Isabella made it to the hospital hallway before collapsing against the wall, her legs finally giving out. She slid down to sit on the cold linoleum floor, not caring who saw, not caring about dignity or composure or any of the walls she'd built to survive.
He didn't remember.
Worse—he didn't want to remember.
"Isabella." Ethan's voice was gentle as he crouched beside her. "I'm so sorry. The amnesia—"
"Tell me," Isabella whispered, her voice hollow. "Tell me everything. How bad is it? Is it permanent? Will he ever—"
She couldn't finish. Couldn't say "love me again" because how do you love someone for the first time twice?
"Let me get Dr. Morrison," Ethan said quietly.
Minutes later—or maybe hours, Isabella had lost all sense of time—Dr. Morrison appeared, his expression grave. He sat beside her on the floor, apparently unconcerned with professional dignity when faced with a woman falling apart.
"Mrs. Black," he said gently. "I need to explain what's happened to your husband."
