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 crap. 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 moan. 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.”

“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 gasped. “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 cocky. “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 groaned, 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.

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 gasped dramatically, holding her wrist.

Johansen burst into the room. “What the hell 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 gasps, 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.”