Chapter 1: Mistaken Memories, Hidden Motives

After losing my memory, I mistook the killer for my husband.

Those words bounce around my mind sometimes, echoing like the tagline from some darkly comic TV drama I never auditioned for. The crazy part? I never even liked thrillers. Now, here I am, starring in one—right on the chilly tile floor of my own suburban bathroom, staring at the Target bath mat with a half-empty bottle of Bath & Body Works body wash in my hand.

When he burst through the door, I was smack in the middle of a hot shower.

Steam swirled around me, the glass shower door so fogged up I could barely make out the faded polka dots on the curtain. The water was nearly scalding, numbing my skin, and I was drifting, half-lost in thought, when the door crashed open with a bang. A blast of cool air rushed in, and my heart leapt into my throat, pounding like it was trying to escape.

"Hey babe, mind giving me a hand with my back?"

Something hard and cold jabbed into my lower back—way too solid to be playful fingers. My skin prickled with goosebumps, and a spike of panic zipped down my spine. Was that... metal? My mind scrambled for logic, but my body was already tense, every nerve on edge.

"The safety's off. What are you even washing for?"

I bolted out of the shower, cheeks flaming. "Ugh, perv!"

Clutching my oversized towel to my chest, I shot him a glare. He just stood there, halfway in the doorway, gun dangling at his side, looking like he’d wandered in from the set of some cop show instead of our apartment. The Target bath mat squished under my wet feet, and I wondered if this was real life.

He looked down at the gun in his hand and went silent, jaw clenched, eyes clouded with something I couldn’t read. He fidgeted, shifting his weight, and for a moment, it seemed like he’d forgotten why he was there at all.

His gaze went distant—like he was searching for a memory he couldn’t quite reach. The silence stretched on, thick and awkward, until I let out a dramatic sigh and stomped into the bedroom, dripping water all the way across the hardwood floor.

Lately, my husband’s been acting like someone swapped him for a sitcom dad from a show that got canceled after one season—awkward, overly polite, and weirdly jumpy.

It’s not just the gun thing—though, yeah, that’s a pretty big red flag. He’s been distant, walking on eggshells, like he’s afraid to even share the same air as me. The guy who used to scoop me up and spin me around for fun now won’t even brush my arm in the hallway.

Except for that one bathroom ambush, he hasn’t so much as grazed my hand since.

Seriously—one almost-scandal and suddenly he’s channeling his inner monk? He’s built a wall of careful distance, and every time I try to peek over, he just mortars another brick into place.

Oh my god.

Seriously. If I’d had any clue, I never would’ve played hard to get back then.

I just wanted to play a little game of cat and mouse with him, like those couples in rom-coms who chase each other around the kitchen table.

It was supposed to be harmless fun. Just a silly chase through the house, a stolen giggle, maybe a kiss behind the fridge. Instead, I got the human equivalent of the cold shoulder and a man who looks at me like I’m made of glass.

Why doesn’t he chase me anymore?

I keep wondering if I’m the problem—if I’m not the same girl he married. Every time I try to start something, he shuts it down before it even gets interesting, like he’s scared to touch me.

Ever since that day, even the lightest brush of my hand makes him blush, but no matter what, he refuses to take care of his husbandly responsibilities.

The man can barely look at me, and if I so much as graze his arm, his ears go bright red. Then he’ll mumble some excuse, hole up in his office, and leave me standing in the hallway, frustrated and alone.

One day, I overheard him talking on the phone.

I was tiptoeing past his office—trying to find my missing phone charger—when his voice made me freeze. He sounded tense, voice low and tight, like he was hiding something.

"Her body hasn’t recovered yet. I can’t make a move."

"No, I only act when people are healthy. That’s my bottom line."

"Stop pushing me. When she’s healthy, I’ll make my move."

...So that’s what’s going on?

I pressed my back against the wall, heart pounding, as the puzzle pieces slid into place. He was waiting for me to get better. That’s all it was. Relief flooded through me, so strong I almost burst out laughing.

A few weeks ago, I was in a car accident. When I woke up, my memory was wiped clean—like someone hit reset on my whole life.

It’s surreal, coming to in a hospital bed and not even knowing your own name. The world felt muffled, distant, like I was seeing it through a fish tank. But Mason was always there, holding my hand, whispering that I’d be okay.

My husband stayed by my side every single night, taking care of me with the kind of attention you only see in sappy movies.

He brought me fresh flowers, plumped my pillows, even learned how to braid my hair when the nurses were too busy. He never left, not even when I freaked out and pushed him away.

The doctors and nurses all said I was lucky, and honestly, I felt like I’d won the lottery.

They’d peek into my room and whisper, grinning about how I’d snagged such a catch. Sometimes I’d catch them sneaking glances at him, and I couldn’t blame them one bit.

After all, not everyone’s married to a guy who looks like he could walk straight out of a Marvel movie—tall, ripped, and with a face that’d make Instagram influencers jealous.

Seriously, the man’s got abs you could grate cheese on. It almost made me forget my own name all over again.

But my husband really has been acting off lately.

Even his smile feels different—stretched thin, like he’s forcing it. He watches me like I might vanish if he blinks.