Chapter 1

I was suffering from a rare form of retrograde amnesia.

Every morning I woke up, I’d forgotten everything that happened the day before.

My husband, Christian, was my only memory anchor.

Every day, he would patiently tell me, "You're Price, 29 years old, my wife, and we're very much in love."

Until I found a filled diary deep within the study.

Flipping to the first page, it was my handwriting:

"Don't believe anything Christian says."

"Cowell isn't his cousin, she's his childhood sweetheart."

"You're not sick; he's the one who's been poisoning you."

Today was the 1001st time I'd discovered the truth, and the first day I decided to play along.

I opened my eyes that morning, my mind a complete blank.

"Awake?"

I turned my head and saw a man in a bathrobe sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Who am I?" I asked, instinctively.

The man smiled, reaching out to ruffle my hair.

"You're Price, my wife. You're sick; you forget everything from the day before."

He pointed to a photo frame on the nightstand. "That's our wedding photo."

In the picture, I was in a wedding dress, leaning against him. But strangely, the photo's edge had obvious creases.

"Then who are you?"

"Christian."

He held my hand, his fingertips warm. "Your only memory anchor."

I nodded, accepting the explanation.

Christian helped me out of bed, squeezed toothpaste onto my brush, and even meticulously combed my hair.

"What do you want to do today?"

I looked at myself in the mirror. "I don't know. I don't remember anything."

"Then leave it to me."

Christian wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"We have a family doctor coming for a recheck this morning. This afternoon, I'll take you for a walk in the garden, and tonight..."

Before he could finish, the doorbell rang.

Christian released me, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.

"That must be Dr. Cowell."

I followed him downstairs. A woman in a white coat stood in the living room.

She turned around, and her eyes clearly brightened when she saw Christian.

"Christian, how is Price today?"

Christian naturally walked over to Cowell, taking the medical bag from her hand.

Their fingers brushed as they exchanged it, and neither pulled away.

Cowell looked at me, a swift, appraising look flashing in her eyes.

"Price, let's measure your memory baseline today."

For the last question of the test, she pointed to Christian.

"Who is he?"

"My husband."

Cowell's pen paused, and the corners of her mouth turned up.

"Basic cognition is still present, but Christian, I still recommend increasing the dosage."

She finished packing her instruments. As she stood up, her fingers casually brushed the back of Christian's hand.

I sat on the sofa and watched Cowell stand on tiptoe at the door, whispering something in his ear.

When he closed the door and returned, his face had resumed its programmed tenderness.

"Price, what do you want for lunch today?"

I stared into his eyes. "What did she tell you outside just now?"

Christian froze for a moment. Then, a scrutinizing look flashed in his eyes.

"Why are you asking that?"

I lowered my head, twisting the hem of my shirt. "She comes every day. She's so good to me."

"Dr. Cowell is just doing her job."

Christian pulled me into his embrace. The faint scent of cedarwood on him was the same as the scent on Cowell.

"Price, you have to remember, in this world, I'm the only one who truly cares about you."

"Don't believe anything anyone else says."

I nodded obediently, leaning against his chest, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.