In the third year after my fiancée, Iris Ford, falls off a cliff during a sketching trip in the mountains, I accidentally walk into her personal art exhibition. The person I have longed for day and night is right there, gently adjusting the scarf of the young man beside her.

The walls are covered with portraits she once promises to paint only for me, but every subject of her paintings is that young man.

Violet Bardot, Iris' best friend and the one who once helps me handle her funeral affairs, grabs me anxiously.

"Graham, don't do anything rash. Iris has her reasons. After Jack Glenwood saved her, she suffered from a head injury and lost her memory. She didn't mean to stay away."

I smile at how ridiculous she is. "It's one thing if Iris lost her memories, but did you lose yours too? Since Iris is still alive, why do you not bring her back? You've watched me live in pain and misery for three years. I had to rely on sleeping pills just to get by. Do you find that amusing?"

Violet falls silent and doesn't dare to look at me again.

The young man named Jack hides behind Iris timidly.

In the next moment, Iris turns to look at me with a frosty expression. "Mr. Stevens, I do not wish to go back. The person I love now is Jack. Since I've forgotten my past, just treat it as memories from a previous lifetime."

A past life?

The claim was absurd.

Three years of acquaintanceship, four years of love, and another three years endured in despair. That was ten years. Iris Ford thought she could erase it all with a few careless words.

"Graham..."

Violet Bardot stepped in front of me, avoiding my eyes. "Can we talk outside? There are too many people here. Please don't make a scene."

I was making a scene? I stared at Violet, the woman who had watched me torture myself like a lunatic for three years while offering hollow sympathy and urging me to let go.

"Violet," my voice came out hoarse, "when did you find out she was still alive?"

Violet went rigid.

"Was it a year ago? Two years ago? Or did you know from the very beginning?"

Violet bit her lip and lowered her voice. "Iris was badly injured back then. Jack carried her down the mountain. When she woke up, she didn't remember anyone.

"The doctors said forcing her to recover her memories could kill her. And she was living peacefully in that mountain village. She was happy."

"So, for the sake of her peace and happiness, I deserved to rot in hell. Is that it?" I cut her off quietly.

Violet had no answer.

Hearing this, Iris Ford's brow furrowed slightly. "Mr. Stevens."

Her voice still carried that clear, bright quality I remembered, but the words cut deep. "I don't know what we were to each other before, but Violet's right. I'm happy now."

She gripped Jack Glenwood's hand, their fingers laced together. "Jack saved my life. He's my partner now. You need to move on, Mr. Stevens."

She made it sound simple.

Three years ago, Iris said she was going to the northern mountains for artistic inspiration. That was one month before our wedding.

She had told me, "Graham, once I finish this Mountain Spirit series, I'll come back and marry you."

I waited and waited, only to receive news of a blizzard sealing the mountain. The search team eventually returned with nothing but a torn art portfolio.

I collapsed three times at her memorial service, clutching that portfolio. To find her remains, I sold the apartment for our life after wedding and hired a private search team that camped at the mountain base for six full months.

I developed severe depression and anxiety. The scars on my wrist piled up, one over another.

I smiled bitterly, my eyes burning. "You're right. People do need to move forward."

I straightened my spine, trying to salvage what dignity I had left. "So, I'm leaving you in the past where you belong."

I turned to leave. As I passed the largest painting on display, I stopped.

The title read Rebirth. It showed the silhouette of a young man running toward sunlight. That was Jack Glenwood.

But in the bottom right corner, there was a small, unremarkable cluster of white flowers.

Iris once told me I was the only bloom in her barren life. Now I had become roadside decoration, trampled without a second thought.

After the art exhibition, I came down with a terrible fever.

When it finally broke, I stared at my pale reflection in the mirror, shaved off the stubble, and pulled myself together. I still had my career to think about.

What I didn't expect was running into Iris again at the coffee shop downstairs from my office while meeting a client. She sat in the corner with Violet, the two of them apparently arguing about something.

I was going to avoid them, but my client Maya Sacchetti's enthusiastic greeting gave me away. "Mr. Stevens! Over here!"

Iris looked up. Our eyes met.

This time, there was no coldness in her gaze like before. Instead, I caught something curious, almost searching.

I forced myself to look away and sat down across from Maya. We started discussing the new jewelry design proposal.

"I love the concept behind this Shattered series. That sense of rebirth from despair really grabs you." Maya pointed at the design mockups, her interest piqued.

"What inspired this, Mr. Stevens?"

My fingers tightened around my coffee cup.

The inspiration came from the hallucinations I saw after swallowing sleeping pills on the seventh day after Iris' memorial. It came from the brief, sharp relief I felt during countless nights when I dragged a blade across my skin.

"Nothing worth mentioning," I said. "Just the idea that some things, once broken, stay broken. You can glue the pieces back together, but the cracks will always show. Better to shatter them completely and start over."

Maya nodded approvingly. Across the room, Iris suddenly stood up and walked straight toward me. Violet tried to grab her arm but missed.

"Graham Stevens." She used my full name.

I ignored her and kept talking to Maya. "For the centerpiece stone, we're recommending an uncut black diamond—"

"Graham Stevens!"

Iris raised her voice and slammed her hand down on my design boards. Maya jumped, glancing between us with visible confusion. "Mr. Stevens, who is this?"

I took a deep breath, closed the folder, and looked up at her. "Ms. Ford, what do you want? Please don't interrupt my work."

Iris didn't answer. Her gaze locked onto my wrist. My sleeve had ridden up, exposing the jagged scars underneath. They had faded somewhat, but they were still impossible to miss.

"Violet told me you tried to kill yourself three times. Because of me."

Her tone carried disbelief mixed with something else I couldn't quite read. Guilt, maybe. Or just the uncomfortable weight of responsibility.

After all, being responsible for someone's near-death was a heavy burden to carry, especially for the version of her that existed now. It was probably inconvenient.

I tugged my sleeve down to cover the scars. "You're mistaken, Ms. Ford. It has nothing to do with you. Don't flatter yourself."

Iris flinched, her expression darkening. "Graham, I know you resent me. But I lost my memory. I didn't—"

"So, losing your memory makes it okay to just start over without a second thought?" I cut her off. I couldn't help it. The bitterness spilled out.

"Iris, we live in the modern world. If you really wanted to find your way home, all you needed to do was walk into a police station. They could have identified you in minutes. But you didn't.

"You had countless chances over the past three years to come back, to look for your past. But you chose to stay there. You chose to stay with Jack.

"It wasn't because you lost your memory. It's because deep down, you never wanted to come back at all."

Iris' eyes widened, something like recognition flickering across her face.

The woman who used to lie awake at night in the city, anxious about art exhibitions and mortgage payments and our future together, had found exactly what she wanted in those mountains. A way out. Jack's life-saving act had given her the perfect excuse to take it.

Iris stood frozen, looking stunned. Just then, the coffee shop door swung open. Jack rushed in, breathless, carrying an insulated soup thermos.

"Iris! Why'd you run off? I made you soup."

He saw the two of us facing each other and went pale. The container slipped from his hands and hit the floor. Hot soup splashed out, soaking the hem of Iris' pants.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Jack dropped to his knees, frantically trying to wipe it up.

Iris immediately crouched down beside him and grabbed his hands. Her voice turned soft, almost unrecognizable. "Don't touch it. It's hot. I'm fine."

She pulled Jack to his feet and positioned herself protectively in front of him. "Graham, I'm sorry for what happened in the past. But I love Jack now.

"He's gentle and timid. He can't handle this kind of confrontation. Please don't show up in front of us again."

I watched the scene unfold and felt strangely calm. I almost wanted to laugh.

"Don't worry," I said, turning to the bewildered Maya with an apologetic smile. "Let's find somewhere else to talk."

The next two weeks passed in a blur of work. I took on the full Shattered series campaign and threw myself into it, working around the clock, trying to numb everything else out.

Then Hazel tossed an invitation onto my desk.

Hazel Wright had been my best friend since childhood. After Iris disappeared, she was the one who stayed by my side through everything.

"Go clear your head," she said, looking at me with concern. "It's a charity gala. Lots of collectors will be there. It could be good for your designs."

I rubbed my throbbing temples. "Not interested."

"I heard one of Iris' paintings is being auctioned off tonight," Hazel said casually, dangling the bait. "It's called Years in the Mountains. The starting bid is half a million."

I froze.

"Half a million?" I let out a bitter laugh. "Her paintings used to sell for five grand on a good day, when anyone bothered to buy them at all."

"That was before. Now she's the genius painter who came back from the dead with a tragic mountain love story to boot. Of course, her work's worth more."

I stared at the invitation for a long moment before finally deciding to go.

The night of the gala, I walked in with Hazel on my arm.

Across the room, Iris and Jack were surrounded by a crowd of admirers. Iris wore a perfectly tailored evening gown, while Jack clung to her side, looking nervous and out of place.

I stopped in my tracks. The white suit Jack was wearing was the one I'd had custom-made three years ago for our wedding.

Because it was bespoke, my initials were embroidered on the cuff. Right now, those initials sat against Jack's wrist, half-hidden and warped beneath his watch strap.

She actually gave him that suit.

My gaze snapped to Violet. She looked away guiltily. She was the one who'd taken it from my place, claiming she didn't want me torturing myself over it.

When Iris noticed me and Hazel, her eyes lingered on our linked arms for a few seconds. Something flickered in her expression.

"Who's that?" she asked Violet.

Violet glanced at me, then mumbled awkwardly, "That's Hazel Wright. The Wright family's daughter. She and Graham grew up together."

Iris pressed her lips together and said nothing. Then Jack spotted me. His face lit up, and he pulled Iris over.

"Mr. Stevens!" His voice rang out cheerfully, loud enough to draw attention from everyone nearby.

"You're here too! Violet mentioned this was an old suit you didn't want anymore, so Iris let me wear it. She said I look good in it, don't you think?"

I looked at Iris. She avoided my gaze and instinctively tried to pull Jack back, but he slipped out of her grip.

Jack stepped closer and leaned in, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "Nice fabric, Graham. Too bad it's yours, though. It feels unlucky, you know? Still, Iris insisted I wear it. She said it looked perfect on me."

His face was all sweetness and light, but the words dripping from his mouth were pure poison. The innocent act had dropped completely.

Jack blinked and stepped back, his expression shifting back to wide-eyed sincerity as he raised his voice again. "Mr. Stevens, I think I understand what happened between you and Iris now, after what I saw at the gallery. But you were both so young back then. It's easy to confuse gratitude with love.

"Iris loves me now. So please, Mr. Stevens, let us be happy together."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd around us.

"What kind of messy love triangle is this?"

"I mean, she didn't marry him. Trying to break them up now would be pretty tacky."

Iris' face darkened. She grabbed Jack's arm. "Jack, stop."

"Why should I stop?" Jack pouted, looking wounded.

"Iris, are you worried about hurting his feelings? But if you don't love someone anymore, you have to make it clear."

He turned his gaze back to me, eyes glinting with something sharp.

"Mr. Stevens, did you know Iris has this adorable little habit? Whenever we get into an elevator or we're walking somewhere at night, she taps the back of my hand three times. She says it's her secret code for saying she loves me.

"Did she ever do that for you, Mr. Stevens? Or is that just ours?"

Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice.