Chapter 1

On the night of a family memorial holiday, my husband—bound to a world-traveling system and sent to the past for a mission—suddenly came home.

He had been gone three years without a single word, and everyone said he was never coming back.

Yet now here he was, appearing out of nowhere, holding me so tightly it hurt.

"Manny, I'm home!"

That familiar scent of mint filled my nose.

My hands shook as I gripped his shirt and asked,

"These past years—were you all right?"

He was quiet for a few seconds. Without thinking, I held my breath,

and then he said, "It's all behind me now. As long as I can finish the mission, I don't mind how hard it gets."

In that moment, I felt like I'd been dropped into ice.

Because this was the safe-word Irvin Black and I had agreed on.

If I ever asked him that question, no matter the situation, he had to answer:

"Without my one-of-a-kind rose beside me, nothing is all right at all."

So the man in front of me, wearing my husband's face, was not Irvin Black.

...

My stomach cramped in waves.

I forced down the nausea and looked up at that familiar, handsome face.

He gazed at me gently, his eyes full of tenderness.

Maybe I'd been silent too long, because he asked, "What's wrong? Aren't you happy I'm back?"

My nails dug into the soft flesh of my palm, and the pain jolted me awake.

"I just couldn't take it in for a second."

The man smiled. "Well, I was gone three years this time. It's normal for you to need a moment to get used to me being back."

I stared at his face, searching for a crack, but there was nothing to find. He looked flawless. I asked,

"Are you hungry? What do you feel like eating? I'll make it for you."

"The spicy meat-and-blood hotpot, a stir-fried pork skillet, spicy fried chicken..."

He rattled off one Tex-Mex-style dish after another, and the more I heard, the colder I felt inside,

because these were all the dishes Irvin Black loved.

Whenever I used to ask him, he would name these same ones without hesitation.

A person's eating habits are hard to change. Was this really not Irvin Black?

I watched him step inside, pull out his slippers and change into them with practiced ease, and settle into the seat that had always been his.

Every move he made matched the old habits exactly.

For a moment I felt almost dizzy, and I couldn't help but wonder—maybe he'd simply forgotten our agreement?

After all, like he said, we'd been apart three years.

One steaming dish after another came to the table.

The only difference was that I put chopped scallions in the spicy meat-and-blood hotpot.

Irvin Black loved all kinds of spicy Tex-Mex fare, but the one thing he couldn't stand was the scallions used for aroma.

He always said they had a raw, sour smell that made him want to gag the moment it hit him. It was a physical reaction. Any time a dish had scallions in it, he'd rather not eat at all.

I gripped my chopsticks and held my breath without meaning to, and I watched the man brush the scallions aside, pick up the meat, and put it in his mouth.

He didn't hesitate. He didn't even ask a single puzzled question.

The motion was completely natural.

Something roared in my head, and everything inside me churned.

The man wearing my husband's face was not Irvin Black.

I bit down hard on the inside of my tongue, fighting to hold back the pounding in my chest, and in that moment I was flooded with dread.

If he wasn't Irvin Black, then where was my Irvin?

Was he still alive? Could he ever come back to me?

I clenched my teeth and swore to myself that no matter what, I would get to the bottom of this and bring Irvin Black home.

As if he'd sensed my stare,

the man suddenly turned his head and fixed his eyes on me.

His pupils were very dark, like black, lifeless glass.

"Manny, what's wrong with you? Are you hiding something from me?"