My Amnesiac Husband Asked for Divorce, I Laughed and Walked Away Chapter 08

My Amnesiac Husband Asked for Divorce, I Laughed and Walked Away Chapter 08

Three days later, the trending topics vanished. 

Every article about my “pregnancy power play” disappeared overnight. Replaced by an official 

Caldwell Corp statement: 

[Mr. Finn Caldwell’s marital status is personal. Any defamation will face legal action. Additionally, Mr. Finn Caldwell and Ms. Serena Shaw are merely former classmates. This is hereby clarified.] 

Then Finn reposted it on his personal feed. Four words: [That’s enough.] 

The comments exploded. 

[Wait–merely former classmates? Didn’t they 

date?] 

[First love demoted to former classmate? This is wilder than a soap opera.] 

[So Serena was just leeching attention the whole 

time?] 

[President Caldwell is protecting his wife, isn’t he?] 

Serena’s feed was suddenly empty–except for 

one black image. 

Serena posted: [I did nothing wrong.] 

Zoe: [thumbs–up emojis] [Your man knows how to 

guard his own, huh.] 

I stared at that “that’s enough.” Mixed feelings 

churned. Was he doing this for the baby? For the 

Caldwell family’s reputation? Or–just a little–for 

me? 

I didn’t dare hope. 

That evening, Finn came to the villa. He stood in the doorway, coat smelling of autumn cold, exhaustion heavy on his face. His tie hung loose- 

like he hadn’t slept properly in days. 

“Did you see the statement?” 

“Yes.” 

“No one will talk anymore.” 

I leaned against the kitchen counter, meeting his eyes. “Finn. Are you doing this for the child, or for something else?” 

Long silence. 

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “But there was one trending topic I had removed. The one calling you 

a substitute. You’re not a substitute.” 

I clenched my fists. My heart skipped. 

“…How do you know?” 

He rubbed his brow, looking lost. “I don’t 

remember how I know. But I’m certain I’m right.” 

When he said “certain,” his brow furrowed–like he 

was grasping for something just out of reach. 

I watched him and stopped asking. 

“Finn. Have you eaten?” 

He blinked. 

“I have noodles in the kitchen. I’ll cook you a bowl.” 

He didn’t answer. He just watched me as I turned, 

opened the fridge, grabbed eggs and greens. I 

heard his footsteps–light–and then the creak of 

him sitting at the table. 

The water boiled. From behind me, he asked, “Did 

you… cook noodles for me before?” 

My hand paused. 

“Yeah,” I said. “When you worked late. You don’t 

like scallions, and you want extra broth.” 

He didn’t answer. 

I set the bowl in front of him. He stared at it for a 

long time. 

“The broth is bone stock,” he said suddenly. 

I froze. 

“I remember this taste.” 

He lifted a bite. Another. Then he looked at me- 

his eyes red–rimmed. 

“Tessa. I think… I remember the taste of your 

noodles.” 

Tears spilled over. 

“Don’t,” I said, grabbing a tissue. “A bowl of 

noodles is all it takes?” 

He ate every drop, broth and all. 

“Don’t eat so heavy at night from now on,” I said. 

“Mm.” 

“Go home and sleep.” 

“Mm.” 

At the door, he stopped. 

“Tessa.” 

“Yeah?” 

“When I was flipping the diary, I found a page. That 

sunset photo you took–I think I saw it. I saw you standing by the window with your camera, your profile focused. I don’t know where I saw it, but the 

image was clear. You were thinner then than you 

are now.” 

He opened the door. Night air rushed in. 

“Good night.” 

The door closed. 

I stood there, hand over my mouth, crying, my 

whole body shaking.. 

He remembered. Even if just a little. My noodles. 

My photo. My profile at the window. 

He would remember all of it. 

I touched my belly and whispered, “Baby… your 

dad isn’t completely gone.”