His Secret Wife, His Public Shame

My boss shoved me into a room to handle a VIP patient who was threatening suicide. She was Evelin Bennett, a famous fashion influencer, hysterical over her fiancé.

But when she tearfully showed me a photo of the man she loved, my world shattered. It was my husband of two years, Ben, a kind construction worker I'd found after an accident left him with amnesia. Except in this photo, he was Bernard Logan, a ruthless tycoon standing in front of a skyscraper bearing his name.

Just then, the real Bernard Logan walked in, dressed in a suit that cost more than my car.

He strode past me as if I didn't exist and wrapped his arms around Evelin.

"Baby, I'm here," he murmured, his voice the same deep, soothing tone he used on me after a bad day. "I'll never leave you again. I promise."

He had made that exact promise to me a hundred times over.

He kissed her forehead, declaring he loved only her-a performance for an audience of one: me. He was showing me that our entire marriage, our life together during his amnesia, was a secret to be buried.

As he carried her from the room, his cold eyes met mine one last time.

The message was clear: You are a problem to be erased.

Chapter 1

The first thing I heard when I walked into the clinic was the sound of a woman screaming. It wasn't the sound of pain, but of pure, unrestrained rage. The kind that makes the air feel tight.

I put my bag down at my desk, the familiar scent of antiseptic and old paper a strange contrast to the chaos coming from down the hall.

"What's going on?" I asked my colleague, Sarah, who was nervously peering out of her office.

"You don't want to know," she whispered, her eyes wide. "It's a VIP. A big one."

A sharp crash followed, the sound of glass shattering against a wall. The screaming intensified.

"He's MINE! I'll kill myself before I let him go!"

I walked towards the sound. In the largest consultation room, a young woman in a designer dress stood on a chair, holding a shard of a broken vase to her own throat. Her face was tear-streaked, her expensive makeup a mess. She was beautiful, but right now, she looked like a cornered animal.

"Addison, thank God," my boss, Dr. Miles, said, rushing over to me. He looked pale. "You have to handle this."

He shoved me forward. "She's Evelin Bennett. The fashion influencer. Her people called. They said she'd only talk to a female therapist, and you're the best we have."

Evelin Bennett. The name was vaguely familiar from magazine covers at the grocery store.

"And she's here because of her fiancé," Dr. Miles added, his voice low. "The one and only Bernard Logan."

My heart stopped.

Bernard Logan.

My husband's name is Ben Logan. He's a construction worker. He's simple, kind, and loves me more than anything. We live in a small apartment on the other side of town.

It had to be a coincidence. Logan is a common name. Bernard, less so, but still possible.

I tried to tell myself that, to push down the cold feeling spreading through my chest. It was just a name. A stupid, meaningless coincidence.

Dr. Miles pushed a file into my hands. "Here's her information. Good luck."

I opened the file. My hands were shaking. Under "Fiancé's Name," it was printed in stark, official letters: Bernard Logan.

My breath caught in my throat. I felt the blood drain from my face.

I forced myself to stay professional. I'm a therapist. I handle crises. I took a deep breath, smoothed down my simple work dress, and walked into the room.

"Evelin," I said, my voice calm, even though my insides were screaming. "My name is Addison. Can we talk?"

The moment she saw me, her frantic energy shifted. The wild look in her eyes softened into a childish vulnerability. She dropped the glass shard, which clattered onto the floor.

"Addison," she whimpered, stepping down from the chair. She rushed towards me and threw her arms around my neck, sobbing into my shoulder. "You have to help me."

I held her, my body stiff. She clung to me like a child, her whole demeanor screaming of a life where she'd always gotten what she wanted.

She pulled back, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "It's Bernard. He's been so distant lately."

She fumbled for her phone, her fingers swiping across the screen. "Look," she said, holding it up. "This is us. Aren't we perfect together?"

The photo showed Evelin kissing the cheek of a man in a perfectly tailored suit. He was smiling, his eyes crinkling in a way that was so painfully familiar.

It was my Ben.

No, it was Bernard Logan. And he was standing in front of a skyscraper with the Logan Enterprises logo emblazoned on it.

"He loves me so much," Evelin boasted, her voice gaining strength. "For my last birthday, he bought me a private island. He said he'd do anything for me, give me the whole world."

My world was tilting on its axis. The floor felt like it was falling away beneath me.

"But something changed a few months ago," she continued, her face clouding over again. "Ever since he came back. He was missing for a while, you know. Two years. He had some kind of accident, lost his memory. When he finally came back, he was... different. Colder."

Two years.

The exact amount of time I'd been married to Ben.

The truth hit me with the force of a physical blow. It knocked the air from my lungs, leaving a hollow, aching void.

My Ben. My loving, simple husband was Bernard Logan, the ruthless real estate tycoon. And I was the secret he kept during his two years of amnesia.

A memory flashed in my mind, sharp and clear.

Two years ago. A rainy night. The twisted metal of a car wreck on a deserted road. I was on my way home from a late session when I saw it. I pulled over, my heart pounding. I found him unconscious, bleeding from a head wound. He had no ID, no phone. Just the clothes on his back.

I'm a therapist, not a doctor, but I knew he needed help. I drove him to the nearest small-town clinic. The diagnosis came back: severe head trauma, resulting in total amnesia.

He didn't know who he was, where he came from, anything. He was like a child in a man's body, lost and scared. I felt a surge of compassion for him. I couldn't just leave him. The police had no leads. He had nowhere to go.

So I took him home.

I named him Ben. It was my father's name. Simple, strong.

In the small space of my apartment, a new world was born. He was so dependent on me, so grateful. His eyes followed me everywhere. He learned everything anew, and I was his teacher, his guide, his only link to a world he didn't remember.

Our connection grew fast and deep. He was so open, so raw. Without the weight of a past, he was pure affection. He told me he felt like he was born the day I found him.

He learned to cook for me. He found a job at a local construction site, proud to come home with his hands calloused and dirty, earning money for us. He would save for weeks to buy me a single, perfect rose.

He loved me with a ferocity that was breathtaking. He told me I was his sun, his moon, his entire sky. He said that even if he never got his memory back, he wouldn't care, because his life began with me.

Six months after I found him, he proposed. He didn't have a ring, just a small, smooth stone he'd found by the river. He got down on one knee in our tiny living room, his eyes shining with tears.

"Addison," he'd said, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't have a past, but I know I want my entire future to be with you. Marry me."

I said yes without a second of hesitation.

We had a small ceremony at the courthouse. Just us. It was the happiest day of my life.

Our first year of marriage was a blur of passion and simple joys. We didn't have much money, but we had each other. We were inseparable. He worshipped me, and I adored him.

Then, about three months ago, he told me he had to go away for a "job." He was vague about it, said it was a big construction project out of state. He was gone for a week.

When he came back, he was different. The change was subtle at first. He was more reserved, less physically affectionate. He stopped calling me by the pet names he'd invented. He said he was just tired from work.

I see it all now. That "job" wasn't a job. It was his memory returning. It was him returning to his real life. To Bernard Logan's life.

And our life, our marriage, was just a temporary stop along the way. A secret. An inconvenience.

Evelin was still talking, but her voice was a distant buzz. All I could feel was the cold, hard reality crashing down on me.

"Are you even listening?" Evelin asked, sounding annoyed. She poked my arm. "Your eyes are all red. Are you crying for me? You must think my life is so tragic."

Her words were so absurdly ironic, I almost laughed.

Suddenly, the door to the consultation room burst open.

"Evelin!"

Bernard Logan stood in the doorway. He was wearing an expensive suit that probably cost more than my car. He looked powerful, commanding, and so utterly different from the man who fixed my leaky faucet last week.

His eyes found me. For a split second, I saw a flicker of shock, of recognition. Then it was gone, replaced by a cold, hard mask.

He shot me a look. It wasn't just a look; it was a warning. A silent, brutal command to stay quiet.

He strode past me as if I didn't exist and wrapped his arms around Evelin. "Baby, I'm here. It's okay."

"Bernard!" she cried, melting into his embrace. "You took so long! I was so scared."

"I know, I know," he murmured, his voice the same deep, soothing tone he used to use on me when I had a bad day. "I'll never leave you again. I promise."

The words were a dagger in my heart. He'd made that exact promise to me, a hundred times over.

He kissed her forehead. "I love you, Evelin. Only you."

I turned my head away, unable to watch. My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall.

He was making a public declaration, a performance for an audience of one: me. He was showing me my place. He was showing me I was nothing.

He lifted Evelin into his arms, carrying her like a precious treasure. As he walked out, his cold eyes met mine one last time over her shoulder. The message was clear: You are a problem to be erased.

I stood there, frozen, long after they were gone. The room was silent again, except for the sound of my own shattered heart.

I walked back to my desk on unsteady legs. I picked up my phone. My hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to unlock it.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found a number I hadn't called in years.

My mother.

She picked up on the second ring. "Addison? Is that you, darling?" Her voice was crisp, with a faint European accent.

"Mom," I said, my own voice a choked whisper. "I need your help."

"Of course, sweetie. Anything. What's wrong?"

"I... I want to immigrate. I want to come to you. As soon as possible."

There was a pause. "But what about your husband? What about Ben?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. A bitter, painful laugh escaped my lips. "He's not coming."

As I was packing up my things, ready to leave the clinic and never come back, a shadow fell over my desk.

I looked up.

It was Bernard. He had come back.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice low and devoid of any emotion.