The wedding dress they chose for me is suffocating. I stand in the bridal suite of the Ashford estate, staring at my reflection in the floor-length mirror. The gown is beautiful—ivory silk with delicate lace sleeves—but it feels like a costume for a role I never auditioned for. My hands tremble as I smooth down the fabric for the hundredth time. "You look perfect, dear," my mother says from behind me, but her voice is tight with the same anxiety that's been choking our family for weeks. Perfect. Right. The perfect sacrifice. "Five minutes, Miss Chen," someone calls from the hallway. Five minutes until I marry Damien Ashford. Five minutes until I bind myself to a man who looks at me like I'm a stranger. Five minutes until I become the wife of the boy who once promised to love me forever. Except he doesn't remember any of it. The accident two years ago stole more than just Damien's memories—it stole us. Every late-night conversation, every stolen kiss behind the library, every whispered promise we made under the stars. Gone. Erased like we never existed. And now I'm marrying him to save his life, while he thinks this is just another business arrangement. My phone buzzes. A text from my best friend Maya: *You can still run. I have the car ready.* I almost laugh. Run where? My father's company is drowning in debt. The Ashfords offered a lifeline—their son's hand in marriage in exchange for a financial bailout and, more importantly, the bone marrow match that only I can provide. Damien has six months, maybe less, without a transplant. His rare blood disorder is killing him, and I'm the only compatible donor they've found. The cruel irony? When we were seventeen and madly in love, we used to joke about getting married someday. We even got our blood types tested together for a school health fair, laughing when we discovered we were both AB negative—"meant to be," he'd said, kissing my forehead. Now that compatibility is the only reason I'm in his life at all. I delete Maya's text without responding and take one last look in the mirror. My makeup artist did an excellent job covering the dark circles under my eyes, the evidence of sleepless nights spent wondering if Damien would ever remember me. If somewhere deep in his subconscious, he feels the connection we once had. The walk to the ceremony is a blur. The Ashford estate is massive, all old money and cold marble. So different from the warm, modest home where Damien and I used to study together, where he'd help my mother in the kitchen just to make her smile. That Damien is gone. The man waiting for me at the altar is a stranger wearing his face. As I step into the garden where the ceremony is being held, I see him for the first time today. Damien stands beneath an arch of white roses, and my breath catches despite everything. He's thinner than he should be, the illness taking its toll, but he's still heartbreakingly beautiful. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his jaw set in that stubborn line I used to kiss away when he was frustrated. His ice-blue eyes meet mine, and there's nothing in them. No recognition. No warmth. Just polite distance and barely concealed resentment. He didn't want this marriage either. His parents forced his hand, using his deteriorating health as leverage. In his mind, I'm just another gold-digger trying to marry into the Ashford fortune. If only he knew the truth. The ceremony is mercifully short. I barely hear the words the officiant speaks. All I can focus on is Damien's hand holding mine—the same hand that once intertwined with mine as we walked through the park, that traced patterns on my skin as we lay in the grass watching clouds. "I do," he says, his voice flat. Then it's my turn. Two words that will change everything. "I do." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Because I'm not just agreeing to marry him—I'm agreeing to pretend we're strangers. To let him believe I'm doing this for money when I'm really doing it because I love him. Because I never stopped loving him, even after he forgot I existed. "You may kiss the bride." Damien leans in, and for one desperate moment, I think maybe—maybe—this will trigger something. Maybe my lips on his will unlock the memories buried in his mind. But the kiss is perfunctory. Cold. A business transaction sealed with the barest brush of lips. When he pulls away, his expression is carefully neutral. "Mrs. Ashford," he says, and it sounds like an accusation. The reception is torture. I smile for photos, accept congratulations from people I don't know, and pretend my heart isn't shattering with every distant look Damien gives me. His mother, Victoria, keeps a watchful eye on me, as if I might bolt at any moment. His father, Richard, is already discussing the transplant timeline with the medical team. No one asks if I'm okay. No one seems to care that I'm a person, not just a walking medical solution. "Dance with your husband," Victoria hisses in my ear during dinner. "People are starting to notice the distance between you." I find Damien at the bar, nursing what looks like sparkling water—no alcohol with his medications. He sees me approaching and his jaw tightens. "We should dance," I say quietly. "For appearances." He sets down his glass with more force than necessary. "Of course. Wouldn't want to disappoint our audience." On the dance floor, his hand rests on my waist with clinical precision. We move in awkward silence until I can't take it anymore. "I know you hate this," I whisper. "I know you hate me." His eyes flash with something—surprise, maybe?—before the ice returns. "I don't hate you, Miss Chen. I don't know you well enough to hate you." The words are a knife to the heart. "It's Mrs. Ashford now," I remind him, hating how my voice wavers. "Right." His grip tightens almost imperceptibly. "Tell me something, *wife*. What's your favorite color?" The question catches me off guard. "What?" "If we're going to play this game, I should at least know basic facts about you. Favorite color. Favorite food. The things a husband would know about his wife." *Lavender,* I want to say. *You told me I looked like a dream in that lavender dress I wore to prom. And I love dumplings—specifically the ones your grandmother used to make, the recipe she taught me before she passed away.* But he doesn't remember his grandmother teaching me anything. He doesn't remember prom. He doesn't remember loving me. "Blue," I lie. "And pasta." He nods, filing away the false information. "Blue and pasta. Got it." The song ends, and he releases me immediately, stepping back like I might be contagious. "The medical team wants to start the transplant process next week," he says, all business now. "I assume you're still willing?" *I'd give you anything,* I think. *I'd give you my heart if you needed it.* "Yes," I say instead. "That's the arrangement." Something flickers across his face—disappointment? But it's gone before I can identify it. "Good. Then we understand each other. This is a transaction. You get your family's debts cleared, I get to live. After the transplant and a suitable period for appearances, we can quietly divorce. No hard feelings." Each word is a fresh wound, but I force myself to nod. "No hard feelings," I echo. He walks away, leaving me alone on the dance floor, and I realize with crushing certainty that saving his life might destroy mine.