Chapter 1

"Dr. Lane, are you sure you want to clear all emotional memories associated with Andrew Hughes?" the nurse asked.

I told her I was.

A second later, a message from Andrew popped up.

Andrew: [Don't come to the family dinner tonight.]

Andrew: [Julia Grant just got back to the country. I don't want her getting the wrong idea.]

I replied with a simple "Okay".

Then I rescheduled my procedure for nine o'clock tomorrow morning.

After locking in my clinic schedule, I signed off on the system. The moment I did, my phone buzzed again.

It was Edmund, the butler at the Hughes estate.

Edmund: [Ms. Lane, Mr. Hughes asked me to remove your place setting for tonight's dinner.]

I stared at the words for a couple of seconds before replying: [Got it.]

Andrew quickly sent a follow-up.

Andrew: [She just returned, and all the elders are here. It wouldn't be appropriate for you to show up.]

He delivered "wouldn't be appropriate" so casually—as if telling me the temperature had dropped and to grab an extra layer.

I closed the chat and returned my focus to the informed consent form in front of me.

It read: [Targeted Emotional Bond Erasure.]

[Associated Subject: Andrew.]

Emily, a young nurse standing on the other side of the glass wall, looked at me hesitantly. "Dr. Lane, are we still holding the nine a.m. slot for tomorrow?"

"Keep it on schedule," I said.

By seven that evening, I hadn't gone to the Hughes estate, nor had I changed out of my clothes.

Still in my white lab coat, I sat in my office and pulled up the permissions management page for Project Mindwell, checking each setting one by one.

My name was still listed as the head of the project: Vivian Lane.

It had been three years.

From the project's inception to the initial clinical simulations, down to the final deployment of the trauma memory intervention model, I had overseen every step.

I was also the one who had dragged Andrew back from the brink, piece by piece, after his car accident.

During his worst phase, he couldn't sleep for nights on end. Seizures, vomiting, smashing things—he wouldn't let anyone get near him.

Except me.

I guided him through exposure therapy, stayed up with him through the night, and watched him swallow every single pill.

When the pain was unbearable, he would grab my wrist and whisper in a hoarse voice, "Vivian, don't leave."

Eventually, the company took off, and he gradually learned to function like a normal person in public again.

Everyone praised his resilience, marveling at how brilliantly he turned his life around.

Only I knew it wasn't resilience. I was the one who had pulled him back from the edge of losing his mind, night after grueling night.

And now, Julia was back.

The moment her name surfaced, I was expected to step aside.

At eight-thirty, a photo popped up on my feed.

Andrew stood tall outside the airport's VIP exit, wearing a black overcoat. Next to him was Julia in a light gray trench coat, smiling as she wheeled her luggage toward him.

Someone had captioned it: [An old friend returns—a match made in heaven.]

Likes were piling up underneath.

A board member had even commented: [Finally.]

I took a glance, then locked my screen.

The office was quiet.

I began organizing the core project files: archiving the algorithm parameters, anonymizing patient data, and backing up the project logs.

Once everything was sorted, I transferred top-level access to the deputy lead, Natalie Brooks.

Natalie called me immediately, her voice strained. "Ms. Lane, what are you doing?"

"Handing things over ahead of time," I replied.

"Why the sudden handover? Does Mr. Hughes know about this?"

"He'll know tomorrow."

Natalie stayed silent for a few seconds before lowering her voice. "Is this because Julia's back?"

I gave a brief sign of agreement.

She swore under her breath on the other end.

I let out a soft laugh. "Don't bother. It's not worth it."

Before hanging up, I asked her to email me the latest proposal draft by nine tomorrow morning.

That only made her more anxious. "Wait, aren't you supposed to—"

"Just do as I said," I interrupted.

At nine-forty, Andrew finally called.

It was noisy on his end.

Glasses were clinking while people laughed and called out "Ms. Grant."

"Are you still angry?" was the first thing Andrew said when I picked up.

I finished naming the last folder and asked, "Is there something you need?"

He paused, likely caught off guard by how flat my tone was.

"Vivian, don't overthink tonight," he said. "You know how the family is—they've always had their eyes on Julia and me. She just got back, and the press is watching every move. I didn't want any unnecessary complications."

"I understand," I said.

His tone softened slightly, as if coaxing someone who always knew how to be reasonable.

"Once this blows over, I'll make it up to you," he added.

Always the same line.

"When things settle down."

"Wait a little longer."

"Bear with it for now."

He had used those exact words so many times over the past three years.

When he was recovering from the crash, we couldn't go public.

When the company was raising funds, we couldn't go public.

When the board was undergoing reshuffles, we couldn't go public.

And now that Julia was back, we still couldn't go public.

"Make up what?" I asked.

Silence fell over the line for a second.

He probably hadn't thought that far ahead himself.

Finally, he spoke up. "Whatever you want, I'll give it to you."

Looking down at the procedure form on my desk, I replied coolly, "Okay."

He seemed to sigh in relief. "Don't throw a temper. Come by the office tomorrow—there are some adjustments to the project."

I told him I got it and hung up first.

He didn't notice a thing.

It never even occurred to him to ask why I was still at the clinic at this hour.