Chapter 1

Have you ever wondered if the person sharing the bed with you every night—the one you've been passionately tangled with—isn't actually who you married?

On our tenth wedding anniversary, Nathan pressed me against the floor-to-ceiling windows. His burning lips traced my collarbone, his calloused hands gentle yet commanding as they stole the breath from my lungs.

"Happy tenth anniversary, baby."

But my body wouldn't stop trembling, my stomach turning inside out.

Because just one hour ago, I had discovered something: the back of his neck bore no trace of Nathan Jarvis's signature maroon birthmark.

The night was ink-black, the city's brilliant neon lights glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I could feel the warmth of his palms through the thin silk of my nightgown, searing into my waist.

They were calloused hands—rough, marked by years of writing and working out.

But the real Nathan—that privileged rich man who'd never done a day of physical labor in his life, who could barely peel an apple without cutting himself—how could he have hands like these?

"Elena, you're shaking?" He paused, pulling back half an inch, his dark eyes locking onto me through the dim light.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, forcing back the scream clawing its way up my throat.

"I'm fine. The AC is too cold." I forced a smile, wrapped my arms around his neck, and buried my face against his chest—so he couldn't see the terror in my eyes.

His heartbeat was strong and steady.

This body—I had held it for three thousand six hundred and fifty nights, knew it so well I could trace every inch with my eyes closed. But now my mind kept pulling me back to an hour ago, when I'd been tidying his discarded suit and found something in the most hidden inner pocket: a silver pendant—crescent-shaped, its edges crusted with dried dark-brown blood.

That pendant had been around Nathan's neck the night of his car accident, ten years ago. When the police cleared the scene, it had vanished. Everyone assumed it had been destroyed in the explosion.

"Let me turn the temperature up then." He laughed softly, pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and turned to grab the remote.

The moment he turned away, I caught the light streaming through the windows and stared—hard—at the back of his neck.

Smooth. Bare.

Nothing.

The real Nathan Jarvis had a maroon birthmark on the back of his neck, one he'd been born with. I had traced it with my fingertips countless times after we made love. He'd always laugh and pull away, saying that spot was too sensitive.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the bathroom mirror: eyes red, lips trembling.

I looked away fast.

That night was the longest of my life. I moved like a hollow puppet, going through every expected motion. But the rational part of me kept cycling through one suffocating thought: If he isn't Nathan Jarvis, then who is he? And more importantly—where is my Nathan?