I thought I had everything I could ever want. At twenty-eight, I stood in a white dress, facing the man I believed was my soulmate, Damian. He smiled at me with that quiet confidence that had drawn me to him from the start. I cried through my vows, and he squeezed my hands, whispering, “Forever.” In that moment, I believed him completely.
Damian and I had met years earlier at the little café where I worked part-time. He was one of those quiet, thoughtful customers who always tipped well, always carried a book, and somehow made me feel like I was the only person in the room. Handsome, with sharp cheekbones and warm hazel eyes, he chose me—for reasons I couldn’t fathom—a girl from a modest background, living paycheck to paycheck. From our first date on the pier, everything felt like destiny. Within a year, we were planning a wedding.
The ceremony was flawless. The flowers, the music, the laughter—it was everything I had ever dreamed of. But dreams, I would learn, can turn into nightmares in an instant.
As the photographer rounded us up for post-ceremony pictures, Damian suddenly collapsed. At first, I thought he was joking. He had a mischievous streak, and I expected that familiar playful grin. But he didn’t move. Panic erupted. Someone called 911, and I stood frozen as paramedics worked frantically on him. They rushed him to the hospital, and hours later, a doctor emerged and delivered the unimaginable news: Damian was gone. A heart attack. He was only thirty-two.
I buried my husband three days later, numb with grief. His adoptive parents, whom I’d barely met, appeared at the funeral. Wealthy, cold, and judgmental, they made no effort to hide their disdain for me. I overheard his mother whisper venomously: “She was probably after his money. Get our lawyer on the phone.”
Money? Damian had spoken of running a business but never hinted at wealth. Later, a friend quietly explained that Damian’s family was extremely rich—filthy rich—but he had kept it from me deliberately. He wanted me to love him for him, not his bank account. The revelation only made his parents’ hatred cut deeper. I didn’t want their money. I wanted my husband back.
Grief consumed me. My apartment became a tomb of memories. His scent lingered on his shirts. Every corner held a ghost. Then came the calls—threatening voicemails from his family. I could barely breathe, could barely think. I packed a suitcase, called a taxi, and prepared to vanish—Mexico, Aruba, anywhere far away.
When the cab arrived, I slumped into the seat, too broken to even glance at the driver.
“Fasten your seatbelt, please,” the driver said.
My heart stopped. That voice. I looked in the rearview mirror and froze—those unmistakable hazel eyes.
“Damian?” I whispered, shaking. “How… how are you here?”
He swerved off the road, parked on a deserted street, and turned to me. “I’m sorry, Paige,” he said, gripping the wheel as though it held him together. “Please don’t hate me. I’ll explain everything.”
And then he did.
His adoptive parents had used him for years, exploiting his mind to maintain their crumbling empire. Eventually, Damian built a legitimate business of his own and refused to let them corrupt it. When he resisted, they threatened both him and me.
“I couldn’t let them hurt you to get to me,” he confessed, eyes brimming with guilt. “So I staged my death. The collapse, the hospital, the funeral—it was all planned. There’s medication that slows the heart to mimic death. I paid the right people to make it believable.”
I sat in stunned silence. “You let me bury you,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I hurt you. But I thought it was the only way to protect us.”
Back at my apartment, the dam broke. I screamed, cried, threw things. “YOU LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD!”
“I did it for us!” he insisted.
“No,” I spat. “You did it without me.”
By morning, I was hollow. When I asked, “What now?” he explained. With him legally “dead,” his legitimate assets had transferred to me, out of his family’s reach. He wanted me to liquidate them, split the money, and meet him abroad. Then, almost casually, he asked, “Will you come with me?”
I stared. “You broke my heart, Damian. I’ll help with the assets, but I don’t know if I can trust you again. I need space.”
He nodded. “Take all the time you need. But I’m not giving up on us.”
Weeks later, after battling his parents in lawyers’ offices and selling off untouchable assets, I understood why he had done it. Reckless, yes, but born of love and desperation. Despite my fury, my heart hadn’t let him go.
I picked up the phone. “Where are you?” I asked. “I’ll come. But never do that to me again.”
Now, we live in another country. We remarried quietly on a sunlit beach, far from his parents’ reach. It isn’t the life I expected, but it’s ours. Damian fooled the world once—but now, there are no more lies between us.