The Ruthless CEO's Forgotten Amnesiac Wife

Grace shoved her frayed duffel bag deeper under the glass coffee table.

She abandoned the audition. Abandoned leaving the airport.

The stiff chair felt like a cage. She rose, abandoning it, and sank onto the plush sofa instead.

The boy who’d offered the handkerchief climbed up beside her, settling on her left. Tiny fingers adjusted his silk tie with unnerving precision.

The bespectacled boy perched on her right. His tablet, already open and glowing, displayed a rapid stream of code. With a final tap, the screen flickered – now showing a live feed of the lounge’s main entrance. He’d sliced through the guest wifi’s flimsy password, hijacking the public monitor feed in seconds.

The third boy bypassed the sofa entirely. He climbed directly into Grace’s lap.

He burrowed into the hollow of her collarbone, resting his head there, eyes closed.

Grace went rigid. Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, terrified to touch the expensive fabric of his coat.

An annoyed sigh escaped him. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her arms down, forcing them into a tight embrace around his small waist.

The heavy, warm weight of him pressed against her stomach.

A sharp ache bloomed in Grace’s chest – a tenderness so intense it hurt.

The boy on her left studied her profile.

"Flawless bone structure," he declared, voice pure Hollywood agent. "Oscar potential."

A breathless laugh escaped Grace. Jaw tension eased.

"Thank you."

The boy on her right didn’t look up from his screen.

"Mass-produced garments," he stated flatly. "Fabric pairing indicates high-level European classical aesthetic."

Grace stared. A five-year-old dissecting fashion theory.

"Who taught you that? Where are your parents? Why are you alone?"

The air froze.

A lightning-fast glance passed between the three.

The boy on her left lowered his lashes, shoulders slumping. "Father is a workaholic," he whispered, voice thick with manufactured sorrow. "Only cares about money. Not us."

The boy on her right tapped his screen. "Handed off to cold, violent bodyguards. Zero freedom," he added tonelessly.

The boy in her lap squeezed his eyes shut. Two perfect tears welled, soaking into Grace’s cheap cotton shirt.

Grace’s stomach clenched. Hot anger flared towards the unseen, uncaring father.

She unzipped her bag’s front pocket, pulling out three cheap, foil-wrapped chocolates saved from her flight.

She offered them.

These boys wore fortunes. Probably dined on gold-leaf desserts.

All three snatched the chocolate without hesitation.

The left boy took a bite, closing his eyes. "Most exquisite culinary experience of my life," he pronounced.

Grace watched them chew.

Suddenly – a high-pitched wail echoed in the back of her skull. A baby’s cry.

Pain exploded behind her eyes. A white-hot nail driven into her temple.

The chocolate wrapper fell. She pressed her palms hard against her forehead, a low moan escaping.

The boy on her right dropped his tablet. He seized Grace’s left wrist with both small hands, squeezing fiercely, pouring stubborn warmth into her, anchoring her against the storm.

The boy on her left leaped up. Ran to the dispenser. Filled a paper cup with hot water. Rushed back, holding it to her lips.

The boy in her lap reached up, chubby hands cupping her pale cheeks. "Don’t be scared," he whispered against her skin. "We are here."

The sharp pain began to recede. Their touch, a lifeline.

Grace pulled all three close, wrapping her arms around them.

Tears spilled, burning tracks down her cheeks. Why?

Then. The floor vibrated.

Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed outside the VIP lounge. Military boots on linoleum.

The bespectacled boy snatched up his tablet. A red warning light flashed.

His face hardened. "Trouble."

The boy on her left grabbed Grace’s hand, fingers digging in. His eyes widened with practiced terror.

"Please," he begged, the picture of desperate innocence. "You have to save us."