The Pink Car of Betrayal

My husband unveiled a custom pink car on live TV, calling it a "tribute to our love."

The internet hailed him as the perfect man.

But I knew the truth.

That car was the exact place he cheated on me with his VP, Keri.

And the lipstick stain on the passenger seat wasn't mine.

He thought I was at home, waiting to celebrate his success.

Instead, I was at a clinic, signing a waiver to surgically remove my memories.

I aborted the child he desperately wanted.

I smashed the jade locket he claimed bound our souls together.

I burned my passport, my license, and every photo of us in the kitchen sink.

When he finally came home, he found nothing but an empty house and a gift box containing the remains of our unborn child.

A year later, he crashed my engagement party in Charleston, falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness.

I looked down at the weeping billionaire and felt absolutely nothing.

"I'm sorry, sir," I said calmly.

"But do I know you?"

Chapter 1

Gretchen Rivas POV:

"Are you absolutely certain about this, Ms. Rivas?" The doctor's voice was calm, almost too calm. It echoed in the sterile white room of the Mnemosyne Project clinic.

I gripped the arms of the plush leather chair. My knuckles were white. "Yes," I said. My voice was steady, even to my own ears. "I'm certain."

He nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. "The procedure is irreversible. The targeted memories, once suppressed, cannot be retrieved. It's like a surgical removal, but for your mind."

A faint tremor ran through me, a ghost of fear. But it quickly vanished. What was there to lose? I thought. My past felt like a black hole, sucking away all my light.

I closed my eyes for a moment. Flashes of a life I used to love, a life I now hated, flickered behind my eyelids. His laughter. My tears. His promises. My broken heart. Nothing worth holding onto. Nothing at all.

"I understand," I said, opening my eyes. I reached for the tablet on the table. The consent form glowed. My finger hovered over the signature line. This was it. The escape I craved.

My name, Gretchen Rivas, felt heavy and foreign. I pressed down, signing the screen with a flourish I didn't recognize. A part of me was already gone.

"Excellent," the doctor said, a faint smile touching his lips. "We'll schedule your treatment to commence in three days. Please maintain minimal contact with external stimuli until then."

"Minimal contact," I repeated, feeling a lightness spread through my chest. The suffocating weight I'd carried for weeks seemed to lift, just a fraction. I stood up, feeling a strange sense of liberation. The air outside the clinic felt cleaner, sharper.

I pulled out my phone as I stepped onto the street, the screen buzzing with notifications. A text from Donovan. 'Tune in now, baby. I have a surprise for you.'

My heart gave a sick lurch.