Chapter 2

Aliyah POV:

The interview was a bombshell. It exploded across the internet before Harrison and I even left France. I sat in a hotel suite down the hall from our own, the reporter' s digital recorder between us, and I laid my life bare.

I didn't cry. I didn't raise my voice. I simply told the truth, my voice as flat and colorless as my existence had become.

"My husband, Harrison Lang, suffers from prosopagnosia," I began, the words feeling foreign and clinical. "He cannot recognize faces. For three years, I have tried to make myself memorable to him. I wear only blue. I wear only one perfume. I have not changed my hair in two years. I am a brand, not a wife."

I told her about the helicopter crash. About him shoving me away, convinced I was a stranger. About his toast to "no casualties" while I lay in a hospital bed, forgotten.

I told her about the night before. About him spotting Kassie Crane in a crowd. About the police. And I told her his exact words.

"He looked at me, his own wife, being dragged away by the police, and he told them, 'I don't know her.'"

The final question from the reporter was simple. "So what now, Mrs. Lang?"

I looked directly into the camera she had set up. I knew Harrison would see this. The world would see this.

"There is no more Mrs. Lang," I said. "My name is Aliyah Potts. And as of this morning, I have filed for divorce. The papers were delivered to his legal team an hour ago."

A profound sense of peace washed over me, the first I had felt in years. It was the calm that comes after a devastating storm. The wreckage was all around me, but I had survived. I was free.

My phone started buzzing incessantly. Harrison. I ignored it, letting it vibrate against the polished wood of the table. Let him rage.

I had a flight to catch. A new life to start.

As my taxi pulled away from the hotel, a black sedan screeched to a halt, blocking our path. Harrison ripped the car door open and lunged inside, his face a thunderous mask of fury.

"What the hell did you do?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin like steel talons.

"I told the truth," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. I refused to let him see me tremble.

"You humiliated me! You made me a laughingstock!"

"You did that to yourself, Harrison."

"This isn't just about me!" he bit out, his grip tightening. "You've dragged Kassie into this! An innocent woman! The media is tearing her apart!"

His first thought was of her. Of course it was. The pain was a familiar ache, but it was distant now, like the memory of an old wound.

"She's not innocent," I said calmly.

"You're just jealous!" he spat. "You always have been. Jealous that I have a connection with her that I don't have with you!"

"A connection?" I laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. "You mean the one where you mistook her for me?"

He flinched, his jaw working. He couldn't form a response.

"The one where you can pick her out of a crowd of hundreds, but you can't see your own wife standing right in front of you?" I continued, my voice rising. "The one where you leave me to rot in a French jail cell because you're too busy fawning over her?"

"I told you, I didn't recognize you!"

"But you recognized her! That's the point, Harrison! Don't you get it? Your illness isn't the problem. Your heart is. It chose her. It never chose me."

He stared at me, his chest heaving, a maelstrom of confusion and fury in his eyes. He still didn't understand. Maybe he never would.

"I'm divorcing you, Harrison," I said again, the words solidifying the new reality between us.

He shook his head, a strange look on his face. "No. No, you're not."

"The papers have been filed."

"I won't sign them," he declared, as if that settled it.

A slow smile spread across my face. It was the most satisfying smile of my life. "Oh, Harrison," I said softly. "You already did."

He stared at me, uncomprehending.

"Last month," I explained, savoring every word. "Your legal team sent over a stack of documents for the new media merger. Standard procedure. I had my lawyer draft the divorce agreement. It was the last page in the stack. You signed it without even reading it."

The color drained from his face. He remembered. I could see it in his eyes. He had been so annoyed that day, so eager to get to a lunch meeting with investors. He hadn't even glanced at me as I put the pen in his hand.

"You... you tricked me," he whispered, horrified.

"I used your own blindness against you," I corrected him. "You never looked at the papers. Just like you never looked at me."

I reached into my purse and pulled out a small, folded document. A copy. I pressed it into his hand. "It's ironclad. Generous, even. I didn't take you for half, Harrison. I don't want your money. I just want my life back."

He stared at the paper as if it were a venomous snake. His world was tilting on its axis, and he had no idea why. To him, this was a sudden, inexplicable betrayal. To me, it was the culmination of a thousand tiny deaths.

His desk. I remembered standing by his desk that day, watching him sign away our marriage. And next to the stack of legal documents had been a framed photo. Not of me. Of Kassie. A candid shot of her laughing on a sailboat. He had dozens of photos of her. He claimed they were for "work," research for the film she was starring in. But he didn't have a single photo of me.

He had told me once that photos of people he knew just confused him, that they rarely matched the person in his mind. But he could recognize her in every photo, at every angle, with every expression. Just like he had recognized her in that gold dress.

A memory surfaced, sharp and painful. A few months ago, Kassie had cut her hair short. It was all over social media. A week later, I had found a picture on Harrison's tablet. A picture of me, from years ago, before we were married. Back when I had short hair. He had been studying it. He wasn't trying to remember me. He was comparing me... to her. He was trying to see if she looked like me, or if I had ever looked like her.

My replacement. I was a placeholder for the woman he really wanted. A woman who, by some cruel twist of fate, looked a little like his forgotten wife.

"Get out," he finally choked out, his voice thick with rage. He crumpled the paper in his fist.

"I'm trying to," I said, reaching for the door handle.

Suddenly, his phone, which he was clutching in his other hand, rang. The screen lit up. A picture of Kassie, crying, flashed on the display.

His entire focus shifted. The rage in his eyes softened into concern. He answered it instantly. "Kassie? What's wrong? Where are you?"

He listened for a moment, his brow furrowed. "Stay right there. I'm coming."

He ended the call and looked at me, his eyes cold and hard once more. "We're not finished," he snarled.

And then he did something that sealed his fate in my heart forever.

He shoved me. Hard. He pushed me out of his way, my body hitting the side of the taxi, as he scrambled out of the car. He ran down the street, in the direction of the hotel. He didn't look back.

He had just found out his wife had tricked him into a divorce. He had just been publicly humiliated. And his first instinct was to run to her. To the other woman.

Just then, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. "Heard you were leaving. Good riddance. By the way, Harrison just called me Aliyah. Seems he gets us confused after all. Xo, K."

I stared at the screen, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. He didn't even know who he was chasing.

I didn't watch him go. I simply turned my head, looked forward through the windshield, and said to the bewildered driver, "Aéroport de Nice-Côte d'Azur, s'il vous plaît."

The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb, leaving Harrison Lang and the ruins of my old life behind me.