Chapter 2

Elspeth's POV

After the call, I went back to the house in Brookline—the one we used to share. It was hollow now. A beautiful, empty shell.

We’d picked out this place together, redone it room by room. He’d once told me he wanted to grow old here with me.

Now, every trace of him was gone. But he hadn't just packed up his things—he had systematically erased us. The walls were bare where our wedding photos used to hang, leaving only faint, dusty squares. Even the rare orchids we’d raised together on the balcony had been yanked by the roots, the dark soil turned over and left bare.

My mouth twisted.

Rhett Calloway, you really did think of everything. Was this to spare me the pain of remembering? Or were you afraid my memory would come back early, and I’d show up and ruin your wedding to your precious savior?

And if you ever find out there’s no antidote—that I’m never going to remember you again—will you regret it?

I slid my wedding ring off my finger. Then I sat down and wrote him a letter, sealed the ring inside the envelope, and wedged it into the narrow gap between one of the empty planters and the balcony wall. Whenever Rhett was stressed, he came out here alone to drink. If the day ever came that he truly regretted this, he’d find it.

Late that night, my best friend, Wren Boone, called. She sounded frantic.

"Elspeth, I just saw Rhett outside St. Brigid’s. He was all over some woman. Is he cheating on you?"

My voice came out flat. "It doesn’t matter. Let him."

That stopped her cold. "Are you… okay?"

Her worry was so sweet that I laughed a little in spite of myself.

"Rhett and I are divorced."

"Divorced?!"

I gave her the short version. When I got to the part where I drank the serum, the line exploded with muffled swearing.

"Those bastards! You walked away from running Aurora to stay in Boston with him! Half the Calloways’ intel and security systems exist because of you, working behind the scenes! And now, for some woman, he makes you drink an amnesia drug and dresses it up like he’s protecting you from getting hurt? Who the hell does he think he is?"

A dull ache spread behind my eyes. I felt the color drain from my face.

Years ago, when half the crime families on the East Coast teamed up to crush the Calloways and Rhett had his back against the wall, I didn’t run. I stayed. I called in every overseas contact I had to help him hold the line. Night after night, he held me close and whispered that I was the only woman he would ever love.

But time passes, and old debts start to weigh more than love. Little by little, he stopped seeing what I’d given him. He started asking me to be understanding. To be gracious. To make room for his "debt" to Celia.

Was it really that hard to love one person, faithfully?

Wren finished venting and delivered her verdict. "Rhett is going to regret this so hard he chokes on it. He doesn’t even know there’s no antidote. Good. Let that serum cut the cord for you, once and for all."

My eyes drifted to the balcony, to the gap behind the planter where the letter lay waiting.

Sometime after two in the morning, Rhett came home. I heard him in the bedroom, yanking open drawers, rifling through the closet.

"What are you looking for?"

He froze, then turned and saw me in the doorway in my robe. He frowned, shrugged off his jacket, and draped it over my shoulders.

"It’s freezing tonight. Why are you walking around dressed like that?"

I ignored the question and repeated mine. "You’re looking for something?"

"Yeah. I was hoping to borrow that wedding dress. Celia wants it for the wedding." He paused. "The one I got you. For when you got married."

I just looked at him.

Of course I remembered. Rhett had sketched that dress himself. It had taken two months to make—all because I’d said, offhand, that I wanted a dress no one else in the world had.

And now he was taking it—the one thing that had only ever been mine—to finish another woman’s wedding.

The absurdity of it almost made me laugh. So I asked, on purpose, "You had that dress made for my wedding, You’re the Godfather of the Calloway family. You could buy your future wife any gown in the world... why do you have to give her mine?"

His hands went still on the garment bag. I knew he was remembering it too—the day it was finished, when he’d told me, very clearly, that it would only ever belong to me.

He hesitated for one heartbeat. Then he lied.

"It’s a one-of-a-kind designer piece. There’s literally only one in existence. Celia fell in love with it. It’s her dying wish."

When I didn’t answer, he added, "I’ll give it back after the wedding. And whatever you want in return, just name it."

A flawless lie. It landed dead center in my chest.

On our wedding day, he hadn’t taken his eyes off me once. Afterward, he’d folded the dress away himself, carefully, as if it were made of glass. I’d teased him about it. Why are you being so precious about a dress?

He’d been completely serious. "Because you’re what makes it mean something. I want to keep that."

Now, just because Celia liked it, he was handing it over without a second thought. Whatever it had meant was crushed flat—reduced to a prop for pleasing someone else.

"It’s late. Get some sleep. I have to head back out." He picked up the garment bag and left.

I shrugged his jacket off my shoulders and let it drop to the floor. The closet stood open, empty.

It’s fine, I told myself. Once the serum clears him out of my head, this is all over.

So I got left. That’s all.

The thought hadn’t even finished forming when the pain hit—a white-hot spike behind my eyes. Another piece of memory tore loose and was gone.