He Left Me in the Rain with No Memory And Now I’m Someone Else’s Wife Chapter 09

He Left Me in the Rain with No Memory And Now I’m Someone Else’s Wife Chapter 09

Over these five years, my father grew gaunt and haggard, and my mother was bedridden with illness.

Gideon—his hair had turned white overnight the year I disappeared.

The news was still playing on TV.

“Breaking update: A figure matching the description of Croft heiress Ella was sighted again today in West London. The Croft couple has rushed to the scene…”

The screen cut to the airport, and I saw two hunched, elderly figures—and a man with a head full of silver hair.

Then the camera panned to them facing a strange girl, and the devastation on their faces when it wasn’t me.

The newscaster continued with regret, “A disappointing false alarm…”

I pointed at the screen and turned to Lachlan Moore.

“Lachlan, I’m the real Croft heiress they’re talking about on TV, aren’t I?”

His hand, reaching for a glass of water, paused.

Lachlan curved his eyes into a gentle smile and slid the water toward me.

“Yes. Looks like the surgery went well—you’re starting to remember.”

I took the cup and nodded.

“Yeah. I slept on it last night, and a lot of blurry memories came back in my dreams.”

I remembered the little piggy bank, the scrawled words in my diary, the storm the night I was left behind.

Lachlan looked at me.

After a moment of silence, he asked softly, “Do you want to go see them?”

“Your parents… and Gideon. They’ve been looking for you like crazy.”

I shook my head, a bitter smile curling on my lips.

“No.”

“What’s the point of going back?”

I stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the bustling crowd below.

“It would just be my parents hugging me dramatically, crying and confessing how wrong they were, saying they’ll never be biased again.”

“And then Gideon, red-eyed and grabbing my hand, pouring out his regrets, saying he’s been searching for me for three years. Begging me to be his fiancée again.”

I turned to Lachlan, my eyes stinging.

“Lachlan, I used to dream about those words hundreds of times.”

“But even if they really say them now—what difference does it make?”

I looked down at the ugly burn scar on my calf.

When Lachlan had found me by the roadside, the wound had been waterlogged and infected, white and inflamed from the rain.

He’d found the best doctors and used the most expensive treatments.

But this scar stayed—like it was etched into my bones.

It would always be there, reminding me.

That once upon a time, Ella was unloved and disrespected.

“Lachlan, I can’t tell anymore.”

“I can’t tell if their tears now are because they truly love me, or just because their guilty conscience is eating them alive.”

“But none of that matters now.”

I lifted my head and tried to force a smile, but my eyes were burning.

“Lachlan, thank you for finding me on that roadside three years ago.”

Lachlan smiled—his usual lazy, roguish grin replaced by something soft and tender.

He gently ruffled my hair and pulled me into a hug.

“Silly girl. Don’t thank me.”

After Lachlan had found me five years ago, he’d taken me abroad for treatment.

Five years of healing.

Coming back this time was just to take one last look at the place I used to live.

A quick visit—then we’d leave.

On the plane out, I idly flipped through a newspaper.

“Breaking: Croft Group Chairman’s wife gravely ill, comatose for days.”

In the photo, the woman who used to hit and curse me was now skeletal, lying in a hospital bed, tubes everywhere.

I stared at that picture for a few seconds, my fingers trembling slightly.

Lachlan immediately reached out to take the paper away, worried I’d be upset.

But I held his hand down and calmly turned the page.

Another piece of news caught my eye.

“Ashford CEO Erects Gravestone in Memory of Late Wife at West Hill Cemetery.”

The photo was a blurry side shot.

Gideon standing in front of a newly erected gravestone.

No birth or death dates on it.

Just a cold, solitary line of text:

[Gideon Ashford’s Wife, Ella Vance.]

I stared at the picture and found it absurd. Pathetic.

Beside me, Lachlan’s fingertips brushed gently over the back of my hand. He asked softly,

“Warm, how about New Zealand for our honeymoon?”

“The air there is good, lots of ocean. Blueberry season’s coming up—I’ll take you to the orchards. Good for your recovery.”

I nodded and squeezed his hand tightly.

The wedding ring on my left hand glinted with a warm light.

Ella Vance was dead.

I gave myself a new name: Warm.

Another spring had come.

I leaned on Lachlan’s shoulder, closing my eyes.

And I never dreamed again of that girl who wrote in her diary: “It seems like nobody loves me.”

Don’t come looking for me in the wind.

I’ve grown up all over again—in a place filled with sunshine.