Chapter 1: When the Past Comes Knocking

If I’d known the past could come knocking, I might never have said yes.

I married the amnesiac Marcus, son of the governor, and after our wedding, we lived in harmony.

Our home in Maple Heights was the kind with a wide porch and a maple out front that blazed red every October. On Friday nights, the smell of grilling burgers from the concession stand drifted through the air, and porch lights flickered on as neighbors hollered about the game score. Life with Marcus was quiet—the sort of peace that almost made you forget the past could come calling at any moment.

But one day, a woman in a tailored navy pantsuit—movie-star gorgeous—strode right up to our white picket fence.

She looked like she belonged on the cover of a glossy magazine, with her confidence and those impossibly perfect heels clicking against the old flagstones. She locked eyes with Marcus, her gaze red and raw with emotion, holding him captive for what felt like forever…

He doubled over on the couch, clutching his head, his knuckles white. I could only watch, helpless, as his body shook like he’d been hit by a freight train.

By sunrise, his gaze was different—old and new all at once, like a window finally wiped clean.

Only then did I learn that before Marcus lost his memory, he’d chased after this woman, Aubrey Taylor, for two whole years.

The mug rattled against the counter, sloshing hot coffee onto my fingers. I barely noticed the burn. The name Aubrey Taylor sat between us like a loaded gun on the kitchen table. I caught glimpses of her in faded photographs and heard her laughter in the way Marcus hesitated, as if remembering a joke he’d once known by heart.

Yet she only wanted to travel the country, and in the end, still left him.

The story I pieced together sounded like something out of a Nashville ballad—two restless souls, one more restless than the other. And when the time came, she left Marcus behind, chasing highways and city lights.

A few days later, Marcus and I were driving down Main Street in our pickup truck.

The old Ford was dusty from the county roads, country music humming on the radio, the windows down for that early fall breeze. Maple Heights was small enough that everyone recognized our truck when we passed by.

Suddenly, someone blocked our way and called out loudly:

“You once said that no matter when, as long as I turned back, the spot as your wife would be mine. Does that promise still count?”

I felt the world tilt, every familiar detail—the ice cream parlor, the barbershop—blurring out for a moment.