Therapy.

Zoe’s POV

I paced on the balcony, trying to wrap my head around what the fuck I had just agreed to and signed.

I must be crazy.

On the outside, it seemed like the best move. Both agencies were happy to make the deal, NDAs were signed, and the secret wouldn't leave that table: Arman had lost his memory in the car accident. I was supposed to help him remember who he was (without losing myself in the process). It sounded easy.

But knowing I’d be deceiving a sick person made my stomach churn—or maybe it was that crazy glare Bridget wouldn't stop giving me.

“Zoe?”

I looked up at the sound of my name. “Miss Riah.”

“Arman won’t say anything if you’re not in the room,” she winced. Therapy began immediately because it was the fastest way to get Arman well. His wounds seemed to be psychological, which just made me wonder how weak he actually was. What was there to "go crazy" over? The guy’s life was perfect.

I winced at the psychiatrist’s words; I thought I was supposed to be his girlfriend, not his babysitter. “Hey.”

Arman smiled as soon as he sighted me, and it stilled me for a moment. This smile was… different. You see, I’ve watched Arman a lot in person, and I’ve watched his movies to try to get hints about the man, but this smile? This wasn’t "Arman." It was the smile of a little boy seeing his first best friend. I once treated a six-year-old boy in the pediatric ward; he had a sprained wrist and was in tears, but the minute his buddy came to see him, he found the courage to smile through the pain.

I might be wrong, but this was the unadulterated Arman. He was a kid again.

“Zoe?” Arman was in front of me now, his hands in my hair and his eyes searching mine.

Fuck. I had **zoned** out.

“Sorry, you surprised me for a second there,” I apologized.

Arman would have none of it. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, holding his hands to stop him from patting my hair before butterflies began to sing in my stomach. “I’m fine. Now, your doctor said you’re refusing to answer her questions.” I led him back to his seat and settled beside him. “Why won’t you answer her?”

“Because you weren't here,” he responded, as if it were that simple.

I nodded, refusing to push the subject. “I’m here now. We don’t have time to waste.” I cleared my throat.

The doctor settled in and we started. “What is your name?”

Arman looked at me before he answered, “Arman Anders.”

The doctor jotted something down before meeting my eyes. “Had he been reminded of his name?”

I didn’t like that she directed the question at me. “The ‘he’ is sitting right in front of you.” But because I didn’t want to be any ruder, I responded, “He recalled his name as soon as he woke up.” I didn’t add that he had only recalled his first name, not his last; I didn’t want to ruin her investigation, especially since he might have just caught the name during the legal proceedings.

She asked more questions—his age, his occupation, his address—and he answered them. But at this point, I knew he had learned most of those answers before coming today just so he wouldn't look stupid. At least one thing about Arman remained constant.

Everything was going smoothly until the doctor changed the direction of her questions drastically. She began asking about the accident, the awards night, and the drive. Both Arman and I became uncomfortable. Arman had no answers to give; I had none I was willing to give.

We both breathed a sigh of relief when the session was finally over.

“I don’t like her,” Arman snorted once we finally got to the car.

I gave a small smile. “I don’t either.”

Arman smiled—that smile, again. “Let’s drink to our mutual dislike. What do you like?”

My eyes automatically went to the clock. It was my day off, but Arman didn't have to know that. “Coffee is fine, but I’m not sure I have much time.”

Arman went quiet for a minute. “Do you hate that I had an accident? Or do you hate that I can’t walk well? Or… have you always wanted to break up with me?”

I almost hit the brakes in the middle of the fast lane. It took a few seconds to calm down before I could speak. “Why would you say something like that?”

My heart was racing; I had not prepared for a conversation like this.

“You’ve been avoiding me. You won’t stay with me, and you’re always in a hurry to leave. When I was sick, lying there helpless, you stayed with me. You held my hand. You spoke to me. You were always there, Zoe. But as soon as I woke up, everything changed.” He spoke with total seriousness. I had seen Arman’s "serious face" many times, but this one was different, too.

“I’ve been busy,” I lied.

Arman turned to me. “We both know that’s bullshit. Talk to me, Zoe.”

I opened my mouth and shut it again. It was on the tip of my tongue to confess everything—that I wasn’t his girlfriend and never had been—but he beat me to the punch.

“Is this about the fight we had before my accident?”

I swerved into the slow lane and slammed on the brakes.