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He continues to stare at me, and it causes me to squirm.

“I’mnotyour Roxi,” I insist, not letting myself dwell on his point about languages. “I can prove it.”

I have to at this point, both for his sakeandfor mine. Because that’s what memory loss does to you—makes you relentlessly question your reality.

My gaze sweeps over my things, looking for something—anything—to convince this man I could not possibly be his traitorous wife. When my eyes land on the spines of my photo albums, I pause.

Of course.

So painfully obvious.

Slipping past Memnon, I move over to my albums and pull out every single one.

Gathering them, I nod to my computer chair.

“Sit,” I command.

A split second after I give the order, I’m sure he’s not going to listen. But Memnon flashes me an amused look and obediently sits back at my chair, splaying his legs wide.

I drop all the albums on my bed before picking out one that’s bound in beige cloth with the wordMemorieswritten in gold foil across the front.

Memnon watches me with unnerving intensity as I come over to him, album in hand.

A strange tugging sensation rises in my chest as I draw close. I force myself to ignore every last little thing about him because I want to dwell on it all—the burnished bronze of his skin, the twisting form of his tattoos, the rippling bands of his muscles.

I hand the photo album over to him. “Here’s your proof.”

Memnon scowls at the book in his hands, his narrowed gaze flicking from it to me, as though this is some sort of elaborate hoax.

Reluctantly, he opens it.

He grows almost preternaturally quiet. Drawn in by his reaction—hell, drawn in byhim—I move to his side, peeking over his shoulder at the images. This album starts on my eighth birthday. There are pictures of me, my friends, the bounce house we rented out in what must be our backyard.

I’m blowing out candles, opening presents, making funny faces with my friends. My hair is wild, my incisors are only partially grown in, and I have a scattering of freckles across my nose that have since disappeared.

I don’t remember that day, nor the house. But one of my friends—Em…Emily. Yes, I remember her.

As Memnon flips through the pages, he reaches out one of his hands and absently strokes my arm with his knuckles.

My breath escapes me as I look down at that contact—contact the sorcerer doesn’t even seem to notice. I should move my arm. A sane person would.

Instead, I let my would-be husband caress me.

His touch is so soft and so at odds with every violent aspect of him. His hand only moves away to trace the shape of my face in a close-up—this one of me at a family wedding a year or two later. I vaguely remember that event.

One of Memnon’s legs jiggles, and the more pages he turns, the more agitatedly his leg moves.

All at once, he tosses the album aside.

“No,” he says. “No.” He stands, running his fingers through his hair. My deviant little eyes notice how his shirt clings to his torso with the action.

“If you are not my Roxi, thenwhoare you?” he says, his eyes desolate.

Oh, this one I got. “I am Selene Bowers. My parents are Olivia and Benjamin Bowers. I was born on—”

He’s shaking his head, pinching his eyes shut. “No, no, no. I don’t believe it. Iwon’t.”

“The woman who betrayed you is gone. I’m someone else. I was born twenty years ago. What other proof do you need?”