I spent the whole day trying to stitch my memory back together—like a puzzle missing half the pieces.

One thing was clear: I was still Sophia. Aiden Harrison was still Aiden Harrison. We were married—the photo over the fireplace proved it. We had Oliver.

But the divorce papers on the coffee table screamed otherwise. Something had gone seriously wrong.

The question that wouldn't leave me alone: Did I actually cheat?

No way. Why would I throw away Aiden—still stupidly handsome, killing it at his firm, a dad who clearly adored Oliver—for anyone else?

And who the hell was this so-called artist buddy?

I paced the living room, frustrated at the gaping hole in my memory. This fancy Upper East Side apartment felt more like a museum of someone else's life—familiar, but off.

"Mommy?"

Oliver stood in the doorway, clutching his teddy.

"Daddy said your hand needs disinfecting." He walked in carefully, holding out a bottle of rubbing alcohol. "He told me to bring this to you."

I reached for it. "My hand hurts a little. Can you help me?"

He paused, then nodded, setting the bottle on the coffee table.

I scooped him up with my good hand and pulled him onto my lap. My nose, Aiden's blue eyes, his blond hair—he really was mine.

I kissed his cheek. He smelled like baby shampoo, and my heart just melted.

His face flushed. He stiffened, then suddenly hugged my neck.

"Mommy," he whispered, "you're being really nice today."

The words crushed me. What kind of mom had I been?

I was still holding him when footsteps echoed down the hall.

Aiden showed up in the doorway, fresh from the shower in a charcoal lounge set. Damp hair in his eyes, water sliding down his neck—yeah, I swallowed hard. He looked unfairly good.

Each step he took sent my heart racing, but then his voice iced everything over.

"Sophia, kinda late to start playing mom now, isn't it?"

"Daddy!" Oliver shot off my lap and into his arms.

Aiden scooped him up with ease, but his cold eyes stayed on me.

"I'm not pretending. I just—"

One look from him shut me up. Didn't matter what I said.

"Forget it." I stood. "I'll crash in the guest room."

As I walked away, Oliver peeked back at me from Aiden's shoulder. The way he clung to his dad cut deep.

So what if I had a husband and a kid? My husband wanted out, and my son only wanted him.

I stopped by the window, staring at the Manhattan skyline. The city still glittered like nothing had changed.

Except me.

The master bedroom held nothing but a king bed.

Minimalist, yeah, but it felt more like a hotel room—cold, empty. The only thing alive in there was a vase of white roses on the nightstand. Weird thing? I had this gut feeling they used to be my favorite.

In the bathroom, the sink was stripped bare. No cleanser, no makeup wipes, not even a towel.

It was like no woman lived here at all.

So I went looking for Aiden.

I knocked on the study door.

"Come in."

Aiden sat behind his desk, computer glow bouncing off his blue-light glasses. Even at this hour, he was still in a suit—tie just barely undone.

"My stuff?" I asked. "Bathroom's empty."

He looked up, face blank. "What stuff?"

"Toiletries. Skincare."

The silence stretched until he pushed back his chair, the scrape loud. At six-two, he filled the whole room.

"How long are you gonna play this amnesia game?" Calm voice, sharp edge.

I didn't answer. Explaining was pointless.

He headed for the door. "Follow me."

I trailed him, careful to keep space between us. He stopped at the guest bath, opened a hidden cabinet.

"You left it here."

The doors swung open and my face went hot.

Past a couple bottles of skincare, the rest was... humiliating. Vibrators in every shade, whips, cuffs, lube, and a stack of graphic books—Conquest of Desire, The Ultimate Guide to Pleasure, 365 Sex Positions, The Hidden Arts of Intimacy.

In the corner, a black leather nurse outfit dangled with a card: [Surprise Night.]

"Th-These..." My voice shook.

"You bought them." He leaned on the frame, face unreadable. "Said you wanted to 'try something different.'"

My hands shook as I picked up a bottle of strawberry lube. The label read: [His favorite?]

My brain short-circuited. I glanced at him and blurted, "So... are we using it tonight?"

Instant regret. The room froze. His pupils tightened, the ice mask cracking, breath rougher.

He moved fast, pinning me to the wall.

"What did you just say?" Low. Dangerous.

"No, that's not what I meant—"

"Don't start." He pressed in, boxing me against the cabinet. "You really think this junk's gonna change my mind?"

His face hovered inches from mine, anger radiating off him.

"These pathetic tricks"—his hands caged me in, breath searing—"only make me sick."

Yet for a split second, I saw it. Want.

Then he spun away, door slamming so hard the frame rattled.

I slid down the wall, eyes locked on the cabinet.

What kind of person had I turned into? Why would I ever buy that stuff?

And if I'd actually cheated... why gamble everything?

After my shower, I threw on oversized shirt—Aiden's, probably—and padded to Oliver's room.

Space wallpaper, shelves crammed with books and toys. He was out cold, clutching his teddy.

I tugged the blanket higher. His little hand caught my finger.

"Mommy... don't go..." he mumbled.

Tears stung. I sat on the edge of his bed until his grip loosened.

Closing the door, I froze. Aiden was in the hall.

Dim light. Barely a foot between us. His body wash—cedar and mint—hit me.

"You were in there a while," he said.

"I was just... watching him sleep."

"You never used to do that."

There it was again—'used to.' Who the hell had I been?

"Aiden," I asked, looking up, "were we... happy before?"

He stayed quiet so long I thought he'd leave me hanging.

"We were," he said at last. "We were really happy."

"What changed?"

"You did." His fingers grazed my cheek, so soft it stung. "Success changed you. Fame changed you. You started living in clubs and online... and I was just a boring lawyer who couldn't keep up with Sophia Harrison—the big-shot interior designer, Instagram star."

Interior designer? Me?

Before I could even process, he dropped his hand.

"Goodnight, Sophia. Lawyer's coming at nine for the final review."

He started toward the master. I trailed after him.

"Wait. Can't we talk?"

"Talk about what?" He spun back. "How you spent a weekend with that French artist while I was on a business trip?"

French artist? No clue.

"I don't remember—"

"Enough." He cut me off, shoving the bedroom door open.

I slipped in behind him. Our room once—now it felt like someone else's.

He frowned at me in the doorway. "What are you doing?"

"I... I want to sleep here. The guest room's freezing."

He let out a sharp laugh. "Sophia, you haven't slept here in six months."

"Please. Just tonight."

He stared, then walked into the bathroom without a word.

I slid under the covers on one side.

Ten minutes later, he came out in just sleep pants. Even in the low light, his chest and abs were all definition—five years hadn't touched his gym grind.

"Which side do you usually sleep on?" I asked.

"You don't remember?" His voice dripped sarcasm. "Or did you spend so much time in other people's beds you forgot your own husband's?"

The words sliced clean through me.

He slid into bed on the other side, back turned, and killed the light.

Darkness. His breathing steady. The mattress dipped with his weight.

We were inches apart, yet it felt like miles.

I rolled over, hunting for a comfortable spot. My head throbbed where I'd hit it, arm still sore from the fall.

I shifted my shoulder, trying to ease the sting.

"Stop moving," he muttered in the dark.

"Sorry. My arm hurts."

Silence.

I thought he was out until I sat up, tugging at the oversized shirt.

A hand clamped my wrist. The world flipped, and suddenly I was pinned under him. His weight crushed the air from my lungs.

"What are you trying to do?" His voice was low, rough, straining.

"I... I didn't—"

"Didn't what?" His face hovered inches from mine, breath hot. "Didn't mean to undress? Didn't mean to seduce me?"

His eyes dragged to my collarbone, his arms taut like he was barely holding back.

"No!" I shoved at him, but he didn't move.

Moonlight cut through the curtains, lighting his face—anger, hurt... and something else. Desire. His pupils blown wide, breath uneven.

"Five years, Sophia," his voice scraped like it hurt to speak. "Do you even know what you look like right now... in my shirt, in our bed... Do you know what that does to me?"

His fingers trembled as they brushed my cheek, pausing at my lips.

"Just like our wedding night," his voice cracked. "You looked at me the same way, and then we..."

He broke off, body shaking, trapped between wanting and resisting.