I have been married to Andrew Connolly for four years, but whenever his gaze meets mine, there is no recognition at all. Even my voice doesn't register.

He remembers everyone around him, yet the one person he never remembers is that I am his wife. If I put on a hat, he asks who I am. When I tie my hair up, he assumes I am a new hire at his company.

To help him remember, I repeat the same outfit, the same makeup, the same hairstyle. Still, despite my daily presence, he treats me like a stranger.

I tell myself Andrew is simply buried in work, that the neglect is accidental, right up until a concert night. I watch him cut through the crowd and embrace his first love, whom he has not seen in years.

When the stage suddenly collapses, I seize his arm and beg, "Honey, please save me."

Andrew shoves me away, his voice flat and cold. "You're not my wife. My wife is at home."

I am crushed beneath the falling debris. Choking on blood, I can only watch as Andrew rescues his first love and walks away. That is when I realize it's not that he can't remember me, he just doesn't love me.

The bodyguards drag me out of the wreckage. Later, I spend a month confined to bed with serious injuries.

While I am in the hospital, I get a photo of Andrew kissing his first love. The blows land one after another and mercilessly jerk me awake.

I am done with love, and I am done with him!

Even after four years of marriage, my husband, Andrew Connolly, who lived with prosopagnosia, still couldn't recognize me. Yet he was able to pick his first love, Ivy Miller, out of a crowd at a single glance.

As I stepped into Connolly Group, two bodyguards moved in and barred my path. Thinking I was some deranged troublemaker, they started hurling insults.

I told them again and again that I was Andrew's wife, but they refused to believe me. Even the crowd on the sidelines jeered at me.

I saw my reflection in the mirror. I stood in a hospital gown with tangled hair, a bluish pallor, bloodshot eyes, and lips cracked from dehydration. I looked haggard and bedraggled.

When I received the photo of Andrew and Ivy kissing, my composure gave way. Hungry for answers, I rang him repeatedly and fired off messages, but he stayed silent.

With no better choice left, I had come to Connolly Group to look for him.

Noting my silence and my refusal to leave, the bodyguards clamped my shoulders and forced me toward the doors.

Just then, I spotted Andrew by the elevator and yelled, "Andrew! I need to talk to you."

He turned at my voice, eyes remote, and looked past me as if I weren't there.

I even heard him snap at the people beside him. "Retrain the bodyguards. Why are they letting any riffraff in?"

Those were the harshest words I had heard from him in four years. My heart iced over, and whatever hope I still carried for him vanished.

The bodyguards hauled me away and dumped me on the floor. As I laughed in anger, my laugh gave way to tears.

Brenda Fields, Andrew's assistant, hurried over and helped me up.

"What brings you here, Ms. Whalen? If it's not urgent, please don't come to the office. No one here knows you, and your sudden visits put us in a bind," she said, reproach creeping into her voice.

Andrew was usually unkind to me, and Brenda, naturally, followed suit. She led me to the car while I was hollow and unmoored.

I hadn't managed a word before Andrew laid into me. "What stunt are you pulling? Did you come to my office in a hospital gown just to embarrass me? Reporters snapped photos and ran it as an entertainment piece!"

He swept me from head to toe with a look of disgust and snapped, "You know I can't recognize you because of my prosopagnosia, and you still turned up looking like this?"

I could only stare at him. The things I meant to say caught in my throat.

Andrew rubbed his brow, impatience undisguised, and continued, "Everyone's wondering who you are. To keep it from reflecting on Connolly Group, you'll put out a statement explaining who you are, but don't say you're my wife."

The implication was clear. I was to pacify the public with an excuse while denying our marriage. I scoffed to myself at being treated like a walking blight.

I took a deep breath, pulled up the kissing photo on my phone, and held it toward Andrew. "Who is she?"

He glanced at it. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before he said, coolly, "A friend."

I kept my voice from shaking. "Do friends need to kiss?"

"She's a Fremorian. That's how they greet," he said, deadpan.

I laughed bitterly and pressed the point. "You have prosopagnosia. Tens of thousands filled that concert, and she was in plain black. So how could you spot her right away?"

There was a beat of silence before Andrew said, "We grew up together."

I frowned and kept at it. "Why did you push me away that day, Andrew? You could've gotten me out of there."

Andrew glanced at me like I was dim. "Let me repeat myself. I have prosopagnosia. I thought you were a stranger, and…"

He trailed off, but I knew he had been desperate to rescue Ivy.

Perhaps my stare pricked his guilt, because he snapped, "Sophie! Do you expect an apology for my psychological condition?"

Andrew's expression darkened, and the fight went out of me.

What good would an apology do now? He had already hurt me.

After a moment, I said heavily, "Fine. I'll put out a statement to explain who I am."

Andrew only then looked satisfied and turned to the window. Catching the tenderness and longing in his eyes, I followed his line of sight.

Ivy was reading at the cafe in another black dress. He picked her out in an instant despite the distance and the window.

So the issue was never prosopagnosia. It was that Andrew only recognized those who mattered to him. He didn't love me.

My chest ached as though my heart had been riddled, the pain sawing through me. Even so, I smiled and rolled the window down so Andrew could look all he wanted.

I had finally come to my senses. Our four-year marriage was over for me, and my love for him was gone for good!

…

The day after, Brenda prodded me to issue the statement.

I drafted a lengthy post laying out my relationship with Andrew. He wanted it hidden, but I was done with that.

Soon, I was done with the post.

"Andrew Connolly was my husband, which was why I went to see him yesterday. But he addressed me as 'riffraff' in front of all his employees. Despite four years of marriage, he failed to recognize me as his wife and repeatedly dismissed me.

"At a recent concert, he saved someone else instead of me. Loving the wrong person shattered me. Therefore, I would be divorcing Mr. Connolly and setting him free."

I ended the post by attaching a photo of our marriage certificate. I felt lighter once it was posted.

Soon, Andrew began calling me nonstop, but I didn't pick up. Minutes later, he stormed home, yanked me from the couch, and dug his fingers into my arm.

"Sophie! Are you insane? Who told you to post that nonsense on Facebook?"

I regarded him coolly. "It's the truth."

He faltered for a second, then barked, "Delete it now!"

I shrugged and shot back, "Even if I do, the screenshots remain."

Andrew fell silent. After thinking it through, he ordered, "Post a new statement saying you were confused and posted it by mistake."

I shook my head, pulled my arm free, and took a few steps back. "I'm not posting anything else."

My refusal drew a brutal cold from him, and his tone turned cutting. "You're being reckless. What if Ivy gets dragged in? People will start digging into who I saved first that day, and once they learn the truth, she'll be doxxed."

Even with all my disappointment in Andrew, his words still hurt. He had never considered my feelings. All his concern was for Ivy.

I looked him straight in the eye and asked, heavy-voiced, "You care about her a lot, don't you?"

"Yes. Ivy means a lot to me," he answered at once.

I managed a wry smile. "I'm nothing to you. That's why you can't remember me."

Andrew frowned, attempting to swallow his temper as he tried to soothe me. "I'll be able to recognize you if you keep wearing the same outfit every day."

Displeasure crept into my tone. "Let's get a divorce, Andrew!"

Andrew looked mildly surprised, lowering his voice as if a gentler tone could smooth things over. "You begged for this marriage shamelessly. You'll never walk away from me, so quit the theatrics."

My gaze flickered, and a bitter smile tugged at my lips.

I had traded my dignity and pride for his last name, and all it bought me was pain. He treated my love as a given, ignoring me whenever it suited him.

Tears stung my eyes, and my voice came out rough. "But I'm not the one you love. So why won't you divorce me?"

Andrew avoided my eyes, said nothing, and then stormed out. He moved so fast that he failed to notice a Suissan pocket watch slip from his jacket.

I picked it up and snapped it open. Inside the lid, tucked into a narrow slot, was a four-inch photo.

The woman in the picture was Ivy, and she wore the same dress I had been putting on every day so Andrew would recognize me. That was the moment it all clicked.

No wonder he insisted I wear that dress, because it was the only way he could tell me apart. He had turned me into a stand-in, so he never saw my real face.

I was nothing more than a fantasy he couldn't let go of.

I let out a hard, humorless laugh and pitched the pocket watch into the pool. A minute later, my screen lit up with a message from Andrew. I opened it.

"You should calm down. I won't agree to a divorce."

I blocked him without a second thought and refused to read anything else from him.

Andrew pulled in a PR team and scrubbed the chatter online. In a fury, he didn't come home for half a month. Since he wouldn't divorce me, I turned everything over to my lawyer.

Back then, I bought nothing but red and styles that copied that one dress just so Andrew would recognize me. Now it all felt like a joke. I didn't even like red. I liked white, pink, and purple.

So I went to the mall and decided to splurge. I held the clothes against me, checking the fit in the mirror when an uninvited figure appeared in the reflection.

Ivy stood behind me, watching with cold disdain. "No matter how you dress up, you'll never be in his heart."

I ignored her and handed my card to the sales associate. "I'll take these."

Ivy snatched the card from my hand, her voice smug. "Don't bother. He won't even glance your way. Didn't you learn that when he left you at the concert?"

I bit my lip. I was about to speak when Andrew walked in. He didn't spare me a glance, and his eyes softened only for Ivy.

"Did you find anything you liked?" he asked.

"I like all of them," she cooed, beaming.

Andrew smiled indulgently and passed a black card to the sales associate. "We'll take everything she picked."

The associate took the card with a bright grin and went to ring it up.

I stood right in front of Andrew, but he still didn't recognize me. His gaze landed on me, distant and cold.

When he spoke, his tone was pure contempt. "Who are you? Stop blocking the mirror. You're in the way. We're trying to check the fit."

I kept quiet.

Andrew lost patience and shooed me with a brisk flick of his hand. "Move! I've booked the store. You don't get to compete with Ivy for any of these clothes."

Then he turned to the associate, who had just finished the sale, and issued another order. "Remember Ms. Miller. From now on, she gets priority whenever she shops here."

The associate nodded quickly.

Ivy thought it was too much and tried to rein him in. "Don't make a fuss over me. You'll offend people."

Andrew brushed it off, his voice cool. "You're mine, so of course you get special treatment. If you want, I'll book the whole mall."

Ivy gave a satisfied smile and threw herself into his arms right before my eyes.