Chapter 2

My New York apartment felt alien.

Whose clothes were these? So much black, so severe.

Chloe, my best friend from college, Ethan's sister, watched me pack, her expression a mix of confusion and concern.

"You're really leaving? Just like that? Going to Chicago to meet some guy your parents picked out?"

I shrugged, folding a sweater that felt unfamiliar.

"I don't remember Ethan, Chloe. Why would I stay for a man I don't know?"

Chloe's eyes widened. "You really don't remember him?"

She pulled out her phone. "Look."

A digital scrapbook.

Screenshot after screenshot. Texts, photos.

Me, younger, smiling desperately. Ethan, always aloof, always looking away.

Texts from me: "Thinking of you!" "Hope you're having a good day!" "Dinner tonight?"

His replies, when they came, were curt, dismissive.

"Busy." "Can't." "Maybe later."

Veiled references to "I." Isabelle.

I saw a five-year pursuit, a relentless, one-sided chase.

I felt a wave of nausea.

"I chased this... this arrogant Wall Street type?" I scoffed, gesturing at a photo of a man with cold eyes and a smug smile.

"I could be meeting a down-to-earth architect. Sounds much better."

The doorbell rang.

Ethan.

He strode in, all tailored suit and simmering anger.

"What is this, Sarah? Some elaborate ploy for attention? Running off to Chicago?"

Chloe stepped forward. "Ethan, she doesn't remember. She has amnesia."

He laughed, a harsh, disbelieving sound.

"Amnesia? How convenient. Listen, Sarah, I don't care what game you're playing. Stay away from Isabelle. And you're coming to the charity gala with me on Saturday."

"Why would I go anywhere with you?" I asked, genuinely perplexed.

"Because I need you there," he snapped. "Isabelle is... too controversial right now. I need a stabilizing presence. You're good at that."

"You're a narcissistic jerk," I said, the words out before I could stop them.

His face darkened. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.

Pain shot up to my shoulder, where bruises from the fall were still tender.

I winced.

Just then, the door opened again. Isabelle Moreau.

She was beautiful, in a fragile, almost theatrical way.

"Ethan, darling," she murmured, hand to her forehead. "I'm so tired. The photographers were relentless."

Ethan's attention snapped to her.

He dropped my arm, his concern for Isabelle immediate and absolute.

"Izzy, come sit down." He guided her solicitously to a chair, pushing past me roughly, completely ignoring the pain that must have been visible on my face.

Chloe exploded. "Ethan, what the hell is wrong with you? Can't you see she's hurt?"

Isabelle drooped in the chair. "Oh, dear, am I interrupting something? I just felt so faint."

Ethan whirled on Chloe. "You're siding against family? She's manipulating you, Chloe!"

His glare fixed on me. "You. Be ready for the gala. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

He turned back to Isabelle, all gentleness again.

Chloe put a supportive arm around me.

"Just a few more days, Sarah," she whispered. "Then Chicago."

I nodded, taking a shaky breath. A few more days. I could endure it.