Her Exiled Husband Is A Forgotten God

POV: Kael

The vase fell off the shelf and I swear to God I wasn’t even close to it.

I was standing at least three feet away with my hands behind my back, doing that thing I always do at these family dinners where I try to blend into the wallpaper and hope nobody notices me. But the vase fell anyway, hit the marble floor, and shattered into a hundred pieces.

And now everyone was looking at me.

“Kael.” My mother-in-law said my name like it tasted bad in her mouth. Eleanor Morrison was standing at the head of the dining table in one of her expensive silk outfits, looking at me the way you’d look at something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of your shoe. “What have you done?”

I didn’t touch it. I didn’t even breathe on it. But here I was, already kneeling down to pick up the pieces because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve been doing for three years now. Something goes wrong, I take the blame, I clean up the mess, and we all move on until the next time.

“That vase was a gift from the Minister’s wife,” Eleanor said, walking toward me with her heels clicking against the marble. “Ming Dynasty. Do you have any idea what it was worth?”

I could feel pieces of porcelain biting into my palms as I gathered them up. One of them cut my thumb and I watched a drop of blood well up, but I didn’t say anything about it. I just kept picking up the pieces.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll pay for it.”

The laughter that came from the dining table wasn’t the nice kind. The whole Morrison extended family was here tonight, probably about twenty-three people, and they were all watching me like I was the evening’s entertainment. Which, honestly, I probably was.

“Pay for it?” That was Uncle Feng, Eleanor’s brother-in-law. He was one of those guys who inherited everything he had but still acted like he was better than everyone else. “With what money? Your dishwashing wages?”

“I do kitchen prep now,” I said quietly. “They promoted me.”

“Oh, kitchen prep! Well excuse me.” Feng looked around the table with this big stupid grin on his face, making sure everyone was appreciating his joke. “Tell me something, Kael. When you were living on the streets with no memory and no name and no idea who you were, did you ever dream you’d climb this high? Kitchen prep at your own wife’s family restaurant. Truly inspirational.”

A piece of porcelain dug deeper into my palm. I didn’t react. I just kept cleaning up the mess that wasn’t mine.

Three years. That’s how long I’ve been doing this.

Three years since I woke up in an alley behind St. Michael’s Hospital with absolutely nothing. No memories. No name. No idea why my body hurt like I’d fallen off a building and somehow survived. The doctors ran every test they could think of and came up with a whole lot of nothing. Retrograde amnesia, they said. Total memory loss. Could be temporary, could be permanent. They had no way of knowing and honestly they didn’t seem to care all that much.

I spent three months on the streets after that. Sleeping in shelters when I could find space, eating at soup kitchens, trying to figure out who I was and coming up empty every single time. Then Robert Morrison showed up at one of the shelters doing some charity thing for the press, and something about me caught his attention.

He brought me home, gave me a name, gave me a job. Kael, he called me. After some great-uncle nobody remembered. It was as good a name as any.

And then two years ago, he gave me his daughter.

Feng was getting bored with the verbal stuff. I could feel it happening — the shift in his energy from casual cruelty to something more active. He set down his wine glass and stood up from the table.

“You know what?” He was walking toward me now, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m sick of this. Three years we’ve put up with this useless piece of shit, and what do we get? Broken vases and ruined deals.”

“Feng,” Robert said from his seat, but it was weak. He wasn’t going to stop this.

Nobody ever stopped this.

“Someone should have taught you some manners before they let you into a decent family’s home.” Feng stopped right in front of me, close enough that I could smell the wine on his breath. “I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

His fist came fast.

Feng had done this before — not to me, but to servants who complained, to business partners who disagreed, to anyone unlucky enough to be weaker than him and worth less than his lawyers. He knew how to hit without leaving marks. He knew how to hurt without consequences.

What he didn’t know was that something in my body had been waiting for this.

I didn’t decide to move. I didn’t think about blocking or dodging or protecting myself. My hand just… rose. Faster than I’ve ever moved in three years of existence. And it caught his fist mid-swing.

Caught it like snatching a damn fly from the air.

Feng’s eyes went wide. “What the—”

He tried to pull back, but my fingers were already tightening, and there was this sensation I didn’t understand — pressure building in my grip, something ancient and terrible waking up in my bones.

“Let go,” Feng said, and for the first time, there was something other than contempt in his voice. “Let go of me right now.”

I wanted to. I swear to God I wanted to.

But my hand wouldn’t listen.

I heard the sound before I registered what I was doing. Wet snapping. Like dry branches crushed underfoot. Like something that was whole becoming something broken.

Feng screamed.

“HOLY SHIT!” Someone at the table knocked over their wine glass. “HOLY SHIT, DID YOU SEE THAT?”

Feng’s knees hit the marble. His free hand clawed at my wrist, his face white then grey then a color I don’t have words for. The screaming didn’t stop. It filled the dining room, bouncing off the chandelier, drowning out the gasps of twenty-three Morrisons who had never seen their charity case do anything but kneel.

I let go.

His hand fell limp at his side, fingers pointing directions fingers shouldn’t point. He curled around the injury, sobbing like a child, and I just stood there looking at my own palm like it belonged to a stranger.

I didn’t mean to do that.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE!” Eleanor was screaming. “CALL SECURITY! CALL THE POLICE!”

The dining room erupted into chaos. People were shouting, phones were out, chairs were scraping back. The patriarch was pointing at me, face purple with rage, screaming something I couldn’t process.

But I wasn’t hearing any of it.

I was looking at the shattered vase on the floor, trying to remember the last thirty seconds, and finding nothing but gaps. I remembered Feng’s fist coming toward my face. I remembered him screaming on the ground. But the middle was gone — erased, replaced by static, filled with something that moved through me like lightning through water.

Three seconds of my life, missing.

Maybe four.

I looked at my hand again. The one that just crushed bones without my permission.

It didn’t hurt. There was no ache in my fingers, no strain in my wrist. I had just destroyed a man’s hand with my bare grip and my body felt nothing. Less than nothing. It felt satisfied, like a tool finally being used for its intended purpose.

That scared me more than anything else.

“YOU’RE DEAD!” Feng was still screaming through his tears. “YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD! I’LL DESTROY YOU! I’LL DESTROY EVERYTHING YOU—”

The security team burst through the doors. Three of them, then five, then eight. Big men in black uniforms, the kind the Morrisons kept on payroll for exactly this kind of situation.

“Restrain him!” Eleanor pointed at me. “Get that monster out of my house!”

Hands grabbed my arms. Voices barked commands. I let them take me because I was too busy staring at my own reflection in the shattered vase pieces on the floor.

The reflection stared back.

For just a moment — less than a heartbeat — it wasn’t my face.

It was someone older. Harder. Wreathed in light that hurt to look at.

Then it was me again. Just me. The charity case. The amnesiac.

But even as they dragged me toward the door, even as Feng kept screaming threats and Eleanor kept screaming orders, one thought kept circling in my skull:

My hand didn’t hurt.

Why the hell didn’t my hand hurt?