Chapter 1

When I woke up in the hospital, my mind was a blank slate.

All I felt was a throbbing headache, a sharp sting on my neck from what seemed like a knife wound, and the intimidating presence of a strikingly handsome man in front of me.

I asked him who I was—and who he was.

The cold aura around him seemed to soften, and I thought I glimpsed a faint smile in his eyes.

"Your name is Michelle Harper," he said calmly, "and I'm Zachary Miller, your fiancé."

"Fiancé?" I frowned, instinctively feeling a strange discomfort about this supposed relationship. And besides—

"Do you have any proof?"

He smirked without a trace of warmth in his eyes and handed me his iPhone with the photo album open.

Inside were countless pictures of us together, smiling and happy. There were even pre-wedding photos.

So, it seemed he really was my fiancé.

I handed the phone back. "So, we're about to get married?"

"Yes." He lifted his gaze briefly to meet mine, then dropped a bombshell. "But you cheated on me."

"..."

According to him, we'd been high school sweethearts, fell in love junior year, and stayed together through college and beyond. He had trusted and cared for me, but now, just before our wedding, I'd supposedly fallen for someone else and wanted to leave him.

The cut on my neck was apparently from a confrontation where I'd begged him to let me be with this other man.

It was hard to believe I could do something so heartless and immoral.

Yet here he was, my supposed fiancé, still willing to look after me despite everything. Even after I hurt him, he'd brought me to the hospital, put his pain aside, and planned to take me home to recover.

After all, I had no parents, and the grandmother who raised me had passed away long ago.

I really must be a terrible person.

---

Given what I had done to Zachary, he remained distant and cold toward me.

In my fog of amnesia and fear, I found myself anxiously watching his every move, terrified he might suddenly decide to abandon me.

Back at the penthouse, I followed him quietly into the bedroom.

The minimalistic black-and-white decor felt stifling, with an air of oppressive restraint.

The deep blue Egyptian cotton sheets on the king-size bed looked soft and inviting.

While I took in the surroundings, he emerged from the connected walk-in closet holding a silk camisole nightgown.

Still as cold as ever, he said, "This is yours. You'll be sleeping in the guest room from now on."

I numbly took the nightgown from him.

His words made me realize that we had probably shared a bed before. But now, because of my "cheating," he clearly had no intention of doing so anymore.

Alongside the guilt I felt, I was also secretly relieved; I couldn't imagine sharing a bed with a man I didn't recognize.

After settling me in, he left. For the next three days, I didn't see him once.

Of course, he probably didn't want to see me.

The weather had been gloomy lately, matching my mood perfectly.