Chapter 1

The first thing Ethan Prescott knew was white.

A harsh, sterile white ceiling.

A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, a relentless drum.

He tried to move his head. Pain shot down his neck.

Where was he?

A woman' s voice, soft, a little husky. "Ethan? You' re awake."

He turned his head slowly, wincing.

A woman sat beside the bed. Pretty, with dark, concerned eyes and hair like spilled ink. He didn' t know her.

"Who... who are you?" he managed, his throat dry.

She smiled, a sad, gentle curve of her lips. "It' s me, Cassie. Cassandra."

The name meant nothing.

"Cassandra," she repeated, her voice trembling a little. "Your Cassie. Don' t you remember me, my love?"

Love? He searched his mind. Blank. A terrifying, empty space where memories should be.

He knew his name. Ethan Prescott. He knew... New York. Buildings. Money. Prescott Corporation.

But this woman? This "Cassie" ? Nothing.

"I... I don' t remember," he said, panic starting to bubble.

Her face crumpled. Tears welled in her dark eyes. "Oh, Ethan. The doctor said this might happen. Amnesia."

She reached for his hand. Her fingers were cool.

"We were together, Ethan. Deeply in love. We were running away. From her."

"Her?"

"Alexandra," Cassandra said, her voice laced with a bitterness that felt rehearsed. "Your fiancée. Or, ex-fiancée. You were trying to escape her. She was... controlling. Awful to you. You told me everything."

Alexandra. The name echoed. A faint warmth, a flicker of something good, instantly extinguished by Cassandra' s tone.

Cassandra saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes.

She quickly pulled out a sleek, unfamiliar phone. Not his.

"Look," she urged, her voice soft and persuasive. She showed him text messages.

Ethan: Can' t wait to be free of her. You' re my only hope, Cassie.

Cassie: Soon, my love. We' ll be together soon.

The texts looked real. His name was there.

She showed him photos. Him and Cassandra, laughing, her head on his shoulder. They looked happy. Intimate.

He didn' t remember taking them. He didn' t remember these moments.

"We had to be secret," Cassandra whispered, leaning closer. Her perfume was sweet, unfamiliar. "She would have destroyed us. Destroyed you."

The doctor came in then, a kind-faced man with tired eyes. He confirmed it. Severe concussion, memory loss affecting the recent past.

"It could be days, weeks, even months," the doctor said. "Or some memories might never return."

When the doctor left, Cassandra held his hand tighter.

"Don' t worry, Ethan," she said, her eyes shining with what looked like devotion. "I' m here. I' ll take care of you. I' ll help you remember our love."

He felt a wave of dizziness. He was tired. Confused.

This woman, Cassandra, seemed to be his anchor in a sea of lost time.

He clung to her words. It was easier than facing the blankness.

A few days later, in the quiet of the small, rural Louisiana hospital room, a sharp image pierced Ethan' s mental fog.

A woman' s laugh. Clear, bright. Gardenias. The scent was vivid, almost real.

Alexandra.

The name came with a feeling. Warmth. Deep, undeniable warmth. Not the controlling monster Cassandra described.

He frowned, the throbbing in his head increasing.

Cassandra was humming softly, packing a small bag for him. She said they were leaving soon, going somewhere quiet for him to recover. Away from prying eyes. Away from Alexandra.

"Cassie," he said, his voice raspy.

She turned, a bright smile on her face. "Yes, my love?"

"This Alexandra... I... I think I remember something. Something good."

Her smile faltered for a split second, then returned, tighter. "The mind plays tricks, Ethan. Especially after trauma. You were desperate to leave her. She made you miserable."

"But I feel..." He struggled for words. "I feel like I loved her."

Cassandra' s eyes filled with tears. She rushed to his side, her expression wounded.

"How can you say that, Ethan? After everything we' ve been through? Everything she put you through?"

He felt a pang of guilt. This woman was here. She was kind. She said she loved him.

But the image of Alexandra, the scent of gardenias, lingered. It felt more real than the faked photos on Cassandra' s burner phone.

"I... I need to see her," Ethan said, a sudden urgency in his voice. "I need to talk to Alexandra."

Cassandra recoiled as if struck. "No, Ethan! You can' t. She' ll manipulate you. She' ll try to drag you back into that horrible life."

"But if I loved her... if she' s my fiancée..."

"Ex-fiancée!" Cassandra corrected sharply. "You broke it off. You chose me."

He looked at her, at her tear-streaked face, her desperate eyes.

Was he being cruel? Was his broken mind betraying this woman who was trying to help him?

"I just... I need to understand," he mumbled.

A part of him, a small, insistent voice, whispered that Cassandra was lying.

He tried to push it away. He wanted to trust her. It was easier.

But the feeling for Alexandra, the warmth, it was strong.

"I think... I think I need to go back to New York," he said, more firmly. "To Alexandra."

Cassandra stared at him, her face pale. Then, her expression hardened.

"If that' s what you think you want, Ethan. But you' ll regret it. She' ll hurt you again."

He felt a surge of determination, fueled by that persistent, warm memory of Alexandra. "I have to."

He didn' t know how he' d get there. He didn' t know what he' d say.

But he knew, with a certainty that cut through the fog, that he needed to find Alexandra.

A week later, Ethan was on a Prescott private jet, heading to New York.

Cassandra had tried to stop him, pleaded, cried. But the flashes of Alex – her smile, the way she tilted her head when she was thinking, the scent of her favorite flowers – had grown stronger, more insistent.

He' d called his parents. They were shocked, relieved he was alive. They arranged everything.

Cassandra had been furious. "You' ll see! She' s a monster! You' re making a mistake!"

He' d left her at the small Louisiana airport, a small, angry figure on the tarmac. He felt a twinge of something – pity? Guilt? – but the pull towards Alex was overwhelming.

His parents met him in New York. They were shaken, their faces etched with worry.

"Ethan, thank God," his mother, Eleanor, had whispered, hugging him tightly.

His father, Arthur, was more reserved, but his relief was palpable.

They told him Alex had been frantic, searching for him for days after he disappeared following the business trip to New Orleans.

The business trip. He remembered that. Vaguely. New Orleans. A hotel project.

The affair Cassandra claimed they had, the plans to run away – those memories were still completely blank, or felt like Cassandra' s implanted stories.

His parents were wary when he mentioned Cassandra.

"She found me after the accident," Ethan explained. "She said... she said we were in love."

Eleanor and Arthur exchanged a look.

"Ethan," his father said carefully, "this Cassandra Rourke... we' ve done some checking. She' s a singer in a small club in New Orleans. No connection to our world. Or yours, before this."

"She said Alex was controlling me," Ethan said, the words sounding hollow even to himself now.

"Alex loves you, Ethan," his mother said softly. "She has been worried sick."

They drove him to the Upper East Side apartment he shared with Alex. His home.

Or it was supposed to be. It felt... unfamiliar. Yet, flashes of memory were stronger here.

The curve of a vase. A painting on the wall. The scent of gardenias, faint but present.

Alex.

He needed to see Alex.

His parents left, promising to check in.

He was alone in the large, silent apartment.

He found a picture on the mantelpiece. Him and Alex. At a beach. Laughing. Her arm around his waist. She looked beautiful. Happy.

He remembered that day. A burst of clarity. The sun, the sand, her laughter.

He loved her. He knew it. Deeply.

The memories Cassandra had fed him, the faked texts, the photos – they felt like a thin, brittle veneer over this solid truth.

He had to fix this. He had to tell Alex.

He had to get Cassandra out of his head, out of his life.

He picked up his phone – his real phone, which his parents had returned to him.

He found Cassandra' s number. He' d saved it, just in case.

He called.

She answered on the first ring, her voice eager. "Ethan? Did you realize? Did you come to your senses?"

"Cassandra," he said, his voice cold. "It' s over. Whatever you think we had, it' s over. I remember Alex. I love Alex."

A pause. Then her voice, sharp, wounded. "You' ll regret this, Ethan Prescott. You don' t know what you' re throwing away."

"I know exactly what I' m doing," he said. "Stay away from me. Stay away from Alex."

He hung up.

He felt a sense of relief. He' d done it.

Now, Alex. He had to find Alex.

The Prescott annual charity gala was a week later.

Ethan had spent the week trying to piece his life back together.

Alex had been distant at first, hurt and confused by his initial coldness when Cassandra had him isolated.

He' d explained about the amnesia, about Cassandra' s lies. He didn' t tell her the full extent of what Cassandra claimed – the affair, running away together. He couldn' t bring himself to. He wasn' t even sure if that part was a lie or a lost memory. The thought made him sick.

He just told her Cassandra had manipulated him during his memory loss.

Alex listened, her eyes searching his. Slowly, she began to soften. The love was still there, beneath the hurt.

He focused on Alex, on them. He told himself Cassandra was a bizarre, nightmarish interlude caused by his injury.

At the gala, he made a point to be by Alex' s side, attentive, loving.

He saw Cassandra across the ballroom.

She was with a junior executive from a company the Prescotts sometimes worked with. She looked stunning in a red dress, but her eyes were fixed on Ethan.

He ignored her.

Later, during a speech by his father, Ethan saw the executive approach him.

"Mr. Prescott," the man said, a little nervously. "A word?"

Ethan excused himself from Alex.

"That woman you were with in Louisiana, Cassandra Rourke," the executive said, lowering his voice. "She' s been saying some... things. About you. About your relationship."

Ethan felt a cold knot in his stomach. "What things?"

"That you were deeply involved. That your fiancée was the problem. That you' re still in love with her, Cassandra."

Ethan' s jaw tightened. He looked over at Cassandra. She was watching them, a small, knowing smile on her lips.

He walked over to her. The executive scurried away.

"Cassandra," Ethan said, his voice low and dangerous. "What game are you playing?"

She feigned innocence. "Game, Ethan? I' m just trying to live my life."

"You' re spreading lies about me."

"Lies?" Her eyes widened. "Or truths you' re trying to forget?"

People were starting to look.

Ethan grabbed her arm. "Listen to me. You are nothing to me. You were a mistake, a product of my confusion. Stay out of my life." His voice was harsh, loud enough for those nearby to hear.

Cassandra' s eyes flashed. "You' ll be sorry you said that, Ethan."

He turned his back on her and walked back to Alex, who looked concerned.

"What was that about?" Alex asked.

"Nothing, darling," Ethan said, forcing a smile. "Just someone who doesn' t know when to quit."

He felt Alex relax beside him. He' d handled it. Cassandra was a nobody. She couldn' t touch them.

He thought Alex finally felt secure. He thought they were past the worst of it.

It was their anniversary. Nine years.

Not eight, as he' d mistakenly thought during his amnesia-fueled confusion earlier. Alex had gently corrected him.

She' d planned a quiet dinner at home. Just the two of them.

He' d been working late, a Prescott development deal that was causing headaches.

He walked into the apartment, and the scent of gardenias and something delicious cooking filled the air.

Alex was in the kitchen, humming. She looked beautiful, serene.

Peace. He felt a moment of it. Maybe they could get back to what they had.

Then his phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

He opened it.

It was a video.

His blood ran cold.

The video was grainy, clearly shot on a hidden camera. It was a hotel room. New Orleans.

He saw himself. And Cassandra.

They were laughing, drinking wine. Then they were kissing. Passionately.

The video cut, then showed them in bed. Entangled.

It was undeniable. It was real.

This wasn' t Cassandra' s manipulation post-accident. This was before.

This was the affair he couldn' t remember, the one he' d convinced himself Cassandra had invented.

The date stamp on the video was clear. The week of his business trip to New Orleans. Weeks before the accident.

The day of their actual eighth anniversary, the one he' d forgotten and then Cassandra had twisted.

He felt sick. The air left his lungs.

Alex came out of the kitchen, smiling. "Ethan? You' re home. Happy anniversary, my love."

She saw his face. Her smile died.

"Ethan? What' s wrong? You look like you' ve seen a ghost."

He couldn' t speak. He just stared at the phone in his hand, at the damning evidence of his betrayal.

His memory of the affair was still a blur, but the video was irrefutable.

He had cheated on Alex. Before the accident. Before the amnesia.

Cassandra hadn' t invented their affair. She' d just exploited his memory loss to make it seem like she was the true love, and Alex the villain.

The depth of his own deceit, his own weakness, hit him with full force.

His friends, Ben Carter and Will Davis, found him at a bar later that night.

He' d fled the apartment, leaving a devastated Alex behind. He couldn' t face her.

He was drunk. Sloppy drunk.

"Ethan, what the hell happened?" Ben asked, his voice sharp with concern.

Ethan just shook his head, sloshing his whiskey.

"Alex called us. She was hysterical. Said you showed her... something. About another woman."

Ethan laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "Another woman. Yeah. Cassandra."

"The one from Louisiana? The singer? I thought you said she manipulated you when you had amnesia," Will said, confused.

"She did," Ethan slurred. "But there was more. Before. I... I had an affair with her. Before the accident."

Ben and Will stared at him, shocked.

"You what?" Ben said, his voice low. "With Alex? After everything?"

"I didn' t remember," Ethan mumbled. "The accident wiped it. But I saw a video. It was real."

"So, this Cassandra... you have feelings for her?" Will asked, trying to understand.

Ethan ran a hand through his hair. His head was spinning.

"I... I don' t know. When I was with her, after the accident, she made me think she was everything. And Alex... Alex is... Alex." He looked miserable. "I love Alex. I do. But Cassandra... she' s... exciting. Different."

He looked at his friends, his eyes pleading for understanding.

"I think... I think I might have feelings for both of them," he confessed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I need time. I need to figure this out. Maybe... maybe I can keep them both."

Ben recoiled. "Keep them both? Are you insane, Ethan? You can' t do that to Alex. Or to Cassandra, for that matter, even if she is manipulative."

"You have to choose, man," Will said, his face grim. "This is a disaster."

Ethan just shook his head. "I can' t. Not yet. I need them both."

His friends looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.

He knew he sounded like a monster. Maybe he was.

Alex stared at the cold, untouched dinner on the table.

The gardenia centerpiece, her favorite, seemed to mock her.

Her phone lay beside her plate, the video Ethan had shown her still burned into her mind.

Ethan and Cassandra.

Laughing. Kissing. In bed.

On their eighth anniversary. The one he' d claimed to have forgotten because of "work stress" before the accident.

The one Cassandra had used to weave her false narrative during his amnesia.

Disbelief. A raw, gaping wound in her chest.

She picked up her phone, her fingers trembling. She played the video again. And again.

Each frame was a fresh stab of pain.

Ethan' s face, so familiar, twisted into a mask of desire for another woman.

Cassandra' s triumphant smile.

It couldn' t be real. But it was.

The dates. The location. It all matched his New Orleans trip.

The trip where he' d started acting distant. The trip that ended with the accident.

The accident that had erased his memory of this betrayal, only for Cassandra to twist the narrative further.

He hadn' t just been manipulated during his amnesia. He had betrayed her before that.

The man who had claimed to love her, who had sworn to cherish her.

The man whose memory loss she had pitied, whose confusion she had tried to soothe.

It was all a lie. Layer upon layer of lies.

Her phone buzzed. A new message. From Cassandra.

Heard you saw the video. Just a little reminder of what he really wants. He was mine long before the accident, sweetie. And he' ll always come back to me. You can' t compete.

Alex' s vision blurred.

The audacity. The cruelty.

She threw her phone across the room. It hit the wall with a sickening crack and slid to the floor.

She didn' t care.

A sob escaped her, then another.

She sank to her knees, the beautiful anniversary dinner forgotten.

Memories flooded her. Ethan, years ago, when they first met.

He' d been so charming, so attentive. He' d pursued her relentlessly.

He' d made her feel like the only woman in the world.

She remembered a time, early in their relationship, when a sleazy business associate of his father' s had made an inappropriate comment to her at a party.

Ethan had been across the room. He' d seen the man' s hand linger too long on her arm, seen her discomfort.

He' d crossed the room in seconds, his eyes like ice.

He hadn' t made a scene. He' d just placed himself between her and the man, taken her hand, and said, "Darling, our friends are waiting."

Later, he' d told her, his voice deadly calm, "No one disrespects you, Alex. Ever."

He had been her protector. Her rock.

The man in the video, the man who now confessed to having feelings for two women, who wanted to "keep them both" – he was a stranger.

A cruel, selfish stranger wearing Ethan' s face.

The love she had felt for him, the life she had envisioned with him, it all shattered into a million pieces.

The anniversary dinner grew cold on the table.

The gardenias wilted.

Alex sat on the floor, surrounded by the ruins of her love, and wept.

She cried for the man he used to be, or the man she thought he was.

She cried for the years they had shared, now tainted by this devastating betrayal.

She cried for the future that would never be.

Hours passed. The city lights twinkled outside the window, indifferent to her pain.

Finally, the tears subsided, leaving her hollow and empty.

A cold resolve began to form in the pit of her stomach.

She stood up, her legs stiff.

She walked through the apartment, their apartment, and began to gather things.

Photographs of them together – laughing, smiling, loving. She tore them into pieces, the sharp rips echoing in the silent room.

Gifts he had given her. A diamond necklace for her birthday. A first edition of her favorite book. She swept them into a trash bag.

The beautiful silk scarf he' d bought her in Italy. She took a pair of scissors and cut it into ribbons.

The small, velvet box that held the engagement ring. She opened it, looked at the sparkling diamond, then closed it and threw it into the bag with the rest of the debris of their life.

She went to the bathroom and flushed the torn photos down the toilet, watching the pieces of their happy past swirl and disappear.

It was a ritual of destruction. A painful, necessary severing.

When she was done, the apartment felt different. Colder. Emptier.

She picked up her damaged phone. The screen was cracked, but it still worked.

She dialed a number she knew by heart.

Her parents. In Paris.

Her mother answered, her voice warm and familiar. "Alex, darling? Is everything alright? It' s late there."

"Mom," Alex said, her voice hoarse. "I... I need to come home. To Paris. To you and Dad."

A pause. Then, her mother' s voice, instantly concerned. "Alex, what happened? What did Ethan do?"

Alex couldn' t bring herself to say the words. Not yet.

"I just... I need to leave New York, Mom. I can' t stay here anymore."

"Of course, darling. Of course. We' re here for you."

She remembered the day, years ago, after Ethan' s first major indiscretion – a near-scandalous affair that had almost cost his family a fortune and had deeply humiliated Alex.

Her parents, Robert and Katherine Hayes, had sat down with Ethan and his parents, Arthur and Eleanor Prescott.

The Prescotts, desperate to salvage the relationship and protect their son from himself, had proposed an agreement. A failsafe.

They called it the "Paris Clause."

A legally binding addendum to Ethan' s trust fund.

Alex remembered signing it, her hand shaking. Ethan had signed it too, his face pale and ashamed.

The terms were drastic.

If Alexandra Hayes formally declared, with substantiated proof of severe emotional distress or betrayal directly caused by Ethan, that their relationship was irreparably damaged, and she chose to permanently relocate to Paris...

Ethan would immediately forfeit 75% of his voting shares in the Prescott Corporation.

His personal trust fund would be frozen for ten years.

And an internationally enforceable restraining order would prevent him from entering Paris or contacting Alex or her family.

At the time, it had seemed like an extreme measure. A safety net she hoped she would never need.

Ethan had sworn he would never hurt her like that again.

He had lied.

Tonight, he had given her all the proof she needed.

The Paris Clause.

It was time.