My Husband Forgot His Mistress and Came Back to Me

Amelia's POV

The hospital room was suffocatingly quiet.

"Amelia, do you think there's something wrong with my brain, or do you think I'm stupid?"

"I think it's both," I muttered under my breath, staring at the man lying on the pristine white bed, looking at me with impossibly tender eyes—my husband Julian—soon to be ex-husband.

He squeezed my hand gently, his expression warm and loving in a way I hadn't seen in over a year. "My little bird, don't tease me. I may have lost my memory, but my mind is still sharp."

I froze completely. He hadn't called me that nickname in over a year—not since his late nights at the office became routine, not since Sophia joined Kerr Industries as his "assistant."

"Julian, how old do you think you are right now?"

"Twenty-three."

Even with Julian and my stepsister Sophia staring at me in confusion, I couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh.

God had played the cruelest joke on me. My cheating husband had reverted back to the man who actually loved me.

Julian and I were college classmates, but our marriage wasn't born from romance—it was born from desperation. When my family faced bankruptcy, Julian was just starting his business and needed our family name for credibility. Our parents arranged a contract marriage—I got money to pay off debts, he got social status. The money came through, but my father couldn't handle the stress and passed away, while my stepmother fled, leaving just Sophia and me.

After marriage, we slowly developed genuine feelings. But gradually, I began to notice that he—like someone who'd been dining on fine cuisine for years—started craving street food.

He covered his tracks meticulously. Call logs were wiped clean, texts deleted, social media scrubbed.

But I'd known for a year.

It started with his inexplicable laughter during serious meetings. The cute pastries he'd bring home after work—mind you, Julian had always claimed to hate sweets. His phone gallery gradually filled with sky photos, though he'd never shown interest in photography before. His social media began featuring pet videos, despite claiming indifference to animals. Then came the final blow: he gave me a dress.

I smiled sweetly and asked, "You've given me this dress before—why buy a duplicate?" He said the old one looked worn and he wanted to treat me to a new one.

I had lied—there was no old dress.

After a year of their affair, my stepsister Sophia finally came to me directly.

She invited me to their favorite café—apparently where they'd had their first romantic date. With trembling hands, she showed me their vacation photos, intimate dinner pictures, even photos of the kitten they secretly raised together...

Just as she was about to swipe to more compromising content, I pressed my hand over hers and placed the phone face-down on the marble table.

"Sophia, what exactly do you want from me?"

She gripped my hands tightly, her eyes brimming with tears and unrealistic hope.

"Sister," she whispered, "Julian and I truly love each other. I'm hoping you'll show mercy and set us free."

She made sure to mention that Julian no longer loved me.

Afraid I wouldn't believe her, she played a recording. Julian's voice came through the speaker, husky and intimate—pillow talk, no doubt.

I didn't let it finish. My upbringing had taught me to maintain absolute composure under any circumstances.

"Sophia, you know we're not an ordinary couple. If he truly wants to initiate a divorce willingly, I'll gladly accept."

I lifted my coffee and took a delicate sip, my demeanor elegant and calm.

I appeared serene on the surface, but my palms were slick with cold sweat.

Julian's and my families were too intertwined—what affected one would inevitably impact the other. That's why Julian couldn't risk a messy affair, and that's why I hadn't exposed his infidelity.

We were high society's golden couple. He handled business, I managed relationships with socialite wives. No matter how painful the scandal, we had to weather it together.

But now my husband was staging this farce, and if I didn't resolve it quickly, I wouldn't be able to maintain my carefully orchestrated schedule.

The atmosphere in the hospital room grew increasingly bizarre.

Sophia crouched by the bed, tears streaming as she tried to piece together fragments of her shattered phone screen. She'd just shown Julian their photos together—romantic pictures, even engagement photos. Julian had completely lost it and smashed her phone against the wall.

He still refused to accept reality.

I stood by the window, letting the afternoon breeze cool my flushed face. When I turned back toward the bed, his eyes were bloodshot, looking at me desperately.

"Julian, Sophia isn't lying. She really is the woman you love most now."

"That's impossible, Amy. We just got married. Yesterday we were exchanging vows in that beautiful church. I remember you lying in my arms, talking about our future children."

The whole scene felt absurdly theatrical.

"Julian, look at me carefully. I'm twenty-four now, and you're twenty-five. You have amnesia. When your memory returns, everything will make sense. But aside from finalizing our divorce, I think we should avoid contact."

I picked up my designer handbag and headed for the door. Sophia stumbled after me.

She collapsed in the hospital corridor, sobbing hysterically at my feet.

Through her tears, she explained that Julian had crashed because he was rushing home to ask me for a divorce. She begged me not to interfere with their relationship or prevent him from recovering memories of their love.

"Sister," she pleaded, "I know I've hurt you deeply, but Julian and I... we really fell in love..."

I knelt down to meet her eyes, my voice gentle and soothing: "Sophia, you're my sister. I've watched you grow up since you were ten. How could I possibly hurt you?"

"Since you chose to betray me," I thought coldly while smiling, "you'll have to face the consequences."

I agreed to her desperate request—because honestly, I was even more eager than she was to resolve this mess.

Less than 24 hours after returning home, I heard Julian's anguished crying through the phone.

He vehemently denied loving Sophia, swore he hated sweets—obvious lies to anyone who'd observed his behavior over the past year.

I suggested he look through his photo gallery to jog his memory. But he said his phone was suspiciously clean, impossibly so.

By the end of the call, he even had the audacity to suggest I'd hired a professional actress to test his loyalty.

"Amelia, I swear I don't love her! She must be working for you, testing me! I only love you!"

My patience finally ran out, and apparently so had someone behind me. Strong hands guided mine, pulling me toward incredible warmth, lips brushing my ear as breathing grew heavy.

As my consciousness became beautifully hazy, those hands skillfully took the phone from me, hung up without ceremony, and carelessly tossed it onto the plush carpet.

"Don't let his lies control you," a deep voice murmured in my ear.