I still remember the first time I saw Dave.

I was twenty-three—an eager, awkward newcomer in the newsroom, desperate to prove myself. My producer handed me an assignment that made my heart race: “Interview Dave Morales. The country’s youngest coffee-chain mogul.”

Back then, Dave was already a mystery. Every journalist wanted him, and every one of them failed. He never liked the spotlight—hated interviews, dodged cameras, and ignored press invitations. But I didn’t want to be like everyone else. I wanted that story.

So I found a way. I applied for a job in one of his cafés. As a barista.

Yes, I lied. I told myself it was just part of the job—a harmless disguise, a shortcut to an exclusive interview. But looking back now, I wonder if it all began there… that pattern of lies, small ones that slowly built the world I’m trapped in now.

For weeks, I worked behind the counter, pretending to memorize coffee blends while secretly studying him. He would visit often—tall, quiet, always with a book in one hand and a cup of espresso in the other. He barely spoke to anyone except the manager. But once, our eyes met when I accidentally spilled coffee on my apron.

He smiled a little, just a polite curve of his lips. “You’re new,” he said. His voice was smooth, deep, and disarmingly calm.

“I am,” I replied, forcing a nervous laugh.

That was all. But from then on, I started following him—quietly, from a distance. Watching which cafés he visited, which beans he liked, how he always added a single cube of sugar to his drink.

Until one day, he turned around and caught me.

“I know you’re stalking me,” he said, not even angry—just mildly amused. “But the answer is still no.”

I froze, face burning. “No…?”

“To your interview,” he said. “You’re not the first reporter who tried.”

He walked away that day, but something in his tone—half-challenge, half-curiosity—kept me from giving up. I tried again. And again. Until eventually, he gave in.

What started as an interview became conversations. Coffee turned into late dinners. Laughter became routine. And before I even realized it, I was falling for him.

It wasn’t just admiration anymore—it was love.

And when he asked me to be his, I thought it was a miracle. Me—a girl from a small, nameless town, who grew up hiding the truth about her family, finally loved by a man like him.

But not everyone was happy.

Sandra Morales—Dave’s mother—made sure I knew my place. “You’re not right for him,” she told me once, her tone wrapped in polite venom. “You don’t belong in this world.”

She even tried to pay me off. But I refused. I couldn’t let her take him from me. So I did the one thing I’ve always regretted. I lied.

I hired two people to pretend as my parents. Paid them enough to play the part during dinners and gatherings. Told Dave’s family I came from a stable background, that I grew up abroad. I thought if I could just hold that lie long enough, they’d accept me.

And they did. Or so I thought.

Now I know the truth. They knew from the start. They used that lie to control me.

Because of that secret, I stayed quiet. Because of that secret, Dave married me—and because of that secret, he could easily say he owned me.

I pressed a hand against my chest, trying to calm the ache rising in my throat. Everything felt so false now. Every laugh, every kiss, every “I love you” we ever shared.

The sound of the front door opening snapped me back.

Dave’s voice followed—warm, casual, familiar. “Elisa?”

I turned from the window as he stepped inside, holding a bouquet of roses and a small, velvet box.

He looked tired but smiling, like the man I used to love. “Happy anniversary,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I missed dinner. Franco needed me. But I made sure to make it up to you.”

I stared at the flowers, then at him, unsure if I wanted to cry or laugh.

He walked closer and opened the box, revealing a delicate diamond necklace. “Here. I picked it myself.”

“Dave…” I whispered, my voice shaking.

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. “You were going to say something earlier, right? You said you had a surprise for me.”

I tried to speak, but my throat tightened. A thousand words crowded my mind, none of them safe to say.

Before I could answer, his phone rang.

I didn’t need to look to know who it was. The name flashed across the screen: Liana.

His hand hesitated for a second, then he sighed. “I have to take this.”

My pulse quickened. “Now?”

“It’s important. Business-related.”

I forced a smile. “Can’t it wait?”

“Elisa,” he said softly, “you know how it is. This deal means a lot. And you—” He touched my cheek lightly. “You need rest. Tomorrow’s your big day, right? You’ll be anchoring that special report about our partnership announcement. I’m rooting for you.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away.

The sound of the door closing felt louder than any argument.

I stood there in silence, staring at the necklace he left behind. A perfect gift for a perfect lie.

But sleep never came that night. The words I’d overheard at the hospital kept replaying in my head. The laughter. The deception.

I needed to know. So when the clock struck midnight, I slipped out of bed, grabbed my keys, and followed him.

I parked a few blocks from the hotel I saw his car pull into. My heart pounded as I crept toward the lobby, keeping my cap low, my face half-hidden.

Then I saw them.

Dave—and Liana. They were talking near the entrance, her hand brushing his arm like they’d done it a hundred times. I wanted to believe it was business, just another meeting, but then—someone else appeared.

A woman.

She looked… like Liana. But same hair, same build, even the same shade of lipstick I always wore on TV that Dave always wanted me to.

I froze, unable to breathe as she leaned in—and kissed Dave.

“What is wrong with you, Elisa?”

Dave’s voice thundered through the living room the moment I stepped inside. His tie was still loosened, his expression hard—angry in a way I hadn’t seen before.

“You were acting strange a while ago on TV,” he continued, tossing the remote on the couch. “You didn’t even mention me, or the company, when I specifically told you to highlight our partnership deal. What was that about?”

I blinked, still in my work clothes, makeup smudged from the long broadcast. “I don’t know,” I said quietly. “Maybe I just didn’t want to talk about it anymore.”

His brows knitted. “What did you just say?”

I swallowed. “I said, I’m tired, Dave. Tired of reporting about you, about your business, pretending to be biased every time. I can’t keep doing that.”

The silence that followed was sharp. He took a step closer, disbelief darkening into anger. “Have you forgotten who gave you that program? That main slot you’ve always dreamed of? Me, Elisa. I built your name. I’m funding your show, your network deal—everything you have right now!”

His words sliced through me like glass. I used to think those words—his support—meant love. That his influence was something he gave because he believed in me. But now, hearing them again, I realized they were never meant to lift me up. They were meant to remind me how much I owed him.

And maybe that was what he loved most—control.

I stared at him, my voice breaking. “Well, I never asked for any of it. You’re the one who gave it to me. And now—I don’t want it anymore.”

Before I could breathe, his hand came down hard across my face. The sound echoed. My vision blurred. I stumbled backward, holding my cheek, stunned not just by the pain but by the man in front of me.

For a moment, even Dave looked shocked—like he couldn’t believe what he’d done. His eyes widened, his lips parting, but no apology came.

I tasted iron on my tongue. Then I smiled—small, bitter, trembling. “Let’s divorce.”

He froze. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He laughed, short and incredulous. “Over this? Over one mistake? Elisa, do you even hear yourself?”

“I do.”

His voice rose again. “You think you can survive without me? You think your career can stand without my name attached to it? Without my money, my company backing your network?”

I didn’t answer. I just looked at him—the man who once made me believe in forever—and realized how little of that man was left.

Before he could say another word, a small voice interrupted us.

“Brother? Sister-in-law?”

We both turned. Franco stood by the doorway, holding his toy car, eyes wide and trembling. “Are you… fighting?”

My heart clenched. He wasn’t my brother, not really—but I couldn’t unsee the child I had learned to love.

Dave rubbed his forehead, sighing. “No, Franco. Go to your room.”

But the boy’s eyes filled with tears. “Please don’t fight. I don’t like it when you shout.”

I couldn’t stand it. I walked toward him, knelt, and wiped his tears. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s okay,” I whispered, forcing a smile. “We’re not fighting. Your brother’s just… busy with work… so he was a bit mad.”

He sniffled. “Really?”

“Really.” I held out my hand. “Tell you what—how about we go out today? Just you and me. Ice cream and the park. What do you say? Or we can go cart like what you want?”

He nodded slowly, a tiny smile forming. “Okay.”

Dave looked like he wanted to stop us, but before he could, the butler stepped in. “Sir,” he said respectfully, “Miss Liana called. She said her sister’s having another tantrum, and she insists you come right away.”

Dave exhaled, frustrated. “Now?”

“Yes, sir.”

I didn’t wait for him to decide. “Come on, Franco,” I said, taking the boy’s hand. “Let’s go.”

I didn’t look back.

The afternoon sunlight was warm as we walked through the park. Franco ran ahead, laughing as he chased bubbles blown by another child nearby. I watched him, my heart heavy with too many thoughts.

Despite everything, he looked so much like Dave—those same brown eyes, the same determined look when he smiled. It hurt to see him, because I couldn’t separate the boy from the truth anymore.

Still, I couldn’t hate him. None of this was his fault. As I watched him play, my hand instinctively touched my stomach. A small, fragile secret—one I had kept for weeks.

I was pregnant. I wanted to tell Dave on our anniversary. I had imagined how he would smile, how his arms would wrap around me, how we’d start over, maybe even heal. But now… what was the point?

He didn’t love me. He only loved what I could do for him.

I was lost in that thought when I heard a sharp cry.

“Franco!”

He had lost control of his little wooden cart, the wheels spinning wildly before the whole thing tipped over. He tumbled across the gravel, landing hard on his knees. I heard the thud, the scrape, and then his cry—sharp and frightened. My heart lurched as I ran toward him.

Blood streaked down his leg, dirt clinging to the wound. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay,” I whispered, scooping him up despite his squirming. “I’ve got you. Sister-in-law is here.”

We rushed to the hospital.

Hours later, when the door swung open, Dave stormed in. His face was flushed, eyes burning with fury.

“What happened?” he barked. “How could you let this happen? You can’t even take care of a child for a few hours?”

“Dave—”

He didn’t let me finish. His hand came up again, the second slap harder than the first. The sting spread across my cheek, but the ache in my chest was worse.

“You dare hurt my brother? You only have one job—to be careful!”

The words echoed, sharp and cruel, through the sterile white room. I blinked through the blur, my ears ringing.

“Your… brother?” I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and breaking. “Or your son?”

Dave froze for a moment, his brows furrowing as if trying to process what I’d just said. Then, unexpectedly, a laugh escaped his lips—low, mocking, disbelieving.

“What are you trying to say, Elisa?” he asked, tilting his head, that same cruel amusement flickering in his eyes.

I felt my pulse hammering in my ears. My hands trembled, but I forced the words out. “I know the truth now—about Franco.”

His smirk faltered.

“It was Liana,” I said, my voice shaking. “She was the one who told me who he really is. Why did you lie to me, Dave? Why didn’t you tell me the truth that your brother is your son?”

He crossed his arms, unbothered, but there was a flicker of something—guilt, maybe—before it hardened into arrogance.

“So what?” he said coldly. “If he’s my son and I hid it, made him my brother—what are you going to do, Elisa? Expose me?”

“Yes!” My voice cracked. “You think you can just bury the truth forever? Franco deserves to know—he needs to—”

Before I could finish, his hand came down on my face again. The slap echoed through the room. My vision blurred, and pain bloomed across my cheek.

He grabbed my arm, yanking me close. His grip was so tight it hurt. His breath hit my skin, warm and threatening.

“Do you think I’d let you?” he hissed. “If you expose me, I’ll tell everyone your background is fake. That you’re not rich—that you hired people to pretend to be your family.”

“Dave—”

The words hit harder than the slap. I could barely breathe. He meant it—every word. He would do it without a shred of remorse.

For a moment, I thought maybe it was better if everything came out. I was tired—tired of the lies, the pretending, the weight of secrets. Maybe exposure would finally set me free.

But then I thought of my grandmother—frail, her heart weak. If she learned I’d lied about my family just to marry a rich man… she wouldn’t survive it. The image of her collapsing from another heart attack froze me.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I was about to speak, to fight back, when the door opened.

“Enough.”

Sandra’s voice cut through the air like a blade. She stepped inside, calm but cold, her eyes flashing with quiet authority.

Dave released me instantly, his jaw tightening.

Sandra looked between us, then at him. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said icily. “Because if you ruin her and this family collapses with it—I’ll make sure you go down with us. We hid the child for his protection — for Dave and the business. If his rivals found out there’s an illegitimate heir, they’ll use it against him, drag his name through the mud, and destroy everything we’ve built. You love him, Elisa; you should understand that sacrifices are necessary.”

I stared at her, confusion mixing with anger. “So… everything you’ve done for me,” I said softly, “was it all fake?”

Sandra turned her gaze toward me, unflinching. “You’re the first one who faked everything, Elisa,” she said flatly. “Be thankful I agreed to this marriage at all because you became famous when you were nothing but a cheap girl.”

My chest tightened. The world seemed to tilt beneath me.

She took a step closer, her perfume sharp in the air. “You’re nothing without us. So don’t you dare ruin this. Got it?”

Her words sliced through what was left of my strength. She turned and left, heels clicking against the marble floor, each sound echoing like a final warning.

When the door closed, silence fell until Dave spoke again.

“You can divorce me, but take note, I know where your grandmother is, and she needs medicine, right?” He left.

I stood there, numb, my palms shaking, my face burning from the slap. The air felt heavy—like all the lies I had told, all the pretenses I’d built, were collapsing on top of me.

No. I couldn’t just stand here. I couldn’t keep living like this.

I gathered my strength and turned toward the door, ready to walk away, ready to end everything—when a familiar voice stopped me.

“Still not leaving?”

Liana stood there, leaning against the doorway. Her lips curved into a smirk, eyes glinting with amusement. “Are you really that stupid?”

I clenched my fists. “Liana, not now—”

“You should leave,” she said simply. “Because my sister is here now. She is the mother of Franco and Dave’s greatest love. And she’s the rightful one to be with him.”

For a second I almost believed it—divorce, expose everything, walk away from the web of lies. The thought was intoxicatingly simple: leave the name, the money, the false life.

But it passed in a breath. Why would I? I’d crawled my way up from nothing; I’d fought for every inch. If Franco and they chose to use me, then I could use them back.

I straightened, anger sharpening my voice. “Tell your sister,” I said, stepping forward. “She’ll regret coming back. I won’t give up Dave. If we’re all going to lie, then fine—let’s all suffer with our lies.”

I didn’t wait for her reply. I turned and walked out, my heels striking hard against the marble floor. Each step felt like defiance, though inside, my chest ached with something I couldn’t name.

That night, I packed my bags. I needed to breathe—to be somewhere far from the city, far from the noise and deceit. I went to the province, to the small house where my grandmother lived—the woman who had raised me when my parents chose my sister over me.

When I arrived, she was sitting by the window, her frail hands knitting quietly. Her face lit up when she saw me. “Elisa,” she said, voice soft and warm. “You look tired. Is something wrong?”

I forced a smile and shook my head. “Nothing, Mom,” I whispered, kneeling beside her. “I just… wanted to be with you for a while.”

She smiled faintly and patted my head. “Then stay. Rest.”

For the next few days, I tried to. I cooked for her, walked along the fields, pretended that the air could wash away what I’d done, what I’d become. But peace never came. Every quiet moment was filled with echoes of Dave’s voice, Liana’s smirk, Sandra’s threats.

When I finally decided to return to the city, I opened my phone for the first time in days. Dozens of missed calls from Dave flashed on the screen. My stomach twisted, unsure if it was guilt or dread.

At the airport, I barely had time to think before cameras and microphones were shoved into my face. Reporters shouted my name, flashes blinding me.

“Mrs. Morales, is it true that Franco is your husband’s illegitimate child?”

“Did you know about it before you married him?”

The noise blurred into chaos. My bag slipped from my hand. My pulse pounded in my ears.

My whole world spun—and then everything went black.