Chapter 1

The day Andrew Grant lost his memory, I almost threw a party to celebrate.

He threw me three years of abduction and coercion. I had countless escape attempts and countless times of being dragged back.

The man who locked me in a basement with red-rimmed eyes and said, "Be my woman", finally forgot me completely.

His family rushed over that night with divorce papers and a check big enough to choke on. Polite and ice-cold, they said, "Never show up in front of him again."

I took the money and flew to the farthest city without looking back.

I finally lived the life I'd dreamed of, buying groceries, cooking meals, and having an ordinary job.

I thought the nightmare was over, until one ordinary evening, walking home with my groceries, a hand clamped over my mouth and nose from behind.

A sharp chemical smell flooded my lungs. In the last second before my consciousness faded, only one thought crossed my mind: here we go again.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a dim basement. There was a cold metal bed. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant.

A figure stepped out of the shadows. I couldn't see his face, but I heard that familiar voice. It was clear, low, and certain, with no room for refusal: "Be good and be my woman. I'll give you everything you want."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Perfect. It was the same as last time. He didn't even change the script.

*****

The day I found out Andrew had lost his memory, I was holed up in the villa, eating pasta.

It was his mother who called, her voice frantic and sharp, like she was ready to crawl through the phone and wring my neck. "Claire Evans, is this what you wanted? Andrew nearly died chasing after you."

The pasta slipped from my fork back into the plate, splashing a few drops of soup.

She said Andrew was on his way to a therapy session when he realized I'd run off. He spun his car around to chase me, only to crash into a dump truck that blew through a red light on the overpass.

He was in surgery for over ten hours. They managed to save him, but a blood clot was pressing on his brain. When he woke up, he couldn't remember a thing.

"He doesn't remember anything." Those words hit me so hard that I was stunned for a few seconds.

"So..." I paused, uncertainty in my voice. "Does he remember me?"

She gave a cold, mocking laugh. "What do you think? The doctor says it's selective amnesia. Anything or anyone linked to his trauma is a blur. Claire, you are the trauma."

I hung up, finished my pasta, and went to take a shower.

Standing under the shower, I caught myself actually smiling.

It wasn't about feeling smug or gloating. It was something messier, like a strange, tangled relief I couldn't explain.

He finally forgot me.

He didn't remember those nights he yanked me out of bed, didn't remember locking me in the basement, saying, "You'll never escape," and didn't remember those times, after all the awful things he'd done, he tended to my wounds with his eye red.

Honestly, it was a relief.

If I ever told anyone what went down between Andrew and me, no one would believe me.

He was the heir to Grant Group, and I was a copywriter in one of his branch offices. The difference between us was astronomical.

We first met at a Thanksgiving party. His cousin, drunk out of his mind, had a female intern trapped in the restroom.

I happened to walk by and saw the scene. Without thinking, I grabbed a vase from the hallway and smashed it right over his head.

The vase shattered, and his cousin ended up with a bleeding head.

The intern took off, and I was left standing there.

At the time, all I could think was, 'Crap, I'm definitely getting fired tomorrow.'

But the next day, HR called and said there was an opening at headquarters and asked if I wanted to try it out.

I thought I'd hit the jackpot and was over the moon, rushing right over.

When I got to headquarters, I realized there was no opening at all. Andrew had created the job for me.

He was ridiculously good to me. He gave me a raise, a car, and an apartment.

If I had to work late, he'd stick around. If I got sick, he'd show up with medicine. If my coworkers messed with me, he'd move them out of my way.

I once gave him a box of mint candies that cost 7 bucks, and he made them last a whole month, keeping every single wrapper.

Everyone said he was totally into me.

I denied it. A guy who was rich and powerful could have anyone he wanted. Why would he ever like me?

Then one day, during a company outing, I had a couple of drinks and dozed off in the car.

Half-awake, I found his face right next to mine. He was kissing me. It was soft, cautious, like he was scared I'd wake up. I was so shocked that I kept my eyes shut.

The next day, he acted like nothing had happened, greeting me as usual, and I played along, pretending I didn't remember a thing.

But after that, he dropped the act.

Andrew's way of pursuing me was honestly pretty clumsy. So clumsy that it didn't resemble the behavior of a boss who oversaw tens of thousands of people

He never asked what I liked. He bought everything he thought was good for me.

Watches, necklaces, bags, clothes, shoes, he packed my whole apartment to the brim with them.

When I told him I didn't want any of it, his face would fall, looking so wounded, like a puppy that got kicked by its owner.

When I told him I didn't like him, he'd shrug and say, "It's okay. I can wait."

I held out for a year, and so did he.

Later, I met a decent guy through a blind date and gave it a shot for two months.

When Andrew found out, he showed up outside my apartment that very night.

It was pouring rain, and he was standing under a streetlight, soaked to the bone, not bothering with an umbrella. "Claire," he said, "break up with that guy."

I shot back, "Why should I?"

He was silent for a long time, then said something that sent a chill down my spine. "I don't want you to see me when I'm at my worst."

I didn't get what he meant at the time.