I don't sleep.
Again.
But this time it's not confusion keeping me awake.
It's him.
The way he said it.
You were obsessed with me.
The way my body reacted when he touched me.
The way I didn't say no.
That scares me more than the missing memories.
Because desire doesn't lie.
And I felt it.
---
The memory comes the next morning.
Not triggered by him.
Not by touch.
By coffee.
I'm standing in the kitchen, staring at the espresso machine like it's foreign technology.
Adrian moves around the space with ease.
Familiar.
Precise.
He doesn't speak.
He just places a cup in front of me.
"No sugar," he says.
"How do you know that?"
"You say sweetness should be earned."
The words hit something.
A faint flicker.
A kitchen.
Different lighting.
Smaller.
Less glass.
"You didn't always live here," I whisper.
"No."
"Where did we live?"
"In Brooklyn. Before the firm expanded."
Brooklyn.
The word ignites something.
A tiny apartment.
Exposed brick.
Morning sunlight.
My chest tightens.
"I see something," I whisper.
He stills instantly.
"What?"
"Wood floors."
His voice lowers.
"Keep going."
"A tiny kitchen."
"Yes."
My breath quickens.
"You were making coffee."
His eyes lock onto mine.
"Yes."
"You were wearing—"
A flash.
Gray sweatpants.
Bare chest.
Hair messy.
Heat floods my face.
"You were staring at me," he says quietly.
"Yes."
"And you were annoyed."
"I was?"
"You said I was distracting."
A faint laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
"That sounds like me."
"You hated when I looked at you too long."
"Why?"
"You said it made you nervous."
My pulse starts racing.
"I remember the couch," I whisper.
"Blue," he confirms softly.
"You spilled wine on it."
"You blamed me."
"Because it was your fault."
The memory sharpens suddenly.
A rainy evening.
Music playing softly.
My head in his lap.
My breath catches.
"You were reading contracts," I whisper.
"Yes."
"And I said—"
My chest tightens.
"You love your work more than me."
Silence.
Heavy.
"And what did I say?" I ask.
His jaw flexes slightly.
"I said you knew what you signed up for."
The words sting.
Even now.
"I was hurt."
"Yes."
"And then?"
His eyes soften just slightly.
"You cried."
"I don't cry."
"You did."
The memory crashes into place fully.
Tears sliding down my cheeks.
My chest tight.
Fear sitting heavy in my lungs.
"You were going to leave for London," I whisper.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Three months."
The pain in that memory feels real.
Immediate.
"I didn't want you to go."
"You told me not to."
"I would never tell someone to give up their career."
"You did."
The memory tightens further.
"I said if you left, you'd choose work over me."
"Yes."
"And you said—"
My voice breaks slightly.
"I'm building this for us."
His eyes darken.
"That's exactly what I said."
The kitchen feels smaller.
Closer.
"And I didn't believe you."
"No."
Silence stretches.
Raw.
"And then?" I whisper.
"You told me you didn't know if you could love someone who was never fully present."
My chest aches.
"I said that?"
"Yes."
"And you?"
His voice lowers.
"I told you loving you wasn't the problem."
My breath stutters.
"What was?"
"Convincing you that you deserved it."
The words hit me like a physical force.
"I don't understand."
"You thought I'd wake up one day and realize you weren't enough."
That doesn't sound like me.
But it feels like me.
Something deep.
Insecure.
"You asked me why I loved you," he continues quietly.
The memory sharpens again.
Me.
Standing in front of him.
Arms crossed.
Trying not to cry.
"And what did you say?" I whisper.
His gaze locks with mine.
"I said because you see me."
The air feels charged.
"You said everyone else sees the firm, the money, the ambition."
His voice drops lower.
"But you saw the man."
My throat tightens.
"And then?"
"You said that scared you."
The memory explodes fully into place.
The Brooklyn apartment.
The rain outside.
The tension thick between us.
"You kissed me," I whisper.
"Yes."
"Not like the rooftop."
"No."
"How?"
His expression shifts.
Softer.
"You were shaking."
"I wasn't angry."
"No."
"What was I?"
"Afraid."
The word hits deep.
"You told me you didn't know how to love someone without losing yourself."
My chest tightens painfully.
"And what did you say?"
He steps closer slowly.
Carefully.
"I told you loving me wouldn't make you smaller."
The memory floods completely now.
My hands gripping his shirt.
My heart racing.
My fear dissolving.
"And then I said—"
My breath catches.
"You said it first."
The world feels still.
"What did I say?" I whisper.
His eyes darken.
"You said you loved me."
The words hang between us.
Fragile.
Terrifying.
"I said it first?" I breathe.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you couldn't hold it in anymore."
My knees feel weak.
"That doesn't sound like someone who would file for divorce."
"No."
The honesty in his voice makes my chest ache.
I look at him differently now.
Not as a stranger.
Not entirely.
But as a man I once loved enough to say it first.
"I meant it," I whisper.
"You did."
"Did you say it back?"
His lips curve faintly.
"I didn't."
My heart drops.
"You didn't?"
"Not right away."
"Why?"
"Because you deserved to hear it when I knew I could keep it."
That shouldn't move me.
But it does.
"When did you say it?" I ask.
His gaze softens in a way that feels dangerous.
"The night you moved in."
The air feels electric.
"Why then?"
"Because you looked around that tiny apartment and said it felt like home."
My chest tightens.
"And I told you—"
His voice lowers.
"You are."
The memory hits me so hard I physically sway.
My breath uneven.
My heart racing.
"I loved you," I whisper.
"Yes."
The word lands heavy.
Real.
Undeniable.
"And you loved me."
"Yes."
Silence stretches.
Different this time.
Not tense.
Not hostile.
But fragile.
"If I loved you like that," I say slowly, "how did we end up here?"
His expression darkens slightly.
"Grief changes people."
The word hangs again.
Grief.
The baby.
The loss.
"I need to know what happened," I whisper.
"You will."
"That's not enough."
His jaw tightens slightly.
"You don't remember how you broke."
The words sting.
"Are you saying I destroyed us?"
"I'm saying you were drowning."
"And you?"
"I didn't know how to swim with you."
The honesty hits deeper than anger ever could.
For the first time—
I see the cracks in him.
Not the billionaire.
Not the strategist.
The man.
The husband.
The one who stood when I collapsed.
And maybe resented him for it.
My throat tightens.
"I loved you," I say again.
"Yes."
"Say it."
His eyes lock onto mine.
"Say what?"
"That you loved me."
His expression shifts.
Something raw flickers there.
"I still do."
The words land between us.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just devastatingly steady.
My heart pounds violently.
Because I don't remember loving him now.
But I remember loving him then.
And that might be worse.
——————
Before I can respond, his phone vibrates.
He checks the screen.
His expression shifts instantly.
Cold.
Controlled.
"Who is it?" I ask.
His eyes lift to mine.
And for the first time since I woke up—
I see anger.
"Marcus," he says quietly.
A beat.
Heavy.
"He wants to take you out tonight."