Chapter 1
The day after Michael Warren proposed divorce, I lost my memory.
My mind got stuck at eighteen years old.
That was the year before I met Michael.
How ridiculous.
Twenty-eight-year-old Emily Lane threw away everyone who loved her for him, and ended up with nothing.
But when I opened my eyes again, all I had was disgust for Michael and nothing else.
*****
I lost my memory in a car accident.
The doctor said it was a one-in-a-million thing, but still, it happened.
But last night, wasn't I crammed in bed with my bestie Sophie Grant, freaking out about which dress to wear for college orientation and dreaming about meeting some cute guy?
Then I blinked, and suddenly I became twenty-eight?
Ten years.
Ten whole years. Blank.
My fingers touched my skin. It wasn't the bouncy, young skin I remembered. It felt thin, grown-up, and foreign.
The face in the mirror was pale, tired, with tiny lines around the eyes.
I tried to smile at myself.
Click.
The door opened, breaking the silence like a rock thrown into still water.
A man walked in. Sharp black suit. Perfect posture. Face like a statue—cold, handsome.
He was the kind of handsome that would've made eighteen-year-old me blush and stammer.
But right then? I felt like I couldn't breathe.
His vibe was too heavy, like a night you couldn't escape.
His eyes were too sharp, like knives made of ice. One look, and you were frozen.
He saw me and frowned. It was a habit of his.
No concern. No "are you okay?" Just pure, naked annoyance.
"Emily, the doctor said it's a mild concussion. Quit faking," Michael said.
Faking?
That word hit me like a slap.
My eighteen-year-old soul hadn't learned how to swallow insults yet.
I looked up at him, my voice clear and sharp with teenage honesty. "Who are you? You're being really rude."
He laughed. But it wasn't funny. It was cold and mean.
He walked toward me in two steps.
His tall figure cast an oppressive shadow that nearly drained the air around me, swallowing me whole.
"Who am I?" He looked down at me, each word like ice. "I'm Michael Warren. Your husband. Legally speaking.
"I gave you the divorce papers yesterday. And now you're playing Amnesia? You'll do anything to keep this marriage alive, won't you?"
Divorce? Husband? Michael?
These weren't bombs anymore. They were a noose, tightening around my empty memory, choking me.
I looked at his eyes—full of disgust and suspicion—and my heart clenched. A dull, spreading pain.
For twenty-eight-year-old Emily. For how worthless she'd made herself.
How did I end up like this?
Letting a man look at me like I was garbage?
"Excuse me." I stepped back hard and straightened my spine. My voice came out clearer and colder than I expected. "Mr. Warren, is it? I'm not faking. I really don't know you."
I took a breath and let my eighteen-year-old honesty fire back. "And honestly? You're not even my type."
Michael's eyes went dark and cold.
That "honest" comment clearly pissed him off.
I couldn't stay in that suffocating room one more second.
I needed my parents. Sophie. Something—anything—familiar.
I patted my pockets for my phone. They were empty.
"Where's my phone?" I demanded.
He watched me like I was a bad actress in a cheap play.
Finally, he jerked his chin toward the nightstand.
I ran to it and grabbed the unfamiliar phone.
The screen lit up. Password or fingerprint.
I pressed my thumb down.
Click.
It unlocked.
The cold light hit my lost, confused face.
My fingers flew across the screen, scrolling through contacts.
A to Z. Barely any names.
No "Dad." No "Mom." No "Sophie."
Recent calls? A few numbers labeled "Delivery" or "Customer Service." And then—Michael. Over and over.
The photo album was worse. A couple of random landscape shots. Screenshots of work meetings. And then... Michael. Michael at his desk. Michael resting. Michael sleeping.
Different angles. Same story. Me, obsessed with capturing every moment of him. But never him looking back at me with any warmth.
This wasn't love. This was some kind of sickness.
I looked up at Michael, who was standing in the middle of the hospital room like a human iceberg.
"Why aren't my parents in here? Or Sophie?" My voice cracked. Fear squeezed my throat. My heart hammered.
A fear deeper than losing ten years of memories wrapped around my heart like icy vines, tightening with every breath.
"They're the most important people in my life! How could they not be in my phone?" I freaked out.
Michael's cold eyes stayed on my face, watching me go from confused to panicked to totally desperate.
The usual sarcasm faded from his face and was replaced by something heavier, like he was finally starting to believe I wasn't acting.
He didn't answer me. He turned to his assistant at the door and said, "Get Dr. Suarez. Now."
The doctor came. Under Michael's scary stare, he asked me questions and ran some tests.
Finally, he pushed up his glasses and said carefully, "Mr. Warren, Mrs. Warren's condition is retrograde amnesia from the accident. A selective memory gap.
"It's likely her brain's way of protecting itself from trauma or stress she couldn't handle."
Trauma or stress she couldn't handle?
My heart squeezed.
Twenty-eight-year-old Emily Lane. What happened to you?
Michael listened in silence, his face unreadable.
He didn't ask anything else before he waved the doctor away.
Then he grabbed my coat and said, in a weirdly calm, cold voice. "Come on. Let's go home."
His "home" was a giant, fancy mansion with zero warmth.
Every piece of furniture was expensive and perfect. It was like a museum.
I tiptoed around like an intruder, staring at everything.
Then I saw it. The huge wedding photo on the wall.
Me in a white dress. A polite smile on my face. Leaning into Michael.
He looked handsome. Happy, even. Back then.
But the glass on the frame was cracked. A long line running right between us. It looked like a wound that would never heal.
See that, Emily? Even your fake happiness was shattered.
My chest ached.
"Stop staring at that." Michael's voice came from behind me, breaking the silence.
He'd lit a cigarette. Smoke curled around his cold face.
He sat across from me and looked me straight in the eye. That look had a storm underneath it.
He exhaled smoke. Then, with brutal honesty, he told me the truth I was most scared to hear.
"Your parents." He paused, like he was choosing his words. But what came out was still ice cold. "They died in an accident. Your sophomore year of college."