.
Or maybe the lamp wasn't the only thing he wanted to throw away.
I draped his jacket over the couch. Silently, I took down the lamp and carried it downstairs to the trash bin.
When I came back up, the lead designer from the firm was already there.
Carter was going over the requirements. He remembered every tiny detail.
"The rug needs to be Persian cashmere. The softest kind."
"Bedding should be Egyptian long-staple cotton. My wife has sensitive skin."
"And also—"
He paused for a second. He glanced toward the study, then walked in himself.
I stood at the door. I watched him peel the sticky notes off one by one.
Those notes were mine. I was his executive assistant, and I was his wife.
I used bright yellow notes to remind him to take his antacids, reply to emails, and not drink cold coffee during meetings.
Now he was hunting them down, crumpling them up, and tossing them in the trash.
He looked up and saw me. His brow furrowed.
"Perfect timing. Clear out all the sticky notes you left behind. Don't leave a single one."
"Your sister recognizes your handwriting. We don't want her to get the wrong idea."
He walked out right after saying that.
Soon, several workers carried in a cream-colored velvet sofa. They murmured among themselves.
"The owner really went all out. Paid triple rush fees just to redecorate exactly how his wife likes it."
"I heard even the curtain tracks are custom-made. The coasters have to be her favorite brand."
"They even installed a whole-house smart fragrance system. Said something about ... his wife loving the smell of vanilla and cardamom."
Vanilla and cardamom.
Clara's favorite scent.
I stood in the foyer. I watched the home I'd lived in for five years slowly morph into another woman's space.
It wasn't that Carter didn't have time.
He just didn't have time for me.
I turned to leave. Passing his study, my gaze caught the edge of a half-open drawer.
Inside, buried deep, was a strip of slate-blue yarn.
My steps faltered.
It was the scarf I never finished knitting. Three Christmases ago, I taught myself to knit. It vanished halfway through.
I thought he had thrown it out.
I reached for the drawer to see it clearly—
"Cora."
Carter's voice came from behind me. I jerked my hand back and spun around.
He stood at the end of the hall. He held a document, his brows drawn together.
"You're still here?"
I looked at him. Suddenly, this man's face seemed unfamiliar.
I didn't answer. I grabbed my bag—just a few changes of clothes inside—and walked out of the house that once belonged to me.
Outside the door, I pulled out my phone. I sent a message to a real estate agent I hadn't spoken to in a long time.
"Find me an apartment downtown. As soon as possible. Don't tell my husband."

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