Chapter 2

The moment I turned, I was surrounded by several foreign police officers.

They mistook me for some wanted criminal.

My clumsy French only seemed to harden their faces.

They pressed me down, forcing me onto my knees.

In a panic, I instinctively looked at Alex, who wasn't far away.

"Alex! Help me! They've got the wrong person!"

I screamed with all my might.

He heard me and looked over, his gaze sweeping across my face.

Then, like he was looking at a complete stranger, he calmly shifted his eyes away.

"I don't know her."

That was the coldest sentence I'd ever heard in my life.

Fifteen days.

In the dark interrogation rooms and cold cells, I counted the hours, enduring three hundred and sixty of them.

It wasn't until a DNA match report finally cleared my name.

Dragging my exhausted body out of the police station, I wasn't met by Alex, but by his secretary, Mr. Davies.

Mr. Davies adjusted his glasses, his voice dripping with reproach.

"Miss Hayes, what exactly are you doing? Do you know Mr. Thorne waited for you at the airport for two whole hours?"

The last flicker of warmth in my heart turned to ice in the cold foreign wind.

The day I returned home, as soon as I walked through the arrivals gate, I was surrounded by countless flashes and microphones.

My imprisonment abroad had become a widely known scandal.

After finally fighting my way through the crowd and getting home, Alex's first words were a reprimand.

"How many times have I told you to wear a white coat when you're out? Why don't you listen?"

He frowned, his tone like he was scolding an unruly child.

"You know I have face blindness; I can't tell women's faces apart."

I clenched my hands into fists.

He turned a page in his document, giving his next instruction without looking up.

"The PR department has already drafted the statement. We'll have a press conference tomorrow."

"You need to clarify things and apologize to the public."

Apologize?

Apologize for whom? For Alex Thorne’s cold indifference, or for his so-called "face blindness"?

I looked at his impassive face and quietly asked,

"At the airport, the girl you hugged – who was she?"

His hand, turning the document, paused. A rare stiffness appeared on his face.

After a few seconds, he finally spoke.

"There were too many people then. I thought it was you."

I almost laughed, bitterly.

That day, the girl wore a bright, eye-catching red dress and had a cascade of wavy hair, a style I’d never once worn.