The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 290

Chapter 290

Ethan's POV

Prisca stood completely naked in front of me.

No hesitation. No shyness. No attempt to cover herself.

Just bare skin and deliberate seduction, her body positioned in a way that was impossible to ignore.

And despite everything—despite the confusion clouding my mind, despite the emptiness where my memories should be, despite the desperate loneliness that had been my constant companion for six months—I felt my body respond.

Heat pooled low in my stomach.

Blood rushed places it hadn't in half a year.

My breath caught.

Because it had been so long.

Six months since I'd woken up in this farm house with no memory of who I was or how I'd gotten there.

Six months of living in this isolated farmhouse with Gavin and Prisca, working the fields, trying desperately to piece together fragments of a life I couldn't remember.

Six months without touch. Without intimacy. Without anything resembling normalcy.

And my body—traitorous, desperate thing that it was—wanted this.

Wanted the release. The connection. The momentary escape from the relentless frustration of not knowing who the hell I was.

But something stopped me.

The same thing that had been stopping me for months.

Cynthia.

That name.

The only solid thing in my shattered mind.

The only certainty in an ocean of confusion.

I don’t remember how our marital life was.

But I knew—with a bone-deep certainty I couldn't explain—that she mattered.

That betraying her would be wrong.

…

The farmland we lived on was in the middle of nowhere.

Literally nowhere.

Hours from the nearest city, accessible only by a dirt road that became impassable during heavy rain, surrounded by other small farms that were just as isolated and struggling as Gavin's.

There was no car. No money for train tickets. No television or internet to give me any information about the outside world.

Just endless fields, a small house that leaked when it rained, and Gavin's stories about how the government had abandoned their region decades ago.

The farm barely produced enough to keep us fed.

Gavin sold what little surplus we had to neighboring farmers or traded for things we couldn't grow ourselves—fish from the family down the road, eggs from the widow two miles west, occasionally some basic supplies when someone made the long trip into town.

It was subsistence living at its most basic.

And I was trapped in it.

I'd tried asking for help when I first recovered enough to walk around.

Had gone to the local police station—a tiny, run-down building staffed by two officers who seemed more interested in their card game than anything else.

"I don't have any identification," I'd explained. "I don't remember who I am. I need help getting back to…"

Back to where?

I didn't even know where I belonged.

The officers had looked at me with a mixture of pity and suspicion.

"No ID, no records, no memory," one of them had said. "How do we know you're not running from something? Could be a criminal for all we know."

"I'm not a criminal," I'd insisted.

"Then prove it."

But I couldn't.

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