Chapter 2

I knew I'd been married to Jonathan for five years, but this was the first time I'd seen his face up close. I had to admit, my youthful crush on him was understandable. His presence alone noticeably improved my mood. Despite his cold expression, I couldn't bring myself to despise him. Seeing my silence, he frowned. "Stop making a scene, Elise," he said, heading toward the walk-in closet. He didn't pause as he passed, casually selecting a robe. I watched him. "Making a scene?" I hadn't spoken since his arrival. Jonathan turned, his gaze dark. "Didn't you always throw yourself at me when I came home? What? Changing tactics now?"

I was surprised. Had I really been that bold after our marriage? Maintaining a calm expression, I replied nonchalantly, "Oh, that won't happen again." I expected relief, but his frown deepened, his impatience growing. "I'm exhausted from work. I haven't the time for your tricks." I was speechless. His gaze grew colder at my silence. "Don't mess with Alicia again, Elise. She's done nothing wrong. Even if you threaten me, it changes nothing."

Stunned, a mix of emotions flooded me. Bob had told me everything about Jonathan and me: I loved him, but he loved Alicia. As the unwelcome third party, I'd caused Alicia trouble, pushing Jonathan to his limit. My suicide attempt stemmed from jealousy over his attention to Alicia. I'd secretly sabotaged Alicia's company and slandered her artists. Jonathan, however, had defended her without hesitation, effectively declaring me merely his wife in name, insignificant compared to Alicia. That devastating blow had led to my suicide attempt—clearly unsuccessful. A man already annoyed by me wouldn't be moved by a suicide attempt; I was merely a nuisance. Losing patience, he disappeared into the bathroom after another silence.

I sighed, collapsing onto the large bed, my mind a whirlwind. Having lost my memory of the past few years, I didn't understand how I'd become this person. At eighteen, I'd scorned those consumed by love. Yet here I was, pining for a man. I never imagined ending up like this. My thoughts were chaotic. Before I could decide what to do next, I felt the quilt lift. A tall, muscular figure lay beside me. The sudden warmth startled me. I turned to meet Jonathan's deep, dark eyes—still cold and indifferent, yet with a hint of suppressed intensity. I stammered, "I... What... What are you doing?"

Despite my memory loss, based on what I knew, our relationship was supposed to be terrible; we likely slept in separate beds. So why was he so comfortable in my bed? He ignored my panic. In one swift motion, he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close. Without a word, he pressed me onto the bed. His calloused fingers moved over me with practiced ease, sending an unfamiliar sensation through me. "Jonathan Ford!" I cried. "Stop touching me!"