Chapter 1

The crystal chandeliers of Le Bernardin cast a warm glow over our corner table as I studied Greyson across from me. Six years together, and I still found myself noticing new things about him—the way his fingers tapped against his wine glass when he was thinking, how his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled. Tonight, though, something felt off.

"I'll have the sea bass," Greyson told the waiter, then added, "And could you bring extra chives on the side?"

I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. "Chives?"

Greyson's eyes flickered away from mine. "Yes, extra chives."

"But you know I hate chives," I said carefully, setting my fork down. "I've never been able to stand them."

His fingers moved to his watch—that platinum Patek Philippe I'd given him on our third anniversary—fidgeting with it in that nervous way I'd rarely seen before.

"They're not for you," he said, his voice carrying a defensive edge I couldn't quite place. "They're for a friend I'm meeting later."

"A friend?" I repeated, watching as his eyes darted around the restaurant, avoiding mine.

"Yes, a friend." He took a long sip of his wine. "You know how some people love chives? This friend does."

I nodded slowly, though something cold settled in my stomach. Greyson knew about my aversion to chives—we'd once had an entire conversation about it during our first year together. The fact that he'd order them now, specifically for someone else...

"Is everything okay?" I asked, keeping my voice light despite the sudden heaviness in my chest.

"Everything's fine," he said, finally meeting my eyes with a smile that didn't quite reach them. "Just fine."

---

Three weeks later, we attended the Vogue Foundation Gala together. The event was a blur of air kisses and champagne flutes until I noticed Greyson's absence from my side.

I found him near the backstage area, his face contorted with rage as he pummeled a young male model against the wall.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Greyson shouted, landing another punch before security guards rushed forward to pull him away.

I stood frozen, watching as two guards struggled to restrain him. The model—blood trickling from his nose—looked terrified.

"Greyson!" I called out, pushing through the gathering crowd. "What's happening?"

"He was harassing her," Greyson spat, his chest heaving as he pointed toward a striking woman in a wheelchair. "Making disgusting comments. Calling her names."

The woman—Celia Weaver, I recognized her from recent magazine covers—looked shaken but composed, her hand resting protectively over her pregnant belly.

"That's no reason to assault someone," I said quietly, taking his arm and trying to lead him away.

"He deserved worse," Greyson insisted, his voice still raw with anger. "No one should talk to her like that."

Something in his tone made me pause. The protective fury in his eyes seemed... excessive.

"Greyson," I said carefully, "you barely know her. I've never even heard you mention her before."

His jaw tightened. "I know enough to stand up for professional respect."

---

Two nights later, I heard the shower running as I slipped into our bedroom. Greyson's phone lay on the nightstand, its screen lighting up with notifications.

I hesitated only briefly before picking it up. The passcode was still my birthday—at least he hadn't changed that.

A private Instagram account I'd never seen before appeared among his apps. My fingers trembled slightly as I opened it.

The first image stopped my breath—Greyson and Celia, her head resting on his shoulder as they sat in what looked like a hospital garden. The caption read: "My protector."

I scrolled further, finding more photos. Greyson placing his watch on Celia's wrist. Greyson bringing her a steaming cup of tea, his hands lingering on hers. Their fingers intertwined across a table.

The shower stopped. I quickly took screenshots and set the phone back exactly as I'd found it.

"Greyson," I said when he emerged, wrapped in a towel. "We need to talk."

His face paled as I showed him the screenshots.

"Marley, it's not what you think," he said, his voice urgent. "She's just... she reminds me of someone. I've been helping her with her medical appointments."

"Don't lie to me," I whispered.

"I'm not lying!" He moved to his closet and pulled out a small wooden box I'd never seen before. "Look at this."

Inside were dozens of tiny wooden carvings—a miniature Eiffel Tower from our trip to Paris, a camel from Egypt, a snow-capped mountain from Switzerland.

"These are all from our travels," he said softly. "I carve one every time we go somewhere new. They're my way of keeping our memories safe."

I picked up the latest carving—a small wheelchair with delicate spokes.

"This," Greyson said, watching my face carefully, "is just another memory. Nothing more."

But as I looked at the wooden box in my hands, I couldn't help wondering why a wheelchair would be such an important memory from our last trip—when neither of us had been in one.