Chapter 4

I needed an interpreter for this new, terrifying language of my life. I called Mark Johnson. Mark was a respected investigative journalist, the kind of man who saw the world in black and white, in facts and evidence. He and David had been best friends in college, an inseparable duo, until a bitter, unspoken falling out about five years ago. David was always vague about it, just saying they "grew apart." I always suspected it was more than that.

We met at a small, quiet coffee shop, the kind with worn wooden tables and the smell of roasted beans in the air. I told him everything, the words tumbling out of me in a messy, desperate rush. The accident, the blank stare, Chloe, the ring on the floor.

Mark listened patiently, his dark eyes fixed on my face. He didn't interrupt. When I was done, a wreck of tears and frayed nerves, he took a slow sip of his coffee.

"The brain is a strange and fragile thing, Sarah," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Selective amnesia is real. The trauma of the crash could have created a firewall, blocking out the most significant emotional parts of his life to protect him. That would be you."

A part of me clung to that explanation. It was clinical, medical. It wasn't personal.

"And Chloe?" I asked, my voice small. "Why her?"

"She was in the car with him. She was the first person he saw when he came to. His traumatized brain might have just latched onto her as a source of safety, a new anchor point." Mark leaned forward, his expression softening. "It's not about her. It's about his injury."

He then tried to build me back up, piece by piece. "Listen to me," he said, his tone firm. "You are Sarah Miller. You're one of the most brilliant architects in the city. You're beautiful, you're strong. This... Chloe... she's a kid. An ambitious assistant. She's a temporary fixture. You are his foundation."

Hearing him say it, I felt a flicker of my old self return. He was right. I had built a career, a life. I wasn't someone to be so easily discarded.

"But he hates me, Mark," I whispered. "The way he looks at me..."

"You know how David is," Mark said, a knowing, almost sad look on his face. "He's always loved the drama. He loves being the center of the universe. Remember how he'd sulk for days after an argument until you made some grand gesture to win him back?"

I did remember. I remembered filling his apartment with balloons after our first big fight in college. I remembered flying to San Francisco for one night just to apologize for a misunderstanding when he was there on business. He always needed to be pursued, to be won over.

"Maybe this is just the most extreme version of that," Mark suggested. "His brain has forgotten the love, but his personality, his ego, it's still there. He's pushing you away because, on some subconscious level, he wants you to fight for him. He wants to be coaxed back."

The idea was a lifeline. It was a narrative that made sense, one that fit the David I knew, the man-child I had loved and coddled for so long. It meant he wasn't gone, just lost.

"She's a distraction, Sarah," Mark said again as we got up to leave. "He'll get tired of the new toy. He'll come back to you. He always does."

I left the coffee shop feeling a fragile sense of hope crystallizing in my chest. Mark had given me a new blueprint, a plan of action. David didn't need a wife right now; he needed to be wooed. I would play the part. I would win him back.