My Husband Faked Our Marriage

Chapter 1

While cleaning my husband’s office, I found our torn and crumpled marriage certificate in the trash. Thinking it was a mistake, I went to the civil registry to get a new copy, only to discover the truth.

“There’s no registered marriage under your name with Mr. Johansen Smith,” she said. “But he is legally married. To a woman named Maureen Reid.”

Maureen. My cousin.

I stood there frozen, trying to process what she said. They’d been married for four years—long before Johansen and I ever walked down the aisle.

Worse, I overheard him talking to his friends later that day.

“Honestly? I loved Cassandra once,” he said. “But she left. Maureen was there. We got married. Then Cassandra came back and everyone expected us to be the golden couple. So I faked it. Why should I divorce Maureen? Cassandra’s family is rich. She’s useful. I can have both.”

That was the breaking point. I was done playing his fool. So I called my mother.

“Mom,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “About the marriage arrangement I once rejected for Johansen… I’m ready now. Please, prepare it for me.”

One week. I have to wait one week, and Johansen would be nothing but a bitter memory.

Or so I thought—until he showed up at my engagement party, eyes full of regret, pleading for a second chance… as if he hadn’t shattered me completely.

--

I had just finished folding the laundry when I walked into my husband Johansen’s home office, the one place I rarely touched. He didn’t like me “disorganizing” his work files, he’d say. But the floor was a mess—papers scattered near the trash can.

I bent down to pick them up when something caught my eye.

A crumpled, torn paper. At first, I thought it was just another work document he’d carelessly tossed, but when I smoothed it out, my heart skipped a beat. It was our marriage certificate.

My fingers trembled slightly as I stared at it. Was it a mistake? Did he accidentally throw it out? I smiled faintly at the thought—maybe he’d just needed a copy and tossed the old one. But still… why would anyone throw away something so important?

I decided to surprise him. Get a new one. Maybe even frame it—something meaningful, especially since it would be our wedding anniversary this week.

So I went to the marriage registry office that afternoon.

“Hi, I’d like to request a certified copy of our marriage certificate,” I said politely to the lady behind the counter. “Johansen Smith and Cassandra Ruiz. We were married three years ago.”

She typed quickly. Then frowned. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s no record of a marriage under those names.”

I blinked. “Sorry?”

She repeated it. “There’s no registered marriage for you and Mr. Johansen Smith. Are you sure about the date?”

“Yes. Absolutely. We’ve been married three years. I even have the certificate, it’s just torn—look, I brought it.” I took out the crumpled paper from my bag, smoothed it out on the counter.

She looked at it. Then gave me a strange look.

“This document… I’m afraid it’s not valid. It looks fabricated.”

My blood turned to ice.

“What do you mean… fabricated?” My voice was barely a whisper.

“Miss Ruiz, Mr. Smith has been legally married for the past four years to a woman named Maureen Reid. That’s the only marriage registered under his name.”

Maureen Reid. The words echoed like a siren in my head.

Maureen. My cousin.

My best friend since we were kids. The girl I trusted with everything. Including Johansen—especially Johansen—when I left to study fashion abroad six years ago.

It almost felt like a cruel joke. Because Johansen and I… we weren’t just a couple. We were the story everyone told their children when they talked about high school sweethearts.

We met during sophomore year. I was new—quiet, a little awkward—and he was the confident, charming boy who sat two rows behind me in Literature. He always had a pen to lend, always knew when I was having a bad day. He’d leave notes in my locker, walk me home even when it rained, and sneak my favorite snacks into my bag between classes.

By senior year, everyone called us “the married couple.” Teachers joked about our wedding, and friends teased us for being “that couple who’d last.” But the difference was—we believed it. So did everyone else.

He was always the first to cheer me on. When I got into the fashion program of my dreams overseas, he held me tighter than ever. “Three years,” I had told him, voice cracking. “That’s a long time, Jo.”

He kissed my forehead. “Not long enough to make me forget you. I’ll wait. I promise.”

I had cried in his arms that night, but I had left—because he told me to chase my dreams. And even across oceans and time zones, we never drifted.

Johansen called every morning, no matter how early it was. He sent me photos of his day, mailed me letters on our anniversaries, and FaceTimed me when I felt homesick. He never missed a single birthday or moment. Even Maureen, who was living just blocks away from him, used to say, “Johansen’s love for you could build bridges.”

She knew. She saw the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing that mattered.

When I returned three years later, I thought my life was falling into place again.

He greeted me at the airport with a bouquet of peonies—my favorite. I ran into his arms like a scene out of a movie. And two days later, in the middle of the candle-lit living room he’d decorated himself, Johansen got on one knee, tears already brimming in his eyes.

“I waited,” he said. “And I’ll keep waiting forever if I have to. Marry me.”

I said yes, sobbing, overwhelmed with love. And everything since then had felt like a dream: the ceremony, the moving in, the routines, the soft mornings and warm nights. For three years, I wore a ring he slid onto my finger. Called myself his wife.

Only to find out… it was all fake.

All of it.

A carefully constructed illusion to keep me believing while he lived a double life with my cousin behind my back.

The world around me tilted. My thoughts snapped when my phone buzzed.

Johansen: Hey, baby. Where are you? Coming home soon? I miss you.

Sweet. Just like always. Too sweet.

I didn’t reply. For the first time.

I drove back to our house and was about to head to my room when a sound from his office stopped me in my tracks.

A woman’s voice. Familiar.

“I’m serious, Jo… what if she comes back and sees us?”

Maureen. I froze.

“She won’t,” Johansen said confidently. “I texted her earlier. No reply. She’s probably out shopping or some nonsense. Besides, even if she walks in—who cares? You’re my wife. She just thinks she is.”

They laughed. I wanted to scream. I wanted to disappear.

He continued. “The fake certificate? Threw it in the trash this morning. Honestly, can’t believe how long she’s bought the whole thing. She’s so… stupid.”

Another laugh. Another soft voice. They were together. In my home. On the couch I bought. In the office I kept clean for him.

The betrayal was too sharp, too loud. I covered my mouth to muffle my sob. But it wasn’t enough.

My heart had been stomped on. Shattered. But I wouldn’t let them finish me.

With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone.

“Mom,” I whispered, voice shaking. “About that marriage arrangement you wanted me to consider with your business partner…”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“I’m ready. Arrange it for me.”

Chapter 2

“I’m ready. Arrange it for me.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by my mother’s sharp intake of breath. “Cassandra!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean? What happened? Didn’t you turn down the proposal because you said you were so in love with Johansen? You told me he was your forever! What on earth is happening now? Are you getting divorced?”

I closed my eyes, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

“No, Mom,” I whispered. “We were never married at all.”

Silence.

“What?” she breathed, barely audible.

“He fooled me,” I said, forcing the words out like they were thorns in my throat. “Everything was a lie. I thought I was his wife. I thought we had forever. But it was all fake, Mom. I was just a piece of a bigger plan. And I can’t stay here anymore. Please… I need to leave. I want to forget all of this. I want to start a new life.”

There was a long pause. I could almost hear her struggling to process everything.

Finally, her voice came back, low and firm. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll take care of everything. You just stay calm. I’ll handle it. Give me one week. I’ll make sure everything’s ready. New records. New address. New life. No traces of what you left behind. When the week is over, you’ll be free.”

My heart clenched with a strange mix of grief and hope.

One week. Just seven more days of pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I nodded. “That’s fine.”

That night, Johansen messaged me about the birthday of his best friend.

Babe, don’t forget about Parker’s birthday. I told them we’d come together. I’ll be waiting. Love you.

I stared at the message for a long time. Then I typed a short reply: Sorry, still finishing some designs. I’ll follow later.

He replied within seconds. No worries. Just text me when you’re on your way. I’ll be there to welcome you.

I inhaled deeply, steeling myself. One week. Just one more week, Cassandra. You can do this.

I dressed simply, did my makeup, and drove to the venue. The night felt colder than usual as if the air itself knew something was wrong.

As I approached the garden entrance, I heard laughter—low, familiar male voices. I paused.

“…Man, you really brought two girls to my party?” one of Johansen’s friends laughed. “What’s your end game here?”

Johansen’s voice followed, light and playful. “Honestly? I don’t even know. I loved Cassandra once, I really did. But she left me to chase her dreams. I was lonely. Maureen was there. We… happened. We got married.”

My stomach turned.

“And when Cassandra came back,” he continued, “everyone expected us to get married. We were the golden couple. So I faked it. I didn’t divorce Maureen. Why should I? Cassandra’s family is loaded. She’s useful.”

The others laughed.

“Two wives, one man,” one of them chuckled. “You’re living the dream.”

And Johansen said, “Exactly. And you know what? I was enjoying it. Why only one when you can have both? But I might need to dispose of Cassandra soon, once I got all her inheritance.”

I didn’t realize I was gripping my clutch until I felt my nails dig into my palm. I straightened up, wiped away the single tear that had dared to fall, and walked toward the main hall.

Inside, the lights were warm, and laughter filled the air. And there she was—Maureen—sipping champagne like she belonged there.

“Oh, Cassandra,” she said sweetly when she saw me. “You made it. I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I was just late,” I replied coolly. “What are you doing here?”

She smiled, wide-eyed and innocent. “Johansen brought me. I’m here with him.”

My jaw clenched. “Well, the wife is here now. So maybe it’s time for you to go.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Always the dramatic one. Come on, Cass. We can share him. I mean, isn’t what we’re doing?”

She blinked. It wasn’t the first time Maureen was so bold like that, but before she laughed at it, knowing Maureen was just joking—now she had realized that jokes were always half-meant.

Then Johansen arrived, his arm slinging around her possessively. Maureen immediately feigned distress. “She doesn’t want me here,” she said, sniffing. “I didn’t mean to offend her. I think she thinks I’m stealing her position as your wife.”

Johansen turned to me. “Cassandra, what is this? Are you seriously making a scene over Maureen? She’s your best friend. I thought we moved past all that. You’re the one who always wanted to be with her before.”

I stared at him. “But I’m here, Johansen. Why do you still need her?”

He blinked. My tone, my defiance—it must’ve surprised him. I’d always been quiet, kind, too forgiving. But not anymore.

“I just… I want both of you here,” he said, confused. “It’s not that deep. Just enjoy the night. Be civil.”

I looked at Maureen. Then at Johansen. I realized nothing I said would change anything. So I simply stood. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I’m going home.”

And I walked away.

Johansen started to follow, but Maureen suddenly winced, clutching her stomach. “I think… I think I need to go to the hospital.”

Of course she did. Later that night, back home, I stared at my phone. A message lit up the screen.

Sorry for tonight. Maureen wasn’t feeling well. Had to take her in. Let’s talk tomorrow? I love you. I’ll make it up to you.

I said nothing. No reply. Just silence.

I removed my ring. And dropped it into the trash.

Chapter 3

That same night, Johansen didn’t come home—despite his promise. I waited until the sky darkened, the house empty, and silence thickened like fog in my chest. I told myself not to care. I told myself it didn’t matter. But my fingers still scrolled through my phone, foolishly hoping for a message. Something. An apology. A lie to cling to.

Instead, it was Maureen.

"Hey, sis. You’re so lucky to have him. He’s been taking care of me all night. Can’t believe he’s this sweet."

A photo followed—Johansen spoon-feeding her soup in a hospital room.

"He said he’ll stay over just to make sure I’m okay. Hope that’s okay with you!"

I didn’t reply.

Another ping.

"Oops. Wrong send!"

More photos. Her in his arms. His hand on her cheek. Her smile smug, satisfied.

I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t subtle anymore. She was provoking me. Testing me. Seeing how much I could take before I snapped.

I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. I locked my phone, turned away, and forced myself to sleep in the coldest part of the bed.

The next morning, I woke up to the sensation of warm lips brushing against my cheek.

“Morning, baby,” Johansen whispered.

I flinched, pushing him away. “What are you doing here?”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean? I’m here to see you. You didn’t text me last night.”

“You were with Maureen,” I said quietly. “She made sure I knew.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Baby, are you jealous now? Come on. You know she’s sick. You told me to take care of her. She’s your best friend.”

He went on, “I was helping her because… she was there when you were gone. She was the one who listened when I missed you. She reminded me of you when I needed it. This… this is just me giving back. It’s the right thing to do.”

My chest tightened, the weight of his words pressing against something raw. He made it sound noble—like betrayal could be wrapped in ribbons of gratitude and called kindness.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I told you to be there for her… when I thought she was trustworthy. When I thought she was loyal.”

I swallowed hard. “But I’m here now, Johansen. I’m back. So stop doing it.”

He tilted his head. “You’re being ridiculous. This isn’t you! Are you seriously jealous over a sick friend?”

I stared at him. Friend?

Before I could answer, I heard footsteps down the hallway. Then Maureen’s voice, thick with fake emotion. “She… she hates me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come between you two. I should go—”

“No,” Johansen interrupted, holding her arm. “You should stay here.”

I blinked.

He turned to me. “She has stomach issues. She needs help. She’s staying here until she gets better.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re letting her stay here?”

“She’s going to need someone to cook for her too,” he added casually, brushing past me like this was some normal domestic arrangement. “Start preparing something light.”

“I don’t want to,” I said flatly.

“That wasn’t a request,” he snapped. “That was an order.”

Then, as if it was nothing, he turned away and added, “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re the one who told me to be there for her.”

And just like that, they left me standing in the hallway.

Half an hour later, I stood in the kitchen, forcing myself to move, to breathe, to cook. The scent of broth filled the air, mocking the emptiness in my chest.

Suddenly, Maureen appeared, stepping into the kitchen like she owned it. “Let me help,” she offered sweetly.

“I’ve got it.”

“Oh come on,” she said, reaching for the ladle. “Let me do something. I can’t just sit around and be pampered.” Then she whispered, “Can’t let you have Johansen’s attention.”

I turned to stop her, but she was already stirring the pot. She moved too fast, maybe intentionally, maybe not—and her elbow hit the plate rack.

A crash followed. Porcelain shattered on the floor. A sharp shard bounced and landed against my leg, slicing into my skin.

“Ugh! My arm!” Maureen cried out dramatically, holding her wrist.

Johansen burst into the room. “What the heck happened?!”

“She—she didn’t want me to help, and I tried, and the plate just fell!” Maureen whimpered.

“She didn’t even let me cook—” I began, defending myself.

But Johansen was already glaring at me. “Didn’t I tell you to handle this? Not to let her cook? She isn’t okay yet. Where is your concern? Look what you’ve done now to her!”

He shoved past me and wrapped his arms around Maureen.

I stared at the blood trickling down my shin. The sting from the broken plate. The sting of being replaced.

My voice trembled. “You’ve disappointed me, Johansen.”

And I walked out, ignoring the pain, ignoring their murmurs, locking myself in the guest bathroom to clean the wound—alone.

Later that night, I heard the door creak open.

Johansen entered, carrying a bouquet of tulips and a pink paper bag. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to yell earlier. I was shocked. I just… I was worried about Maureen. And you.”

I didn’t look at him.

He placed the flowers beside me. “I got you a dress. That one you saw on the mannequin window last week. And this,” he added, holding up a small velvet box, “a bracelet to match.”

He reached for my hand and kissed it. His lips froze.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp.

I looked him straight in the eyes. “I threw it away.”

He flinched like I had slapped him.

“It means nothing to me now.”

Chapter 4

"Baby… why would you throw that away?" Johansen asked, staring at my bare hand like it was a crime scene. "That was our wedding ring."

A bitter laugh almost escaped my lips. Our wedding ring? The one tied to a fake ceremony? To a forged certificate? To a life that never truly existed?

"I don’t want it anymore," I said simply.

Johansen blinked, recovering quickly. “Oh, that’s all? You should’ve told me. Don’t worry—I’ll buy you a new one at the next auction. Bigger, better.”

He leaned in and kissed my cheek, brushing my hair back like he hadn’t just spent the night with another woman. "How about you get dressed now, hmm? Let’s go on a date. Just you and me. Something special.”

He left the room humming under his breath. But as I moved toward the closet to change, I paused in the hallway—just long enough to hear his voice murmuring in the next room.

“She bought it,” he was saying. “I told you she threw the ring out, but I kissed her, promised her a new one. She won’t suspect anything. Just keep pretending you’re weak. Soon, we could dispose of her since my father and her family had been thinking of handing their business to me.”

Maureen’s voice followed, soft but sharp. “You really think she’ll leave on her own?”

“She’s already unraveling,” he chuckled. “A little longer, and we won’t need to do anything. She’ll walk out on her own. Or break. Or stay? Whatever! You’re the one I want now.”

I forced myself to keep walking, not let my pace falter. I’d heard enough. More than enough.

But tonight, I’d play the role he expected. It was supposed to be our third wedding anniversary. Or what I used to think was real.

I dressed in a soft cream dress, paired with the bracelet he had gifted me the night before. My expression in the mirror was neutral, unreadable. Just like I wanted it. It was easier now—putting on masks. Smiling with dead eyes. Pretending this wasn’t all built on lies.

Johansen took me to a five-star restaurant downtown. Everything was extravagant—the view, the wine, the lighting that softened the angles of his face. He was all smiles and charm, like the man I once knew. The man who had whispered vows I now knew were empty.

But my heart still remembered.

“Do you remember our first date here?” he asked, sliding his chair closer. “You wore that pale blue dress. I couldn’t stop staring.”

I did remember.

I had worn my hair loose, nervous out of my mind, but he was so steady. He pulled the chair out for me, ordered my favorite wine before I even asked, and later confessed he had memorized my food preferences from our college lunch breaks. He gave me tulips that night, and I laughed because I’d once told him tulips were my favorite in passing—he remembered.

Back then, I thought that kind of attention meant forever.

He reached across the table and held my hand now, like he always used to. “To us,” he said, lifting his glass. “Three years of love.”

I forced a smile and clinked my glass against his.

Three years of what I thought was love.

He slid a small red box across the table with that familiar grin. “I wanted to make up for the lost ring,” he said sweetly.

Inside was a glittering band, probably worth more than my tuition back in fashion school. The diamonds caught the candlelight. I nodded and slipped it on, letting him believe he had me back.

Letting him believe I was still the fool.

But my mind drifted again—against my will—to the memory of us. We had gone to prom together. Had matching bracelets in college with our initials. We used to write notes on each other's books, silly doodles and love poems. Everyone said we were the couple that would never break, the couple that made others jealous. I used to believe that if love had a shape, it looked like Johansen.

I used to be so sure.

But now, even as I stared into his eyes, all I could think of was the way he kissed Maureen when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way he laughed about our fake marriage like it was a joke at a party.

“I missed you,” he said now, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. “I don’t ever want to lose what we have.”

Neither did I. But what we had no longer existed.

I nodded, smile in place, and leaned in like I used to.

But this time, I felt nothing. Except the quiet, hollow ache of someone finally waking up.

The evening dragged on with false laughter, hollow memories, and endless wine. I thought the performance was going smoothly—until his phone rang.

Johansen frowned at the screen, stood up, and excused himself with a finger raised. I watched him walk outside, phone pressed to his ear. The glass window gave me a perfect view of his expression shifting from mild annoyance to wide-eyed worry.

Then he broke into a sprint.

I followed, confused—until I saw his phone fall from his ear as he rushed to the car.

“What happened?” I called.

He didn’t even turn around. “Maureen… she fell down the stairs.”

That was all he said before the engine roared and he drove off.

No goodbye. No checking if I had a way home. No concern. Just… gone.

I stood there alone on the sidewalk, the wind biting at my skin. I clutched the ring box and exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

This time, I didn’t cry.

I hailed a taxi, not wanting to sit around feeling abandoned again.

But halfway through the ride, on a quiet, dimly lit street, the taxi slowed.

“Hey,” I said to the driver, “what’s going on?”

But it wasn’t him. Two men appeared from the side of the road, yanking the back door open before I could react.

“Give us your bag!” one shouted, grabbing at me.

I screamed, tried to fight, but one of them was already pulling at my purse, and the other lunged forward with something shiny in his hand.

Pain burst through my side.

It was quick. Burning. A stab so deep I couldn’t scream anymore.

They ran off with my things, but not before kicking my phone from my lap.

Luckily, it had fallen under my leg instead of out the door.

Shaking, bleeding, I pulled it out with trembling hands and called the only person whose number I could dial without thinking.

“Johansen…” I exclaimed.

His voice was muffled, distracted. “What is it?”

“S-Something happened… I was attacked—stabbed—I need you—”

My voice trembled, barely holding together as I pressed the phone to my ear, blood seeping through my clothes, the pain blurring my vision.

There was a pause. A long, cold silence.

Then Johansen's voice came through, flat and irritated.

“Can’t you call someone else? I’m kinda busy right now.”

My breath caught. “What…?” I croaked.

In the background, I heard a light laugh. Maureen.

Then Johansen spoke again, sharper this time. “You know Maureen just got hurt, right? She’s in pain and she needs me. Don’t pull this kind of drama just to get my attention, Cassandra. Not tonight.”

My heart cracked open. I could barely believe what I was hearing. “I’m not—” I tried to explain, but he cut me off.

“God, Cassandra, not everything is about you. I’m dealing with something real here. Please don’t add to it.”

I didn’t even realize I’d dropped the phone until it hit the pavement with a hollow clatter. My fingers went numb. My chest felt hollow. The pain in my side surged again, hot and unbearable.

Then the world went dark.

Chapter 5

The scent of antiseptic hit me before the pain did.

My eyes fluttered open slowly, each blink heavy and blurred. The ceiling lights above were too bright, the walls too white.

My body screamed in protest as I tried to shift—sharp, pulsing pain flared through my lower abdomen. I inhaled sharply and sank back into the pillows, my breath catching.

A soft voice broke the silence.

“You’re awake,” the nurse said gently. She looked kind, with worry in her eyes. “Don’t move too much, sweetheart. You’ve been through a lot.”

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. “What… what happened?”

“You were stabbed in the stomach. It was serious. But we were able to stop the bleeding and stitch the wound.” Her voice softened. “There’s something else you should know.”

I turned my head slightly, confused. “What is it?”

The nurse hesitated. “We didn’t realize until surgery… but you were pregnant.”

She gave me a moment. “I’m so sorry. The trauma from the injury… we couldn’t save the baby.”

My mind went blank. Pregnant? A baby?

I hadn’t even known. I hadn’t… A dull roar filled my ears, and a strange stillness settled in my chest, like the silence after a scream that never came.

The nurse reached for my hand. “Do you want me to call your family?”

I didn’t answer her. I just reached for my phone with trembling fingers.

I dialed Johansen’s number. One ring. Two. Then someone picked up.

But it wasn’t his voice. It was Maureen.

“Well, well,” she said mockingly. “What do you need?”

My breath hitched. “Where’s Johansen?”

She laughed, the sound as cold as her words. “Still calling him like he’s yours? Sweetheart… when are you going to stop pretending?”

I said nothing, frozen.

“He’s here. With me. Like always,” Maureen went on. “Even when you’re hurting, even when you’re bleeding—he still runs to me. You know that, right? So why keep acting like you matter?”

“Maureen—”

“No. You listen to me. He’s mine. He always comes back to me. So how about you finally do what everyone’s been waiting for… and leave?”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Oh,” she added, her voice sickeningly sweet, “and just so you know—”

A pause.

“You’re not the wife.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen, her words echoing in the sterile silence of the hospital room. And for the first time, there were no tears. Just a hollow, endless silence.

Just then, my phone buzzed weakly on the bedside table. I reached for it with trembling fingers and saw a message from my mother: Everything’s ready now. I’ll pick you up anytime you’re ready to go.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

This was it. I buzzed the nurse. “I want to discharge myself. Now.”

“But—”

“I’m stable. I’ll sign whatever I need to. Please.”

Reluctantly, they handed me the forms. I changed into a simple outfit, covering the bandage over my stitches, then stepped into the hallway. I moved slowly, carefully, every step a reminder of the pain I’d survived.

And that’s when I saw them.

Johansen and Maureen. Standing just outside the OB-GYN department. Their backs were turned, but I didn’t need to see their faces to know it was them.

Maureen’s voice carried across the corridor. “Are you sure you should be with me? You heard she was robbed and stabbed…”

“I know,” Johansen replied, sighing. “But she’ll be fine. I’ll see her later in her room. For now… this is about you. We’re husband and wife. It’s only natural we hear what the doctor says about our baby—together.”

I stopped breathing.

It felt like my last thread of illusion snapped. He had lied to me so thoroughly, so deliberately… I didn’t even exist in that moment—not to him. Not as his wife. Not as the woman who had believed in their fairy-tale.

I turned, refusing to let them see me cry. I walked out of that hospital like a ghost, each step faster than the last.

I didn’t remember the drive home.

All I knew was that the second I stepped inside the house, something inside me shattered for good.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just moved. Numb and focused.

I pulled out a suitcase—then another. Opened every drawer. Grabbed every shirt of Johansen’s I’d once folded with love. His jackets. His shoes. The cologne I used to love on him. Gone. Into the trash bags. Gone.

I tore the framed photo of our wedding from the wall and smashed it against the corner of the table. Shards scattered across the tiles. The glass sliced my finger, but I didn’t care. It felt fitting.

Then came the dress. My wedding dress. The symbol of every lie he ever told. I dragged it outside into the backyard, dumped it into the firepit, and threw in lighter fluid. The spark caught quickly. The silk twisted and burned like it had been waiting years to fall apart.

As the flames grew higher, I added more—his letters, the old tulips he once dried for me, the love notes I had stupidly tucked in drawers.

That was when Johansen arrived.

His car door slammed, footsteps crunching on the gravel.

“Cassandra? What on earth are you doing?”

I didn’t even flinch. “Decluttering.”

He looked between me and the fire. “You’re burning my things.”

“I’m making space. I thought I’d donate what’s left. Don’t worry,” I said, my voice cool and even. “It’s just old memories.”

He stared, uneasy, but didn’t press further. Typical. He never asked questions he didn’t want the answers to.

“Right,” he said after a pause, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Listen, while you’re out—Maureen’s craving something sweet. Pick up some fruits, will you?”

I turned slowly. “Why me?”

He blinked. “You’re good at it, babe. Come on.”

My jaw tightened. “Really? That’s what you’re going to say to me right now? Not even ask if I’m okay? Not even mention that I almost died yesterday?”

He scoffed. “But you are okay, right? You’re standing here. Breathing. I mean, nothing happened. You’ll heal.”

I stared at him. Cold. Speechless.

“But with Maureen…” he went on, “She’s sensitive now. She needs things to be just right. So just do it. No questions asked.”

Then he turned and walked inside, calling out to her. I could hear her giggling, then his voice lowered—kissing sounds and soft murmurs. Like they had already built a new world without me.

I looked down. Blood had soaked through my shirt again, the bandages not holding well. But he hadn’t noticed. Or cared.

He didn’t even know I had lost our baby.

And now… I had lost everything. I didn’t cry.

Instead, I wiped my hands, walked back inside, and pretended to follow his orders. I grabbed a tote bag, pretended to go to the store, even bought some apples and strawberries. I returned, even cooked dinner. Set it on the table like I was the maid.

But what they didn’t know was that I put something in the meal to scare them. Because if I suffer due to my unborn baby I didn’t even know existed, then they should too.

I left while they’re both busy laughing and kissing. They didn’t even notice me.

I was already in the airport check-in line when my phone began to buzz again and again.

Johansen. First a call. Then a barrage of messages.

Johansen: What did you put in the food?? Maureen is vomiting everywhere! She’s sick! If something happens to our her, I swear—I’ll kill you. Where are you? Come back now!

I typed slowly: I lost our baby today. From the stabbing. But I guess you don’t care. I’m not your legal wife, right? Goodbye, Johansen. I don’t want to ever see you again.

I attached the photo I had taken—of his and Maureen’s real marriage certificate.

I hit send.

Then, calmly, I blocked his number. Slid the SIM card out of my phone. Snapped it in two. And dropped it into the nearest trash bin.

The plane began boarding. And for the first time in years, I exhaled without his name sitting on my chest like a weight I could never shake off.