At twenty-six, Dr. Anastasia Blair has perfected the art of control. Tight schedules. Quiet nights. A life built around keeping her four-year-old niece Jennifer safe - and keeping her own secrets buried. Everything works... Until the night he comes back. Ethan Thornwell. Her husband in name. Her mistake in memory. Her undoing in every way she swore she'd never feel again. He arrives at her door at midnight, suitcase in hand, clothes rumpled from travel, eyes burning like he already owns the room. "Missed me? Dear wife," he drawls, that devilish smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. Anastasia hates that her breath catches. Hates that he notices. "You're not supposed to be here," she snaps, pushing the door - but Ethan's faster. His hand slides to her waist, firm and familiar, pinning her gently but inescapably against the wall. He leans in, so close she can feel the warmth of him, the command in his presence, the way he still fits against her like a memory she tried to erase. "I plan on doing a lot of things I'm not supposed to, Anna..." His lips brush her ear, sending a shiver down her spine she wishes she could hide. "And most of them involve you." Her pulse betrays her. Her skin betrays her. Everything in her betrays her. He steps into her house like he never left - like the space remembers him too. And then Jennie's sleepy voice rings out. Her eyes widen. She runs straight toward him with pure joy. "Daddaaa!" Ethan catches her effortlessly, lifting her with strong arms that used to hold Anastasia the same way. His gaze finds Anastasia over Jennie's shoulder, dark, certain, claiming. He didn't come for forgiveness. He didn't come to talk. He came because he's done letting her run. But Anastasia's chest tightens with a truth she's fought to forget: With all that has happened in the past, she's not sure she can ever let him in again. Even if a small, treacherous part of her still burns at the sound of his voice.