Chapter 14 - The Amnesia of the Heart
The drive back to Northwestern Memorial Hospital broke every traffic law in the state of Illinois. My Maybach blew through red lights at eighty miles an hour, escorted by two tactical vans with their hazards flashing.
When I burst through the doors of Room 412, the medical staff scrambled out of my way in terrified silence.
Dr. Marcus Vance—the actual hospital administrator, not the corrupt surgeon we had disposed of weeks earlier—stood beside the bed, looking grave.
I rushed to the bedside, falling to my knees, taking Clara’s hand in mine.
“Clara,” I choked out, scanning her face. The bruises were still healing, but her eyes—those bright, piercing emerald-hazel eyes—were wide, clear, and searching.
She looked down at my face, then at the hospital monitors, and finally up at my desperate expression.
“Excuse me,” Clara said, her voice soft, tentative, and utterly devoid of the emotional depth I had expected. “Who... who are you?”
The words hit me like a physical iron bar across the chest.
“Clara, it’s me,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “It’s Dominic. Your husband.”
She blinked, pulling her hand back slightly, a look of genuine confusion clouding her features. She looked around the sterile room, then touched her forehead.
“My husband...?” She frowned. “I remember getting dressed for our third wedding anniversary dinner. I remember driving into the city... and then nothing. Why are we in a hospital? And why do you look so... old?”
Dr. Vance stepped forward gently, holding a medical chart.
“Mr. Valente, we’ve run extensive neurological scans,” the doctor explained in a low, careful tone. “The severe blunt-force trauma to the head, combined with retrograde amnesia induced by the crash shock, has caused a specific memory block. Mrs. Valente has regressed.”
“Regressed to what?” I demanded, standing up slowly.
“To five years ago,” Dr. Vance said quietly. “She remembers your wedding, the early years of your marriage, and the sweet, quiet life you shared before the syndicate wars consumed your time. She does not remember the last twelve months. She doesn't remember the emotional distance, the late nights, the mistresses... or the fact that you drifted apart.”
I stared at my wife in stunned, absolute silence.
May you like
Clara was looking at me not with the cold resentment or heartbreak she had carried before the crash, but with the warm, innocent, trusting eyes of a newlywed bride who still believed her husband hung the stars in the sky.
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