Chapter 1: The Wife on the Billboard

The Hollywood star stands on the sidewalk, staring up at my billboard, grinning like some fool hopelessly in love. For a second, he just looks so open, so vulnerable—I almost want to laugh, or maybe cry.

The neon glow of Hollywood Boulevard bounces off the glass, casting a shimmer that makes my face on the billboard practically glow. Evan’s got his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, his smile so wide and dopey it actually makes a couple of tourists stop and snap photos of him instead of the Walk of Fame stars. It’s surreal—really surreal—seeing him like this, looking at me like I’m the only person in the world. For a heartbeat, I wonder if I’m dreaming.

A woman walking by stops and asks, “Are you a fan too?”

She’s already got her phone out, probably hoping for a selfie. I watch her, half-amused, half-dreading. Evan flashes that easy, movie-star grin, warm and practiced, but his eyes never leave my image. For a second, I’m not sure he’ll answer. Then he says, “No, this is my wife.”

He’s looking at my face on the billboard, and there’s something different in his eyes—a softness, almost like he’s seeing something precious. His expression shifts, the corners of his mouth turning up in a way that makes my heart ache. There’s a hush in his voice, a kind of reverence—like the word itself is sacred. I feel the air shift, and I catch myself holding my breath. If only they knew the truth.

If they only knew the truth.

But he’s lost his memory.

He doesn’t remember that we just got divorced last month.

Evan Callahan was on set, shooting a scene, when everything changed—one wrong move, a prop malfunction, a fall, and suddenly, a concussion. It was all over the entertainment news. Every tabloid had a field day, and I tried to keep my head down, barely skimming the headlines. But when I heard what happened, I couldn’t help myself. I had to see him, no matter what.

I found myself at the hospital, nerves shot, clutching my phone like a lifeline.

I drove through LA traffic, my heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe, running through every possible scenario in my mind—what if he didn’t want to see me? The antiseptic smell hit me as soon as I stepped into the hospital corridor, that sharp, chemical tang that always makes my skin crawl.

As soon as I reached the door, I heard a low, angry shout from inside.

There was a pause—then, "Get out."

A few moments later, Savannah Lee stormed out.

Her eyes were red, swollen from crying, and she clutched a thermos she hadn’t even opened.

She looked every inch the Hollywood ingenue—messy hair, designer sweats, but as soon as she saw me, her face twisted with anger. She stalked past, dropping her voice to a venomous hiss.

“Emily Reese, don’t think you can sweet-talk him into getting back together just because Evan lost his memory. You know his heart’s always been mine.”

She said it like a threat—a sharp, pointed thing—like we were rivals in some trashy reality show, not two women caught in the crossfire of a man’s confusion. Her bitterness was so thick I could almost taste it.

Of course I know.

After all, back then, Evan married me because my face looked almost exactly like Savannah’s.

He couldn’t win over his first love, so he settled for me.

The stand-in.

That truth always sat like a stone in my chest, cold and heavy. I always knew my place, even if the rest of the world thought otherwise.

I just replied, “Okay.”

My voice came out flat, but inside, I was screaming. I squared my shoulders and walked past her, determined not to let her see me flinch.

Instead of hesitating, I brushed past Savannah and pushed open the door.

The room was thick with the scent of hospital sheets and stale air. Evan sat on the bed, his back to the door, hunched over like some wounded animal. For a second, I just watched him, my heart twisting.

“I told you to get out. Didn’t you hear me?”

He didn’t even bother to look up, muttering another curse, his irritation plain.

His tone was sharp—same as always. I’d heard it a thousand times before, so I just rolled my eyes and forced myself to act unfazed. I stepped closer, refusing to let him see how much it still stung.

He’d treated me like this plenty, even before the memory loss. I was used to it. So I just reached out and waved my hand in front of him, trying to break through the fog.

“Hey, Evan, do you remember who I am?”

I tried to keep it light, almost teasing, but my hand shook a little as I waved it in front of his face.

The silence stretched, thick and awkward, pressing down on us both.

Only then did he look up at me. Surprise flashed across his face—he froze for a split second. And then, suddenly, his hands were gripping my waist, tight and desperate.

“Babe, why’d you just get here?”

His voice was so familiar, but it felt foreign, too. The way he said "babe"—like it was the most natural thing in the world. For a second, my heart tripped over itself, stumbling.