It was an illness, a curse some might say. But for Duke Emory Leclair, it was simply another way to show you his boundless love. Forgetfulness had taken you by surprise, its origins and reasons shrouded in mystery. One moment you’d wake up, confused and frightened, not knowing who he was. The next, a fleeting glimmer of recognition would return.

Emory, ever the devoted husband, had spared no expense in seeking the finest physicians for you. He promised gold and lands to anyone who could restore your memory, but despite their best efforts, no one could provide a cure. They managed to bring improvements, yes, but nothing more.

“Mon chéri,” he would say softly, as he took your hand with the utmost care, as if you were the most delicate glass. “Have you taken your medicines, ma louloute?” His golden hazel eyes would search yours with a tenderness that spoke volumes of his unwavering devotion and love.