Blurb：
Three years of marriage, and my husband Weston Hayes still doesn't recognize me. He claims to have prosopagnosia - face blindness that prevents him from remembering women's faces. But when I saw him in Milan embracing another woman with perfect recognition, I discovered the painful truth: Weston Hayes isn't forgetful, he's just not in love with me. After being mistaken for a criminal and abandoned by my own husband in Italy, I returned to New York only to face public scandal and Weston's cold demands for an apology. This emotional romance novel explores whether a marriage built on forgotten identities can survive when dark secrets surface. Will Claire continue living as a stranger to the man she loves, or will she finally make Weston Hayes see her true face?Content：
Three years of marriage, and my husband, Weston Hayes, still doesn't know who I am.He can remember the entire world, but he draws a complete blank on my face.
If I get a new haircut, he’ll ask me, “Excuse me, miss, who are you looking for?”
If I wear a different dress, he assumes I’m the new housekeeper.
On our anniversary, I was trapped with him and a group of his employees in a collapsed mine tunnel, a remote asset of his corporation.
In the suffocating darkness, I felt my way to his side, my voice trembling as I told him it was me, Claire.
He shoved me away. “Stop pretending. My wife isn't here.”
It took the rescue crews three days and three nights to dig me out. That evening, at a celebratory dinner for the successful rescue, Weston raised his glass. “A toast to the team. No casualties.”
He had completely forgotten I was lying in a hospital bed.
After that, I created a uniform for myself. I wore only one color of clothing, kept my hair styled the exact same way, and used the same perfume, all in the desperate hope that Weston might finally recognize me.
But every time, he looked at me like I was a stranger.
I thought it was some kind of cosmic punishment.
Then, on the day I flew to Milan to celebrate his birthday, I saw him. I watched him cut through a bustling crowd and pull a young woman into a fierce, unerring embrace.
And I finally understood. He didn't have trouble remembering my face because of some rare neurological condition. It was simply because he wasn't in love with me.
If that was the truth, then it was best we just became strangers to each other.
1
The moment I turned to leave, I was surrounded by several Italian police officers. They were shouting, mistaking me for some wanted fugitive. My broken, panicked Italian only made their expressions harden.
One of them forced me to my knees on the cold pavement.
In the chaos, my eyes instinctively found Weston, not twenty feet away.
“Weston! Help me! They’ve made a mistake!” I screamed, my voice raw with desperation.
He heard me. His gaze swept over my face, vacant and indifferent. Then, as if looking at a complete stranger, he calmly turned away.
“I don’t know her.”
It was the coldest sentence I had ever heard in my life.
Fifteen days. I counted three hundred and sixty hours by the tolling of a distant church bell, locked away in a sunless interrogation room and a frigid cell. My innocence was finally proven by a DNA report that confirmed a case of mistaken identity.
When I dragged my exhausted body out of the police station, it wasn't Weston waiting for me, but his assistant, Arthur.
Arthur adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone dripping with reproach. “Claire, what was all that about? Do you have any idea that Mr. Hayes waited at the airport for you for two whole hours?”
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