The Wife He Threw Away, Rebuilt

After four years of being tortured in a black site, I finally escaped. I crawled back home, driven only by the thought of my husband, Brody, and our son, Eben.

But when I reached the gates of our estate, he didn't recognize my emaciated frame. He called me a beggar and had the guards throw me out.

He was with my stepsister, Carla. And my own son ran into her arms, crying, "Mom!"

Brody believed Carla' s lies-that I'd abandoned them for another man. He had me committed to a "rehab facility," which was actually the same hellhole I'd just escaped. He handed me back to my torturer.

I screamed for him as the drugs coursed through me, but he just turned his back and walked away, leaving me to die.

The agency found me, barely alive. They rebuilt me through Project Nightingale-a full cybernetic body, with my emotions and memories wiped clean.

Two years later, I am Dr. Hanna Peck. When Brody found me, on his knees begging for forgiveness, I felt nothing. I just turned to my colleague and said, "Clark, I accept your marriage proposal."

Chapter 1

Amanda POV:

The world blurred around the edges, a dizzying collage of dust and asphalt. My body was a raw ache, each step a brutal reminder of the four years I' d spent in hell. But I pushed through, driven by a single image: Brody, my husband, smiling. Our son, Eben, laughing. Home. I was finally home.

The gates loomed ahead, intricate ironwork I' d designed myself, a symbol of the life I' d fought so hard to reclaim. I stumbled, my torn clothes clinging to my emaciated frame, my hair matted with grime.

Two hulking figures emerged from the guardhouse. They blocked my path, their faces impassive.

"Back away," one growled, his hand already on a sidearm.

My throat was parched, my voice a rasp. "It's me," I tried to say, but only a dry cough escaped. "Amanda."

They exchanged a look, then scoffed. "Another one trying to pull a fast one. Get lost, lady."

Humiliation burned hotter than my physical pain. I pointed to the house beyond the gates, its familiar silhouette a cruel taunt. "My house. My family." My hand trembled, a silent plea.

The second guard laughed, a harsh, dismissive sound. "Your family? Brody Sharpe's family is inside. You don't look anything like Mrs. Sharpe." He pushed me back roughly, sending me sprawling in the dirt. My knees screamed.

Just then, a sleek black car pulled up to the gates from the inside. My breath caught.

It was Brody.

My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. He was even more handsome than I remembered, his jawline sharp, his dark hair catching the afternoon sun. He' d recognize me. He had to. Not even four years of torture and starvation could erase the woman he loved.

He was my anchor during those endless days. My everything.

I remembered the day he first proposed, not with