Capturing My Amnesiac CEO Ex-Husband

Sofia

"You shouldn't be here, Sofia." Blake's voice was low and raspy, carrying a hint of warning, but his eyes burned red as if they were on fire, staring at me like he wanted to devour me.

He leaned against the hotel bar stool, his suit jacket open, tie hanging loose, swirling a whiskey glass in his hand, emanating that intoxicating scent of tobacco and leather that made my heart race.

I knew he was drunk, and so was I, my head spinning like I was walking on clouds, but my heart was pounding like it might explode.

"Blake," I whispered his name, my voice trembling like an idiot, my fingers lightly touching his face, tracing the rough stubble on his jaw. "Do you really not remember me?"

I leaned forward, my dress pressing against his leg, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. I knew I was playing with fire, but I couldn't control myself, desperate to see if his eyes might flash with some recognition of our past.

He didn't speak, his gaze like that of a trapped animal, hiding something in the fog. He grabbed my wrist, not roughly, but like he was afraid letting go would make him sink. His breathing quickened, warm against my face.

The next second, his lips crashed into mine, kissing me with a fierceness that threatened to tear me apart, yet also like he was searching for his lost self.

Time stopped. His kiss transformed from wild to tender, his tongue exploring mine, igniting a heat that spread through my entire body like gasoline catching fire.

My hands slipped under his shirt, feeling his warm skin, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with my heartbeat. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me hard against him, and through the thin fabric, I could feel his intimidating erection pressing against me.

"Fuck, Sofia..." he growled, his lips sliding to my neck, biting with perfect pressure, drawing a gasp from me. We stumbled into the hotel room, and as soon as the door closed, I tore open his shirt, buttons scattering everywhere.

He pushed my dress up to my waist, tore my stockings to shreds, his fingers sliding into my panties, gently rubbing, teasing until my legs nearly gave out.

"Blake..." I gasped, my voice low and pleading, while my body honestly moved toward him. His fingers circled my clit, torturously slow then quickly enough to blank out my mind. I pulled down his pants, gripping his hot, iron-hard cock, pulsing in my palm.

We crashed onto the bed, my underwear ripped off and tossed aside. His mouth traveled from my collarbone to my breasts, his tongue flicking over my nipples, sucking until my back arched, my mind consumed by fire.

His hand slid between my thighs, his fingertips exploring my wet entrance, slowly thrusting, as if testing my limits. I bit my lip, struggling not to cry out.

"Fuck, you're so tight..." he growled, his voice carrying a hint of familiar tenderness. My heart clenched painfully, wanting to scream: Remember, damn it! Remember our late nights in the dorm, remember the evenings you played guitar for me, remember when you told me I was your destiny!

He removed the last barrier between us, his cock pressing at my entrance, slowly pushing in, stretching me until I could barely breathe. His rhythm was deep and fierce, each thrust reaching my core, possessing me.

My fingers dug into his back, nails leaving red marks, my legs wrapping around his waist, my body completely open, offering everything to him. My moans and his growls mingled, the room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin and the creaking of the bed.

In that moment, we were like two stars about to burn out, colliding to create blinding light. I could feel his struggle, desire and resistance, but his body's response couldn't lie. I foolishly thought that this time, he would remember us.

But in the morning, sunlight shattered everything. He woke up, his eyes no longer tender as they had been the night before, but angry and suspicious.

He sat up, his back to me, cold as a stranger: "What the fuck did you do to me, Sofia?" I wanted to scream, to tell him that last night he was real, he was the Blake I loved. But I said nothing, tears welling in my eyes, because I knew he wouldn't believe me.

He put on his clothes, his back cold as stone. I thought that night was a breakthrough, a reunion, but to him, it was just a trap I had set. Blake, if you would just really look at me, you'd know that my love for you was never fake.

Two years ago, that private plane crash came down like a giant axe, splitting apart the life we had carefully pieced together. That day we had just returned from our Hawaiian honeymoon, laughing like two kids who had stolen candy.

On the plane, Blake held me close, his head resting on my shoulder, lazily twirling my hair with his fingers, his voice a low murmur in my ear: "Sofia, once Sterling Group is stable, we'll buy that house by the Charles River, the kind you want, with a big yard full of roses." He paused, grinning mischievously as he leaned closer, "And we'll have a mini-Sofia, with your stubborn temperament."

I laughed and pushed him away, my face warming. "Mini-Sofia? You'll have to learn to change diapers first, Mr. CEO."

He laughed heartily, squeezing my hand, his eyes bright as starlight. "Deal, baby. But you'll have to teach me, I don't want my daughter to think I'm incompetent."

Back then, he was the star student at Harvard Business School, the future heir to New York's Sterling Financial Tech Group, with his father's business acumen and a burning ambition. And I, riding on a full scholarship and a stubborn refusal to give up, had also graduated from Harvard Business School, becoming what he called "that special girl."

But the storm came too quickly—the plane lost control in the lightning, the roar of engines like a beast howling. I only remember Blake's hand gripping mine tightly, his knuckles white, as if using all his strength to protect me.

"Don't be afraid, Sofia, I'm here!" he shouted, his voice torn apart by the wind, yet still giving me a second of peace. As we fell, the world turned black, and I thought we would die together.

He was in a coma for six months, hanging between life and death. And I was unconscious for an entire year, waking to find the world was no longer mine. Blake's memory had been completely erased by the accident; he couldn't even remember my name. What cut deeper was that during his unconscious days, it wasn't me who cared for him, but Amanda Price, my former good friend.

She was by his side during his most vulnerable time, never leaving, feeding him, helping with his rehabilitation, filling the blanks in his memory with her gentle facade.

When he woke up, she became the angel in his eyes, his support, his "true love." And I, the wife who struggled through a year-long coma only to wake up, became a stranger, someone he regarded with suspicion and hostility.

The day I woke up, the hospital lights hurt my eyes, my throat dry as sandpaper. The nurse handed me a glass of water, her tone cautious: "Mr. Sterling has already been discharged, he's recovering well, and he's about to get engaged."

I froze, my heart skipping a beat, my mind filled with images of Blake at Harvard, holding me and calling me "baby." I struggled to grab the phone, dialing his number, fully expecting him to rush over.