Selene's POV
The moment Asher Vale walked into my gallery, the world stopped.
Not dramatically. Not cinematically. The way things stop when you see a ghost. A quiet, internal freezing, like your heart forgets its next beat.
Five years.
Five years since he had looked at me with hatred and walked out of our apartment.
Five years since I had held a positive pregnancy test in one hand and his goodbye note in the other.
Five years since I lost the baby and him in the same terrible week.
And now he was standing in my gallery, studying one of my paintings like he had never seen anything like it.
He looked the same. Same dark hair falling across his forehead. Same intense way of focusing, like whatever he was looking at mattered more than anything else in the world. Same hands. Those painter's hands, elegant and strong, tucked casually into the pockets of a charcoal coat.
Different, though. Softer around the edges. Less of the sharp, wounded anger that had defined his last months with me.
He turned.
Our eyes met.
And nothing. Absolutely nothing crossed his face but polite curiosity.
"Beautiful work," he said, gesturing at the painting. "The use of light in the background. It almost feels like memory. Like something half remembered."
My throat closed. Because that painting, the largest in the gallery, was him. It was always him. The shape of his shoulders in morning light. The way he would stand at his easel, utterly lost in creation. The warmth I had woken up to for two years before everything shattered.
"Thank you," I managed. Professional. Cool. The voice I used with clients who did not know me.
He stepped closer, and my skin remembered his proximity before my brain could stop it.
"I'm Asher, by the way." He extended his hand. "Asher Vale. I'm a painter myself. Well. I was. Before the accident."
I took his hand. His grip was warm, familiar, and utterly empty of recognition.
"Selene Hawthorne," I said. "This is my gallery."
His fingers lingered a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "Hawthorne," he repeated. "That name feels. I don't know. Familiar, maybe."
You married me, I thought. You held me on our wedding night and said forever. You looked at me like I was the answer to every question you had ever asked.
"You probably saw it in the press," I said instead. "My family's. Well. You know how the media is."
He smiled. That easy, open smile I had not seen since our first months together. "I don't read the papers much anymore. Since the memory loss, I've been focused on the present. The past is a little crowded."
Memory loss.
The words hit me like cold water.
"You." I stopped. Swallowed. "You have memory loss?"
"Retrograde amnesia." He said it casually, like discussing the weather. "Lost about ten years. Everything from eighteen to twenty eight. Just. Gone." He shrugged. "My doctors say it might come back. Might not. I've made peace with it."
Ten years.
Somewhere in those ten years, he had loved me. Married me. Left me.
All of it, erased.
"That must be." I searched for words. "Strange. Not knowing who you were."
"Sometimes." He looked at me curiously. "Other times, it's freeing. No baggage. No regrets. Just. Now."
Just now.
He had no regrets because he did not remember what he had lost. What we had lost.
"Selene?" His voice pulled me back. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I have, I thought. I'm looking at one right now.
"I'm fine," I said automatically. "Just. You remind me of someone. Someone I used to know."
Interest flickered in his eyes. Something deeper than polite curiosity. Something almost hungry.
"Yeah?" He leaned against the wall, casual but intent. "Good reminder or bad?"
I should have said bad. Should have stepped back. Should have protected myself from the man who had already broken me once.
But he was looking at me like I was interesting. Like I was worth knowing. Like I was a stranger he wanted to become familiar with.
And God help me, I had missed that look for five years.
"Complicated," I said honestly. "The best kind of complicated."
His smile widened. "I like complicated. Simple things are boring."
Behind him, through the gallery's front window, I saw a familiar figure crossing the street.
Lucien.
Watching.
Waiting.
No, I thought. No, no, no.
Because if Lucien saw Asher here, if Lucien realized Asher had found me, even accidentally, even without his memory.
"Selene?" Asher followed my gaze. "Someone you know?"
I grabbed his arm before I could think. "Come with me. Now."
He did not question it. Did not pull away. Just followed as I led him through the back corridor, past storage, out the emergency exit into the alley.
The door closed behind us. We were alone in the narrow space, breathing hard, standing closer than strangers should.
"What's going on?" he asked. No fear in his voice. Just curiosity. Just trust.
He trusts me, I realized. The man who hated me trusts me without even knowing who I am.
"There's someone," I said carefully. "Someone who might be a problem. If he sees you here, if he knows you found me."
"Found me?" Asher's head tilted. "Selene. Have we met before?"
I should have told him the truth. Should have said: We were everything. You were my husband. I was carrying your child.
But the words would not come. They were too big. Too heavy. Too dangerous.
"No," I whispered. "We haven't met."
Something flickered in his eyes. Disappointment? Doubt? I could not tell.
"Then why did you drag me out here?"
I needed a reason. Any reason. Something that would explain my panic without explaining anything at all.
"That man," I said, nodding toward the door. "He's my landlord. He comes every month for the rent, and I. I don't have it ready. He gets angry. I didn't want you caught in the middle."
Asher studied my face. Searching. Weighing.
"Your landlord," he repeated.
"Yes."
"And he's angry because you're late on rent."
"Very angry."
Asher glanced at the gallery building. At the prime location. At the expensive art in the windows.
"How much?" he asked.
"What?"
"The rent. How much do you owe him?"
I stared at him. He was serious. This stranger who did not know me was offering to help.
"You don't," I started. "You can't just."
"I want to help." His voice was gentle. "You looked terrified when you saw him. Whatever's going on, however we don't know each other. I want to help."
The lie grew bigger. Uglier. But I could not stop now.
"Three thousand," I said. A number pulled from nowhere.
Asher nodded. Reached into his pocket. Pulled out a checkbook.
I should have stopped him. Should have told the truth.
But he was writing my name on a check, and his handwriting was exactly the same, and five years of loneliness cracked something open in my chest.
"Here." He handed it to me. "Now he can't hurt you."
I took the check. Stared at his name printed above the address. Asher Vale. My husband. My ghost. My stranger.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He smiled. That smile. The one I had fallen in love with a lifetime ago.
"Tell me tomorrow," he said. "Over coffee. Tell me who I remind you of."
I nodded. Could not speak.
He walked out of the alley, hands in his pockets, disappearing into the night like he had done five years ago.
Only this time, he left me with a check and a promise.
And a lie that was already poisoning everything.