The hospital lights were too bright when I first saw him. Henry. My husband. The word felt foreign, like a coat I’d borrowed and forgotten to return. He reached for my hand, voice breaking, 'You’re going to be okay, Lily. I’m here.'

But I wasn’t okay. I remembered my favorite color, my mother’s face, the way oil paint smelled—but nothing about him. Nothing about us. The nurse handed me a wedding photo. Me, smiling beside a man in a tux, arms tight around each other. I didn’t recognize that version of myself.

Then came the journals. Page after page of my handwriting, describing arguments, accusations, his rage when I spoke to other men. And Vivian—his childhood sweetheart, always lingering at the edges. 'He loves her more,' I wrote. 'He only married me because she left.'

When his mother offered me $100 million to disappear quietly, I signed the papers without hesitation. Better a clean exit than a slow unraveling.

Now, three months later, I’m sipping coffee in a Seattle café when the bell above the door chimes. He walks in—rumpled suit, unshaven jaw, eyes red-rimmed. Not the polished tycoon. Just a man who looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

'Lily,' he says, voice raw. 'I know you don’t remember me. But I remember you. Every mistake. Every lie I believed. Vivian… she played us both. Please. Let me explain.'

My heart shouldn’t race. I don’t owe him anything. But the way he stands there—broken, desperate—makes me wonder if forgiveness is a door I can open… or one I should keep locked.