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aspen unconscious for eight of them.

It’s not as if I’m not well-rested. I wasn’t lying that I needed an escape, but leaving myself vulnerable seems as foolish as napping on the terrace did, so I slip from under the covers and pad on the thick carpet to the door and turn the lock.

It may be silly. No. It’s wisdom. This house may be the address on my hospital paperwork, but I don’t know it as my home. It’s as foreign as any I might tour on an open house.

Christian might legally be my husband. He may be generous and hot as sin. He may not “want to off me” but he didn’t fail to mention my life insurance policy either.

He manages to follow every kind comment with something intimidating. I won’t kill you because I’d need your body for the money doesn’t invite comfort or safety.

How the hell I went into that room is beyond me. I know actually—the pungent tang of old vinegar… the smell of old thirty-five millimeter processing chemicals. And those smells, the stale sour notes that hung in the air like dust motes would in an attic… I was helpless to avoid following them.

That smell is buried in my brain, in my memories for as far back as high school, maybe longer. SLRs and DSLRs were available then. And I had those, too. But the old cameras—the one shot, no digital editing, softer edges of film—they’re my favorite.

I want to explore it, the odd rounded area in the angled room, but I want time there without the overwhelming emotions I’m engulfed by. The range of them flooding me is almost debilitating, especially without my memories to ground me.

The phone on my nightstand lights up. My thumbprint opens the screen even though I’ve never seen this phone before.

Italian Stallion: Sweet dreams, baby. Sleep well.

Italian Stallion? That’s atrocious. I change it immediately to “Christian Barone” in my contacts, and cringe at the version of me—or the sense of humor of the man it refers to—that would ever type that in.

I don’t respond to the text. I flip through the home screen, looking at the neatly arranged folders. All are organized exactly as I would expect, nearly as I remember from before . Photography apps, photo editing ones, social media.

Curious, I click on one called Picstagram. The feed is fine, but I want clues.

But there aren’t just clues here. There’s an entire life played out for the world to see.

Picture after picture of me. Me sitting on Christian’s lap.

Me laughing beside him in selfies. The two of us on a beach, his tan body juxtaposed against my fair skin.

Me dressed in a formal at some gala, stepping out with my husband at my side.

Cian and I at a restaurant, an amazing spread laid out before us.

Halley and I in candid photojournalism black and whites.

Me, in profile, the mountains behind me, hair whipping around me. This one is black and white. I didn’t take it—that much is obvious. It’s not a selfie. It’s candid and I’m in the foreground, the background fuzzy, but impossible to miss.

So many photos.

I sit up in bed, hunched over my phone, expanding shots, looking for hints that help me remember. There’s nothing.

Well, nothing but an enviable life of lavish accommodations, gorgeous clothes, and obvious wealth.

A storefront shot captures my eye. The symmetry in the black and white photo is stellar. The frames of windowpanes are perfectly squared in the photo. There’s character in the old building that was obviously restored. The sign above states “Aspen & Evergreen.”

The caption reads: Aspen & Evergreen is the vision of Denver’s own Ayla Barone and her husband Christian, a local real estate magnate.

Ayla is pleased to share her photography with our city.

Her collections have graced the governor’s mansion, and her work hangs in the homes of Denver’s most prominent leaders.

It goes on to give a web address and other social addresses.

The shop has a Picstagram account. What I find there both floors me and humbles me.

Not because I did it, though I must have.

But because what lies up the hill are the most breathtaking views on the planet, and I get to live here and play here and shoot here.

And because those mountains, the valleys beneath, the aspens and the evergreens, they made me into something.

I slump back into the pillows and giggle until it hurts and until the laugh ultimately turns to tears. I slide onto my side and curl my knees into my chest, forming a tight ball.

My life is in the device in the palm of my hand.

The life I could never have dreamed of, never have envisioned.

Successful businesswoman—a sought-after photographer, no less—married, apparently to someone filthy rich, a house in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country…

the definition of achievement to the entire world.

And I don’t know it.

I can’t connect to it.

My body fears it.

And my brain won’t remember it.

I’m outside, watching the moon rise, curled up on a chaise, huddling in only a sweater and yoga pants.

I needed the nap and the dreamless sleep. No beeping. No cords or tubes. No well-meaning medical staff interrupting to shine a light in my eyes, or poke me, or ask if I need anything.

No bedside vigil by a man whose eyes are dark and foreboding.

The door behind me whooshes almost silently as I study the orange spray that backlights the mountains in a way that’s unique to the Front Range. The sun has dipped behind the mountains and all that’s left is the reminder in the painted sunset.

“Princess?” Christian shakes out a blanket and holds it in front of me.

I nod, still staring out into space.

“Can I get the pit going for you?”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

He’s showered and freshly shaved, in a black suit, black shirt, and charcoal tie, striking male beauty, starting a fire for me. No, it’s a combined fire and water feature that is as relaxing as it is mesmerizing.

He sits on the edge of my chair. “I hate that I have to go out. Are you going to be okay?”

I stare as the flames dance, letting them hypnotize me and lull me.

“You’re worrying me, baby.”

I lift my eyes to his, no longer hiding the unshed tears.

“It’s like I’ve woken up halfway through a movie and I don’t know if I’m in a thriller or a romcom.

I don’t know the setting or the plotlines.

I can’t distinguish friend from foe, and I don’t understand the clues that the audience knows.

And for the love of all that’s holy, I don’t know my lines.

” I throw out my hands in exasperation. “Welcome to my life.”

A lone, silent tear rolls down my cheek.

Why did I say that? And why did I expose my jugular to Christian Barone of all people?

He slides forward and pulls me into his arms. I remain stiff for several moments, until I can’t hold it in any longer and I melt into him, releasing the swell of tears, shaking through the grief.

“You’re not an actor on stage. You don’t have lines to memorize. You can simply be you.”

“I’m so scared. What if I never?—?”

He rubs slow circles on my back but doesn’t fill the silence with unkeepable promises.

Terror and confusion.

The unknown and the unknowable.

When the tears subside, I pull back and look into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Ever so slowly, he leans in and presses a chaste kiss on my lips but doesn’t linger. Instead, he runs a thumb over my cheek and threads his fingers into my hair.

“I have an idea. Want to get up early on Friday and drive to see the aspens?”

“Can we go to Kenosha Pass?” I love the Pass and it’s the perfect time to watch the yellows and golds warm to fiery oranges and rusty reds.

“Sure. How about Maroon Bells next week if we can swing it?”

Yes. No. Panic seizes me. “Maybe. Can we play it by ear?”

Thumb to my chin, he tips my face up and dips too close, holding my gaze. “What happened? Where’d you go?” I look away, but he persists, his thumb remaining firm. “Tell me. Trust me with this, Ayla.”

“That’s not a day trip.”

He nods.

“It’s overnight.”

“It is. ”

“I don’t… I don’t know you like that.”

“Oh, but you do, Princess. You know every inch of me, inside and out.” He breaks eye contact and leans in to whisper in my ear, letting his hand roll down to rest on my neck, as his thumb rubs over my pulse point.

“I know every inch of you too, Ayla. Every inch. I’ve licked, sucked, caressed, and fucked every inch of you.

I know your taste. I know the sounds you make when you’re close and your face when you come.

I won’t force you. Never will I take what you don’t give, but you’ve never withheld, never not given, never been shy.

You’ve seduced me with your face and your body, your words and desires, until my dick is as hard as it is right now, picturing you laid out before me.

Your pink pussy, red hair, pale skin, dusky nipples, and your body writhing in pleasure, chasing an orgasm like it’s your job to catch it. ”

I gasp.

“Hearing that gasp makes my cock jerk. It knows you. I know you. And you know me.” He places a kiss below my ear as his thumb presses into my pulse.

Fuck my traitorous body for breaking out in goosebumps as a shiver rolls through me from top to toe. From the heat in Christian’s eyes, he doesn’t miss it. Nor does he miss me glancing at his trousers as he stands to leave. They’re tented as his dick strains against them.

He places a kiss to my forehead and leaves the terrace without another word.