My husband looks at me like I'm the light of his life. We live in a penthouse apartment that overlooks Central Park. My closet it filled with designer clothes and more pairs of shoes than I can count. I have everything I could possibly want at my fingertips.

And I've accomplished my dream of writing a novel. I wrote my love story. Every kiss, every touch, every memory compiled in a manuscript. The pages make my heart ache, my tears flow freely, and my cheeks hurt from laughter. My whole life is written on these pages.

I have the perfect husband. The perfect family. The perfect life.

But I don't remember any of it.