One week before our engagement, I turned down a three-year art residency in Charleston. The reason was simple: Simon asked me to stay. He wanted me by his side. That same afternoon, he synced his phone’s Notes app with mine, claiming it would make managing our schedules easier. That night, I scrolled to the very bottom of his shared to-do list and found a draft hidden under a two-word header: Cutting Losses. 1. Within ninety days, gradually phase out one-on-one contact with Daphne. Give Carlin back her peace of mind. 2. Within six months, leverage my network to secure Daphne new gallery representation, ensuring her smooth exit. 3. If Carlin finds out, use the upcoming engagement as leverage to quiet her doubts. And the final line: "Carlin won't leave. She's always been the mature one. It's the thing I respect most about her, and the thing I feel most guilty for." I stared at that screen until the white light burned my retinas. He wrote about "guilt" and "respect." But he mapped them out like quarterly projections, calculated and cold, instead of speaking them to me. Three days later, on my way to the venue, a delivery truck T-boned my sedan. When I woke up, the sterile scent of bleach filled my nose. Simon was there, looking like he hadn't slept or showered in days. He leaned over the bed, his voice a gravelly whisper. "Carlin? Baby, do you know who I am?" I blinked slowly, my hand sliding out from his dry, desperate grip. "I'm sorry. Who are you?" He was the one who taught me that strong girls don't show their bruises. If he wanted to cut his losses, I figured I might as well help him by forgetting he ever existed. … The steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room. Simon froze by the bed, his hand hovering in mid-air. His throat bobbed, his fingers trembling as he tried to touch my cheek. "Carlin, please. Don't do this to me. It's Simon." If it weren't for that note, this would have been the most beautiful, tragic display of devotion. But I knew the math. So I just stared at him, my expression blank. The heavy door swung open. Daphne rushed in, clutching a stainless-steel soup container. "Simon! Is Carlin awake yet?" She tripped over her own feet, tumbling toward the bed. Simon spun around instinctively, catching her by the waist with practiced ease. "What are you doing running like that? Be careful," he murmured, his hands lingering on her hips. Daphne leaned into his chest, looking up at him. "I'm sorry, Simon. I was just so terrified for Carlin." I leaned back against my pillows and watched the show. He used to hold me like that. But once I became "independent," he stopped worrying. Simon let go of her, clearing his throat. "Carlin, this is Daphne. She just wanted to see how you were doing." I looked from her to him. "Is this your girlfriend? You two look so sweet together." Simon's face went pale. "Stop it, Carlin! You're my fiancée." He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a brass key, holding it out to me. It was the gift he’d given me last month. The initials CL were engraved on the fob. "Look at this. It's the key to your dream studio. The one you've been talking about." I stared at the brass. Three days ago, I’d found the lease agreement for that very studio in his synced notes. The landlord was Daphne's creative agency; the tenant was Simon. The rent came out of his personal account, but the property was legally registered under her name. This key, with my initials on it, was just a cheap tax on his conscience. I pulled the thin hospital blanket tighter around my shoulders. "I don't recognize it. Take it away." Simon’s hand died in the air. Daphne covered her mouth, her eyes wide. "Simon, do you think the swelling in her brain is pressing on a nerve? The doctor said this kind of memory loss can be permanent." "Shut up," Simon snapped, his voice sharp. "She'll remember." He took a deep breath, shoving the key back into his pocket. "Go home, Daphne. We don't need you here." Daphne bit her lower lip, setting the container on the bedside table. "I'll leave the soup. I'll bring some more tomorrow, okay?" Simon gave a curt nod. That single, soft sound made my chest feel hollower than any shout ever could. Once the door clicked shut, Simon sat back down, tucking the corners of my blanket in. "It's okay, Carlin. Even if you've forgotten everything, we can start over." He had that same earnest look in his eyes that he had when we first met. But his written words echoed in my head: Carlin won't crack. His version of starting over was a calculated ninety-day detox from Daphne while using our wedding to keep me in line. I turned my back to him, sliding my hand under my pillow to find my burner phone. Three days ago, I had ignored the email from the Charleston Museum of Art. Now, I opened my messages and texted the director. Hi Gregory, is the three-year curator residency still available? The reply came almost urgently. Carlin! Yes, we kept the slot open for you. How soon can you get to Charleston? I typed back: Next week. I deleted the thread, locked the screen, and listened to the heavy, exhausted breathing of the man sleeping in the chair behind me. He had stayed awake for four days. He looked miserable. I remembered him looking just like this years ago, sitting on the concrete steps of my art school, waiting for my class to end. Back then, he wasn't a CEO. He was just a broke kid who had failed his first two startups. I had sketched him in charcoal. He told me he'd frame it and hang it in his first real office. He did. Years later, he took it down and replaced it with a canvas of sunflowers painted by Daphne. It fits the company's new aesthetic better, he had explained. I had smiled and said, Of course. He thought that if he just sat by my bed long enough, I’d go back to being the girl who always smiled and said of course. On the fifth day, Simon took me home. He spent the entire drive pointing out landmarks. "Look at this street, Carlin. This is where we had our first real date. You wore that blue dress. You looked beautiful." I watched the city blur past the window. I remembered every detail better than he did. The smart lock beeped as we entered the loft. Simon took off his shoes and turned to me. "This is our place, Carlin. We've lived here for three years. Does any of it look familiar?" I stepped into the living room and froze. In front of my favorite floor-to-ceiling window sat a brand-new easel. On it was a half-finished oil painting of sunflowers, surrounded by tubes of acrylic paint I knew didn't belong to me. Simon followed my gaze. Panic flashed across his face, and he rushed over to drag the easel into the dark corner of the room. "Carlin, don't worry about this. Daphne is setting up for a gallery opening, and her studio's light is terrible during the remodel. I just told her she could use the light here for a couple of days." He stood in front of the easel, trying to shield it with his body. But he couldn't block out the pair of pink slippers resting on the hardwood floor—slippers a size smaller than mine. "Does this Daphne person live here?" I asked, staring at the pink plush. "No, absolutely not. Just this once." Before the lie could settle, the guest bedroom door clicked open. Daphne stepped out, rubbing her eyes, wearing an oversized white button-down. It was Simon's shirt. She flinched when she saw us. "Simon? Carlin? You're back so early." Simon's face turned dark. "Why are you sleeping here?" Daphne pulled a brass key from her pocket—the one with CL engraved on it. "Simon, yesterday when you gave me the keys to the studio, you said the paint fumes were too toxic for me to sleep there. You gave me the security code and told me to stay here." She squeezed the key tight. CL. Carlin Lockhart. He had given her my name. Simon looked at me, desperate. "Carlin, it's not what you think. I was just worried about her inhaling the fumes." I took a step back. "It's fine. I don't remember anyway." I pointed to the key. "Is that hers? It has letters on it." Simon snatched the key from Daphne's hand. "It's trash," he hissed. Then he turned to me, his voice softening. "Carlin, that studio was too small for you anyway. I found a beautiful three-story townhouse in the historic district. We can put it in your name tomorrow, okay?" He never understood. I didn't want a bigger space. I wanted the key with my name to belong only to me. "I'm tired," I said, turning toward the master bedroom. "I need to lie down." As the door closed, I heard Simon's muffled roar from the kitchen. "Daphne, pack your things and get the hell out of my house!" "Simon, please... I'm just so scared of being alone." I leaned against the door and closed my eyes. She was scared. Three years ago, I was scared too. Simon was working eighty-hour weeks to secure his first round of venture capital, and I was painting in our cramped apartment until my fingers shook from exhaustion. He told me I was the strongest, most independent woman he’d ever met. So, I learned to stop being afraid. Daphne only had to say the word, and he folded. I opened my laptop, downloaded the contract from the Charleston Museum, and signed my name at the bottom. The start date was set for the morning after our scheduled engagement party. I dragged my suitcase from under the bed. Let him spend his ninety days cutting his losses. My exit would only take three. Three days before the party, Simon seemed lighter. He smiled over breakfast, trying to flip a sunny-side-up egg. The yolk broke. "It's okay," I said softly. "It still tastes good." His hand froze on the spatula. "Carlin... you used to say that. You're starting to remember, aren't you?" I shook my head. "No. I just think you look handsome when you cook." A faint blush crept up his neck. If it weren't for the note, I would have spent the rest of my life with him. At the bridal boutique, the consultant brought out the custom gown. The skirt was embedded with three thousand hand-stitched crystals. Simon had spent three days in Paris designing it with the atelier. "Did you choose this for me?" I asked, touching the tulle. Simon knelt in front of my chair, looking up at me. "Yes. The designer said this silhouette was made for you." I smiled, a quiet, private smile. "Then I'll try it on." Before I could stand, the dressing room curtain parted. Daphne stepped out wearing a pale pink bridesmaid dress, twirling her skirt. "Simon, does this look right on me?" Simon frowned. "What are you doing here?" "Your mother called me," Daphne said smoothly. "She was worried Carlin's memory would make things stressful, so she asked me to help consult." She walked over to my gown, her eyes shining. "Oh my god. This is breathtaking." She turned her gaze to Simon. "Simon, I've never worn a real wedding dress. Can I just try it on? Just for a second?" "No," Simon said quickly. "That's Carlin's." Daphne's face fell, tears immediately welling in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I know I don't deserve something like this. I just... I'll probably never get married anyway. I just wanted to feel what it felt like. Just once." Simon didn't say anything, his jaw tight. He shifted his weight, his fingers twitching against his jeans. A long, suffocating silence filled the room. Then he looked at me. "Carlin... do you mind?" He was putting the choice on me. That way, he didn't have to play the villain. It was exhausting. "Let her," I said. "I don't remember it anyway. A dress is just a dress." Simon let out a breath he'd been holding. Daphne didn't wait. She practically sprinted to the back with the consultant. When she emerged, Simon went completely still. It fit her perfectly. She was smaller than me, but the corset laced up tight. Simon stared for a few seconds before forcing his eyes away. But those seconds were plenty. I walked over to the front desk. "Please cancel the order." Simon grabbed my wrist. "Carlin, what are you doing? I designed this for you!" I pulled my hand back. "If she loves it, she should have it. I don't care." Simon snapped. He turned on Daphne, his voice booming through the quiet boutique. "Take it off! Right now!" Daphne flinched, stepping backward in a panic. Her heel caught the delicate tulle of the train. A sharp, tearing sound echoed in the room. The hem was ruined. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing. "I'm sorry, Simon! It was an accident!" Simon stared at the ripped fabric, rubbing his temples. "It's fine, Carlin. I'll call Paris. We'll get another one." He tossed the brass key onto the glass table. "The studio is ready. Take the key. Let's not ruin the day over this." I pulled out my phone and dialed my lawyer. "Mr. Burke? It's Carlin. I need you to draft a formal surrender of the ten percent equity Simon transferred to me three years ago. Yes, do it today." Simon stared at me, dumbfounded. "Carlin, are you out of your mind? That's our future!" "I'm sorry, sir," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "I don't know you, and I don't keep things that don't belong to me." The morning of the day before the party, Simon held me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Carlin, you whispered my name last night. You told me not to leave. You're coming back to me, aren't you?" I felt a tightening in my chest. I had dreamt of the early days, when he promised to buy me the biggest studio in the city with his first investment check. "I don't remember," I lied, stepping out of his embrace. "It was probably just a dream." "It's okay," he whispered, his eyes full of hope. "I can wait." He drove me to the clinic for my follow-up MRI. We sat on the hard plastic chairs in the hallway. Simon's palms were sweating as he rubbed my knuckles. "The doctor said once the swelling goes down, it'll all come back." I looked at the sterile beige wall. "Simon." He stiffened. "What did you say?" "Did I say something?" "You called me Simon. You used my name!" "Simon..." I murmured, tilting my head. "It sounds familiar. Have I heard it before?" He pulled me into a fierce, suffocating hug. "You're remembering! Carlin, you're coming back!" His heart was pounding against my ribs. I closed my eyes, letting myself feel it. This is the last time, I told myself. Then, his phone buzzed. Once, twice, three times. He ignored it. On the fourth ring, he answered. Daphne's hysterical voice spilled through the speaker. "Simon... I can't do this anymore. The internet is calling me a homewrecker. They've ruined my career... I'm standing on the Cooper River Bridge, Simon. I'll see you in the next life." Simon stood up so fast his chair scraped against the linoleum. "Daphne! Don't do anything stupid! Stay right there, I'm coming!" He hung up and looked at me, his eyes wild with panic. "Carlin, she's going to jump. I have to go." He reached for my face, but I flinched away. His hand hovered, trembling. "Just do your scan. Be a good girl and wait for me. I swear I'll be back in two hours." He sprinted toward the elevators. A minute ago, his heart was racing because of me. Now, with a single phone call, I was a footnote. It was almost funny. I walked into the MRI room. Half an hour later, the radiologist handed me the file. "Your brain is perfectly healthy, Ms. Lockhart. No swelling, no trauma. You're completely fine." I thanked him, took a cab back to the loft, and printed the shared Notes log from my laptop. I laid the sheets on the coffee table. On top of them, I placed the brass key and the signed equity surrender. I took a final look around the living room. The throw blanket from last night, the half-empty coffee mug, the sticky note on the fridge in his handwriting: Carlin, milk is on the second shelf. Don't forget. I peeled the note off and stuck it next to the printed plans. I grabbed my suitcase, changed into a pair of comfortable flats, and turned toward the door. The lock clicked. Simon walked in, dripping wet, carrying a shivering, semi-conscious Daphne in his arms. He froze when he saw my suitcase. Then his eyes traveled to the coffee table. He laid Daphne on the couch and rushed over, grabbing my wrist. "Carlin, what is this? Where are you going?" I looked down at his fingers. One by one, I pried them off my wrist. "Simon," I said, my voice entirely clear, entirely cold. He shook, his eyes widening. "You... you remember?"
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