CEO Plus-Size Ex-Wife

Chapter 113: Where Is My Wife?

Mrs. Willow had anticipated Valentine Anderson's outburst and, with composed steps, she approached him. "I am your wife, Margret. Don't you remember me?" she said gently.

Valentine stared back at Margret Willow, his confusion deepening with each passing moment. He strained to find a thread of memory that connected him to this woman, but the effort only brought a sharp pain to his head.

Clutching at his temples, Valentine cried out in distress, "I don't know you! You're not my wife; you're not Andrea Singers!"

Noticing his agitation, Mrs. Willow exchanged a knowing look with Doctor James, who promptly advanced with a syringe in hand. "Your head is still hurting. Rest now, and when you wake, all will become clear," Doctor James assured him soothingly.

As Valentine noticed the syringe, his confusion turned to terror. "Don't touch me!" he yelled, but his protest was in vain. With swift professionalism, Doctor James administered the injection into Valentine's left arm. Tension drained from Valentine's body, his resistance fading as he slumped back onto the bed, muscles yielding to the medication's effect.

The maid quickly and efficiently adjusted Valentine's position on the bed, ensuring his comfort as Doctor James and Mrs. Willow left the room, heading towards her study.

Once there, Mrs. Willow's expression was one of concern. "I thought you said he wouldn't remember his past. He doesn't seem to have amnesia at all. He still knows who he is," she said, her voice tinged with frustration.

Doctor James shared her frown, considering the medical reports and the head injury that had initially suggested amnesia. "Mrs. Willow, that was indeed my assumption. But now that he's recalling his family and friends, we must decide our next steps. Shall we abandon our plans?" he inquired cautiously.

"Absolutely not," Mrs. Willow snapped with determination, her face then contorting with worry before settling into a deep frown.

After a moment's contemplation, she declared, "I believe I have another plan in mind."

Doctor James regarded Mrs. Willow quietly, acutely aware of the boundaries in their partnership; he respected her for her strategic mind while contributing his medical expertise. He did not press her for details of the new plan.

When Mrs. Willow broke the silence with a question about Valentine's recovery, Doctor James responded promptly, "He should awaken by 9 a.m. tomorrow morning."

Relieved by the time frame, Mrs. Willow nodded. The remaining hours of the night would afford her sufficient opportunity to devise a comprehensive strategy—one that would ensure Valentine Anderson would unwittingly become a pawn in her elaborate game.

With a night ahead devoid of sleep, Mrs. Willow set to work, meticulously crafting every detail of her scheme.

The dark clouds had dissipated, leaving the sunlight to unveil a dazzling azure sky. The summer warmth enveloped everything, its intensity unyielding.

Valentine Anderson slowly opened his eyes. His body felt weaker this time, his arms barely responding to his will. Lifting his head, he saw the same three individuals from the previous day. Memories of being forced to sleep caused his muscles to tense in alertness.

A warm smile graced Doctor James's face as he introduced himself with cordiality. "My name is Doctor James. I've been overseeing your treatment and recovery," he said.

Valentine's brow creased in confusion. He was familiar with the doctors in his usual circle, including Andrea Singer's personal physician, and this man was not one of them.

Observing Valentine's reaction, James added, "You are not in Vegas."

These words caused Valentine's frown to deepen. He attempted to speak, but before he could, Mrs. Willow interjected, "You are still weak because you haven't eaten for days. Once you've had some food and a bath, I'll answer all your questions."

With that, Mrs. Willow and Doctor James exited the room, leaving Valentine with no opportunity to respond.

The maid overseeing Valentine's care signaled for the household staff to bring in his meal. She meticulously inspected each dish for any hint of poison. Satisfied that the food was safe, she gestured for Valentine to eat.

His stomach growled, a stark reminder of his prolonged starvation, and he wasted no time consuming the meal voraciously.

Observing this, the maid offered a gentle smile and instructed the staff to bring additional servings. Once Valentine finished eating, toiletries and a fresh outfit were provided for him.

"Master, once you are finished, I'll escort you to Madam," the maid informed before departing from the room.

Driven by an urgency to understand the bizarre situation, Valentine didn't dawdle. He hastened into the bathroom, but upon catching his reflection in the mirror, he came to an abrupt halt. Disbelief washed over him. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and yet his reflection remained unchanged. His fingers traced his features, confirming their familiarity, but his skin was inexplicably altered.

"Why do I look like this?" he muttered, his face a mask of confusion.

Memories of a bomb explosion flashed through his mind. He let out a scream, stumbled backward, and fell onto the bathroom floor. The fall was mercifully minor, but a cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he struggled to regulate his racing heart.

After taking a few steadying breaths, he quickly bathed and dressed in the clean clothes provided. With a mixture of trepidation and determination, he reached for the doorknob.

When Valentine Anderson opened the door, the maid stood waiting behind it, her smile warm as she spoke, "Master, Madam has been waiting for you."

With that, she turned and gestured for him to follow. Frowning intermittently, Valentine Anderson trailed behind her until he found himself standing in a study.

"Madam is inside, waiting for you," the maid announced before moving aside.

Valentine Anderson opened the door and entered, Mrs. Willow's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him. A smile slowly spread across her face as she remarked, "You bear a striking resemblance to my husband. Even his beloved white attire suits you perfectly."

Valentine Anderson's confusion deepened at her words, a multitude of questions swirling in his mind. Taking a moment to compose himself, he finally asked, "Where is my wife, Andrea Singers?"