He Secretly Married My Sister ,So I Faked My Death and Let Him Lose Everything

"Ms. Dickerson, this is your share transfer agreement. You're certain you want to resign?"

"I am."

The head of HR fixed her with a grave look. "Are you sure you don't want to inform Mr. Simmons? If you resign in secret and he finds out, he will freeze every account tied to you to bring you back."

I sat on the couch in the reception room without a word. I just nodded, hard.

I had decided to leave Simmons Group on our fifth wedding anniversary and walk away from a marriage the whole world envied.

Maybe this marriage had been a lie from the start. The seeds of doubt were planted the day I found the photo of Frederick Simmons and my adoptive sister tucked inside his briefcase.

On stormy nights, no matter how drunk he was, he would coax me to sleep first, then slip out without hesitation—just to comfort a sister who was afraid of thunder.

When I saw the half-stamped seal on our invalid marriage certificate, tears spilled down my face like a broken string of pearls. I drafted my resignation on the spot and booked a flight departing in seven days.

Frederick was away on a last-minute business trip on our anniversary. I stayed behind at the office to handle my departure. Out of nowhere, a voicemail arrived from him—warm, gentle, walking me through his itinerary for the day.

Meanwhile, every billboard screen across the city was cycling through highlights of our life together.

Countless drones spelled out my name in the sky. Rose petals drifted down like snow.

I stared out the window at the spectacle, my chest a tangle of emotions I couldn't name. In the hallway, employees crowded around, snapping photos and gushing.

After a few minutes of silence, a second audio file landed in my inbox—an intimate conversation between two people:

"My parents told me that sister of mine is pregnant. What am I supposed to do? We're the real married couple!"

"Relax, Agatha. So what if she has a kid? She's nothing but your stand-in."

"If you don't want it, I'll take her to the hospital myself whenever you say the word. She does everything I tell her—she really is a loyal little dog…"

What followed was unmistakable. The audio played on speaker, too loud, and every employee in the office went wide-eyed, not daring to breathe.

Seven days. In seven days I would leave this place for good—and leave him for good. I didn't spare a single glance at their stares. I set down my keys and walked out.

1

"Mom, Dad—I'm going to divorce Frederick."

"Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea how good he is to you? Ungrateful wretch. You're not half as easy to deal with as Agatha."

Their insults poured through the phone without pause. When I couldn't take another second, I forwarded them the audio.

"You've known all along that Frederick was keeping Agatha. Haven't you."

Silence on the other end. I hung up without waiting for an answer and drove straight to a law firm to draft the divorce papers.

The day I found that photo of Frederick and Agatha, I'd also found stacks of round-trip flight itineraries—domestic and international—and receipts from luxury hotels I'd never set foot in.

I combed through every one of Agatha's social media accounts. A photo of them holding hands had been her profile banner all along.

There was even a shot of her in a wedding dress, flashing a diamond ring, kissing him full on the mouth. She hadn't even bothered to make it private.

Late that night, I called Frederick over and over. No one picked up.

I tugged at the corner of my mouth—something between a smile and a grimace—and started packing. That was when I found our wedding invitation buried among my things.

Tears pooled in my eyes. My vision blurred.

He had once shielded me in a multi-car pileup, wrapping his body around mine so completely that he was the one who ended up in critical condition—unconscious, nearly losing a limb, three days of emergency surgery before he opened his eyes.

On our wedding day, fireworks lit up the entire city just for us. He cried so hard he could barely speak, and afterward he tattooed my name on his skin as a vow of devotion. The whole city was moved by our love story.

And yet this same man—this man who seemed incapable of betrayal—had been keeping my adoptive sister all along. Had legally married her. Had deceived me so thoroughly that even I never saw through it.

I wiped my tears and was about to lie down when a pair of strong arms wrapped around me from behind.

"Baby, I'm sorry. I can't believe I wasn't here for our anniversary…"

I drew a slow breath, loosened his grip, and hit play on the recording.

…

"What do you have to say?"

He explained that there really had been an emergency meeting that day, that he'd gotten drunk at a client dinner and blacked out.

When I gave him nothing, he pulled out his phone to prove he didn't even have her contact information.

"She's hated you for years—you know that. She's just trying to drive a wedge between us."

Frederick's eyes reddened, brimming with wounded sincerity. I pressed my lips together, brows tight, and chose not to tear his lies apart.

I tossed and turned all night. Frederick held me in silence, refusing to let even an inch of space come between us.

To make it up to me, he took me to a newly opened five-star restaurant and reserved every luxury boutique in the city for my private shopping.

After picking out a new diamond ring for me, Frederick said he wanted to take me for new wedding portraits.

We were almost at the studio when his phone rang. He turned the volume down as low as it would go, but I still caught Agatha's coy little voice on the other end.

"I heard a new dessert shop just opened on the south side of town. It would be amazing to get something fresh-made…"

A doting smile curved the corner of Frederick's mouth. He invented some excuse on the spot and dropped me on the side of the road.

I got out without a word. My heels clicked against the pavement the entire way to the bridal boutique. By the time I arrived, every senior design consultant was lined up to greet me.

The backs of my heels were raw and bleeding. I ignored their introductions.

I cut straight to the point, gesturing toward the display room—toward the gown I'd fallen in love with months ago. A saleswoman rushed over, all smiles:

"You must be Ms. Agatha Dickerson! How lucky you are—your husband reserved this piece months in advance. He even had it custom-altered to your measurements."

I froze. My smile locked in place like a mask. Before I could get a word out, several attendants swarmed in to help me into the dress.

They kept showering me with compliments—how perfectly the gown suited my figure, how it was made for someone with my elegance. Every word was a blade twisting deeper into my chest.

I still remembered that wedding—the one the whole city talked about. I'd chosen a simple, understated gown, and Agatha had sneered at it to my face, calling it cheap and poorly made.

Frederick had soothed me, told me not to let her get under my skin, and promised that one day he'd give me the most exquisite wedding dress in the world.

He had pulled every string he had to honor that promise. Years later, it was finally finished. The moment I saw the photos of the completed gown, I was captivated.

I had been so full of joy, so eager to see it on myself. And now it turned out to be Agatha's gift all along—tailored to her body.

Everything I'd been holding back shattered at once. I sobbed, my whole frame shaking.

The attendants saw me trembling and assumed I was overcome with happiness. They rushed to dab the tears from my cheeks.

They were nearly done with the final lacing when the ribbons refused to close. The measurements were wrong. The staff exchanged bewildered glances.

When I finally steadied myself enough to speak, my voice came out low and even:

"I'm not Agatha Dickerson. And I won't have a husband much longer."

"This dress isn't mine either. Something this tasteless wouldn't interest me anyway."

I waved my hand in dismissal. I didn't want to look at the gown for another second. I swiped my card, then told the staff to burn it right there in front of me. Out of sight, out of mind.