The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 510

Chapter 250-2

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When he opens them again, he doesn’t look like a doctor. He looks like a man who’s just been asked to deliver a death sentence to his own family.

“He’s coming out,” Jade says quietly.

The glass door swings open.

Stitch steps into the waiting room. His face is gray, the deep lines around his eyes carved in stark relief. The clinical detachment he usually wears like armor is completely gone, stripped away, leaving behind a raw, broken man.

The brothers stand straight. Dad steps up to him, but Stitch doesn’t look at my father first.

He looks directly at me.

“Stitch…” My voice is a whisper, a ragged thread hanging in the quiet room. “Tell me. Tell us.” Stitch takes a slow, deep breath, pulling up a chair and sitting directly in front of me.

“The CT results came back, Zara,” Stitch begins, his voice flat, forced, like he’s reading a police report to keep himself from breaking down. “The trauma to his skull was focused entirely on the temporal lobe. The hairline fracture is stable, but the impact caused a severe contusion directly over the hippocampus.”

“Explain it in goddamn English, Stitch,” Mayhem commands. “What the f**k does that mean for his

head?”

“It means his brain took a massive, catastrophic hit,” Stitch says. “The hippocampus is the brain’s filing cabinet. It’s the region responsible for forming, storing, and retrieving memories.”

“Okay,” I say numbly. “And…”

“And when you combine that level of direct physical trauma with the chemical warfare they waged on his nervous system – the synthetic paralytics, the severe hypoxia he suffered while he was under – his brain went into a survival shutdown.”

“A shutdown?” Willow asks.

“Severe retrograde amnesia,” Stitch says, the words falling like lead blocks. “The medical team r a battery of neurological tests while they were stabilizing his blood pressure. He has his speech, and he has his motor functions. He knows his name, his birthdate. He remembers the club, and he remembers every member.”

Stitch pauses, his jaw working as he swallows hard, his eyes dropping to my rounded belly.

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Chapter 250-2

“He remembers his whole life,” Stitch continues. “Up to roughly twelve months ago.”

A cold, breathless gasp tears through the room.

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Jade turns away, slapping her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she leans against the

wall.

Mayhem lowers his head, closing his eyes, a low, guttural groan escaping his chest.

Dad stands frozen, his face turning an ash–gray color, his mouth slightly open as the full, horror–struck reality dawns on him.

“Twelve months…” I repeat. The words don’t make sense, they’re just sounds. “Stitch… what does

that mean?”

Stitch reaches out, his large hand covering mine. His touch is warm, but it feels like he’s performing last rites.

“The last year is gone, Zara,” Stitch says. “His brain wiped the slate clean to protect itself from the trauma. He doesn’t remember the night you met at the bar. He doesn’t remember you moving in with him. He doesn’t remember the baby.”

He looks into my eyes, his grip on my hand tightening until it hurts.

“He doesn’t know who you are, Zara. He has no memory of ever loving you. To him… you’re a complete stranger.”

But as I sit in the cold, fluorescent light of St. Jude’s Hospital, clutching the baby growing inside me, the truth settles into my bones with the freezing, brutal weight of an avalanche:

They brought back his body. But the man who loved me is still trapped in that basement.

“Is it permanent?” Dad demands, his voice broken, raspy. “Is it f*****g permanent, Stitch?”

“We don’t know,” Stitch answers honestly. “Concussive amnesia can subside as the brain swelling goes down. It could take days. It could take months. Or… the neural pathways could be

permanently scarred. Permanently wiped out.”

“f**k,” Dad growls. “Can’t we do anything?”

“No. No, we can’t force it. If we try to push him too fast, if we flood him with memories his brain can’t process, the stress could cause secondary swelling or trigger severe psychosis. Right now,

his mind is in a defensive state. He thinks he’s still operating in the landscape of last year.”

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“Last year…” Rook says, a bitter, tragic realization crossing his face. “Last year, Locke was cold. Last year, Locke was a ghost who travelled constantly and didn’t let anyone get within five feet of him. He was a weapon with a cut.”

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