When Love Dies And Memories Fade

To save my grandmother, I married a man who hated me. He never knew I was the one who secretly saved his life with a bone marrow donation. And when my grandmother lay dying, he refused to pay for the surgery that would have saved her.

He called it another one of my "dramas," laughing as my last hope died.

But he didn't just kill my grandmother. He killed our child, too.

I was secretly pregnant, part of a billion-dollar surrogacy deal to get the money for her care. When I begged him, showing him the ultrasound, his reply was cold.

"Get rid of it."

With my grandmother dead and my heart destroyed, I finally gave up. He would always believe the lies of his mistress-my sister-who had stolen the credit for saving him.

So I terminated the pregnancy, signed the divorce papers, and paid a doctor to erase every memory of him. Now, he stands before me, a broken man begging for forgiveness, but I can only look into his tear-filled eyes and ask, "I'm sorry, who are you?"

Chapter 1

Allison Farmer POV:

The flashing blue and red lights painted my living room in a twisted dance, just like the lie that had become my life, just like the lie Christopher McDowell believed about me. Two police officers, their faces grim under the harsh glow of the squad car, stood in my doorway, their presence an invasion of the very air I breathed. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. I knew why they were here. He always took his cruelty to new heights.

My gaze drifted to the shattered remains of my grandmother's porcelain music box. It lay on the marble floor, a thousand delicate shards reflecting the flashing lights like broken dreams. The tiny ballerina, once pirouetting gracefully, was now just a headless torso, its painted smile a mockery of my own internal agony. He had thrown it, just moments before, a casual flick of his wrist. It was a cruel reminder of how easily he could break anything I held dear.

"Allison, what the hell were you thinking?" Christopher' s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold, like a winter wind. He stood by the fireplace, his designer suit perfectly pressed, his posture radiating an arrogance that made my stomach clench. "Trying to drug me? Are you really that desperate?" His words were ice, and they pierced through me, freezing what little hope I had left. My cheeks burned with shame, not for what I had done, but for the accusations he hurled.

A sharp, stabbing pain erupted in my stomach, a familiar ache that had been my constant companion these past months. It twisted and turned, a physical manifestation of the emotional knots inside me. I pressed a hand against my abdomen, trying to staunch the invisible wound, but it was no use. The pain only intensified, reminding me of all the nights I' d spent curled up