My Amnesiac Husband Cheated in the Hospital I Owned

My husband had his mouth on another woman's nipple when I opened the door.

Nine days earlier, my husband, Rhett Calloway, lead driver for Apex Velocity, had hit a wall at a hundred and eighty miles an hour. He was past the danger now and had been moved to the private rehab center my family's company owned. I'm Marlowe Lindqvist. I run that company. I had slept on my office couch five nights straight, calling neurologists in Zurich and Boston myself, because the doctors said the crash had punched holes in his memory.

Tonight was the first hour I'd managed to steal.

The VIP suite wasn't locked.

Bianca Rowe lay across his hospital bed. She was his college girlfriend, the one who dumped him the year no team would sign him. Her blouse hung open. Her bra was shoved down under her breasts, her skirt bunched at her waist.

Rhett bent over her, sucking her nipple deep into his mouth.

"Fuck, Rhett," she moaned. "Harder."

"Tell me what you want, Bianca."

"Your mouth. I want your fucking mouth on my pussy."

He slid off the mattress and dropped to his knees beside the bed. Yesterday his physical therapist had told me those knees could barely hold him. He dragged her hips to the edge, pushed her thighs wide, and buried his face between them.

The sound was wet and loud. It was his tongue lapping, his lips sucking, spit and slick filling a room that still smelled like the lilies I'd sent. Bianca twisted both fists into his hair and ground herself against his face.

"Right there, fuck, lick my clit, Rhett. Don't stop."

"You taste so fucking good," he groaned into her. "I'm going to make you come on my tongue, Bianca."

I didn't say a word.

I stayed by the door with my hand on the handle and watched. His left hand lay flat on her inner thigh, the hand with the tremor, the reason a specialist was flying in from Boston on my jet. It was steady as stone.

I almost laughed.

Bianca's back arched. She cried out his name twice, thighs shaking around his ears. Rhett came up for air with his chin shining.

Then he saw me.

There was no flinch and no shame. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, pulled the blanket up over Bianca, and got to his feet.

"Don't you knock?"

"I own the door."

"I don't care what you own." His voice was ice. "You walked in on her like this. Apologize."

"To her."

"To Bianca. Now."

I said nothing. Bianca sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest, cheeks still flushed.

"Rhett, baby, don't be so hard on her." Her tone was soft as a kitten's paw. "Do you even remember who she is? She's your wife."

He studied me the way he'd study a stranger parked in his pit box.

"I remember you," he told her. "I remember loving you. I've always loved you." His eyes cut back to me. "If I married her, it was a mistake. Probably one she set up."

Set up.

Three years ago. The championship final. I was in the pit lane with a headset on when the pain folded me in half. It was acute appendicitis. I hit the concrete before anyone could catch me.

Rhett was leading, twelve laps from the title, when he heard it over the car radio.

"Marlowe's down," his engineer said. "Ambulance is coming. Stay out, Rhett. Twelve laps, that's all."

"Box. I'm coming in."

He sprinted to the ambulance in his fire suit, helmet still on, smelling like fuel and burnt rubber. The team principal chased him, screaming.

"Twelve laps! You just threw away the championship!"

Rhett pulled off his gloves and wrapped my cold hand in both of his.

"I can win another trophy. I only get one you."

After that, he raced with his wedding ring tucked inside his left glove. Before every start, he pressed his lips to it through the fabric. The cameras loved it. I loved it more.

"Did you hear me?"

The memory snapped shut. The man in front of me had the same mouth and the same hands, and Bianca was still wet on his chin.

"Get out," Rhett said. "Bianca needs to rest."

"She does seem worn out."

Bianca's smile twitched.

I didn't argue. I pulled my wedding ring off my finger. It caught at the knuckle after three years, then gave. I dropped it into my coat pocket.

Rhett frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing you'd remember."

I shut the door behind me gently, since he cared so much about doors.

The hallway was silent and too bright. I dialed Vaughn Mercer, my attorney for the last ten years. He picked up on the second ring.

"Marlowe? It's almost midnight. Is he worse?"

"He's thriving." My voice came out flat. "Vaughn, prepare the divorce papers. And start digging into every account in Rhett's name."

A long pause.

"Every account? Marlowe, what do you expect me to find?"

Behind the door, Bianca laughed.

"A man who lost his memory nine days ago," I said, "and somehow never lost her number."