Chapter 1 My husband says he has face blindness and still can't recognize me after five years of marriage. I go to the bathroom and come back, and he's already asking who I am. At our anniversary dinner, I dressed up nice, trying one last time. Then a fire broke out. In all that smoke, he saved every single guest but hesitated when he got to me. I grabbed his leg: "Adrian, save me!" He shook me off: "Sorry! I need to find my wife!" The firefighters got me out. I'm lying here all banged up, and he's telling reporters: "Thank God my wife wasn't there." 1 dragged myself home and pushed open his private studio-the one he never lets me in. Holy shit. Hundreds of portraits of the same girl. Different poses, different clothes, but every detail of her face painted perfectly. So he CAN remember faces. Just not mine. I started to leave, then stopped. You know what? If I'm walking away, I'm leaving him something special first-something that'll make damn sure he never forgets this face again. I'd barely stepped out of the studio when security grabbed me. They treated me like some common thief breaking into private property. I tried explaining, exhausted, but the suspicion on their faces only grew darker. They twisted my arms behind my back roughly, and my knees slammed into the cold floor. In the chaos, I instinctively looked toward Damien behind his easel. "Damien, it's me! They've got the wrong person!" He glanced up, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment. Then, like he was examining some unfamiliar piece of furniture, he looked away with complete indifference: Take her away. I don't know her." Those were the sharpest words I'd ever heard in my life. Ten days. In that damp holding cell on a freezing metal cot, I counted every drop of water through 240 hours. Until forensic evidence cleared my name. I dragged my bruised body out of the station, but Damien wasn't waiting-just his manager Harold. Harold adjusted his glasses, his voice dripping with reproach: "Ms. Rivers, what the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea how many important exhibitions Mr. Ashford had to cancel because of this mess?" Once upon a time, I would've been over the moon. But now? I couldn't feel anything. The car had barely pulled through our gates when cameras swarmed the windows with shouted questions. "Mrs. Ashford, why were you arrested as a thief in your husband's own studio?" "Mry Ashford, we heard Mr. Ashford was there when you were arrested. Why didn't he help you?" I had no answers. What was I supposed to say? That Damien Ashford literally can't remember my face? finally pushed through the reporters and got home, only to have Damien's first words be pure accusation: How many times have I told you to wear that red dress? Why don't you ever listen?" You know I have this condition. I'm face-blind." dug my nails into my palms. le picked up his brush, dipped it in paint, and tossed out his second command without even looking up: PR already drafted a statement. You're doing the press conference tomorrow." Go clear this up and apologize to the public." pologize? or what? For his willful blindness? For his bullshit "face-blind" excuse? stared at his completely unmoved profile and asked quietly. That woman you were protecting outside the studio that day-who was she?" lis hand froze mid-color-mixing, his face tightening with rare awkwardness. fter a few seconds, he finally answered: I was panicked. I thought it was you." almost laughed. hat woman had been wearing an elegant ivory silk dress. Meanwhile, I'd filled my entire closet with screaming red just so he might remember me. Damien, I called your name that night. Clearly." he hurt made me push for answers I probably didn't want. So what?" Damien barely glanced up. "You want me to apologize for my artistic quirks?" Luna, you knew before we got married that I've dedicated my entire life to art." ooking at that cold face, I felt bone-deep exhaustion wash over me. eah. It was all just wishful thinking on my part. Whatever. Just stay home. I'll handle the rest." looked away but caught sight of a catalog by his hand. t was open to a promotional photo of a classical ensemble. Dozens of people crowded together, and in the blurriest corner sat a girl playing the violin. The same woman Damien had shielded in the fire. The photo was so low-res you could barely make out facial features. Turns out he wasn't face-blind at all. You konw what? The title of Mrs. Ashford-1 was fucking done with all of it.