After He Faked His Death, I Married My Father's Best Friend

I barely slept that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Serena's voice.

"I'm bringing my boyfriend."

Then Margaret's answer.

"Is he finally ready to come home?"

Home.

At three in the morning, I was still sitting in front of my laptop.

The accident report remained open on the screen.

I read it again.

The more I read, the more uncomfortable I became.

When Ethan supposedly died, the car had fallen into a ravine and caught fire.

The report repeatedly described severe damage.

Destroyed vehicle.

Destroyed evidence.

Destroyed remains.

But not once did it mention positive identification.

Not once.

No DNA report.

No autopsy.

No photographs.

Nothing.

How had I never noticed?

Simple.

Because I had trusted them.

I had trusted Ethan's mother when she told me seeing his body would only traumatize me.

I had trusted Chloe when she cried in my arms.

I had trusted every document they put in front of me.

Most of all, I had trusted Ethan.

What an idiot.

A knock interrupted my thoughts.

Three sharp taps.

Then Margaret's voice.

"Vivian."

I immediately closed my laptop.

"Yes?"

"Breakfast."

The word sounded more like a command.

"Coming."

By the time I reached the dining room, Margaret and Chloe were already seated.

Neither looked particularly sad for people who had supposedly lost a son and brother.

Actually, they looked excited.

Chloe was scrolling through her phone.

Margaret was reviewing what appeared to be event plans.

The moment I sat down, Chloe spoke.

"You'll need to start preparing for my birthday."

"Okay."

"I want at least two hundred guests."

I nodded.

"Fine."

"A live band."

"Fine."

"A champagne tower."

"Fine."

She glanced up.

"And don't screw it up."

Margaret sipped her coffee.

"Serena is making a special effort to come."

There it was again.

Serena.

Always Serena.

The beloved unofficial daughter.

The woman who somehow mattered more than anyone else.

"She must be excited," I said carefully.

"Oh, she is."

Chloe grinned.

"Especially because she's finally introducing her boyfriend."

I kept my expression neutral.

"What does he do?"

Margaret immediately frowned.

"Why are you asking so many questions?"

I lowered my gaze.

"No reason."

"Then stop."

Interesting.

Very interesting.

I suddenly wanted to know everything.

The more they refused to answer, the more suspicious they became.

After breakfast, Margaret handed me a stack of papers.

"Catering."

I accepted them.

"Flowers."

More papers.

"Guest accommodations."

Another stack.

Then she added casually,

"Don't bother preparing anything for yourself."

I looked up.

"What?"

"You're not attending."

The room became silent.

Even Chloe looked amused.

I blinked.

"I'm not attending the party?"

"Of course not."

Margaret's tone suggested I was stupid for asking.

"It's a private celebration."

I stared at her.

A private celebration.

Being hosted inside a property technically owned by my family's trust.

Paid for using my money.

Organized by me.

But I wasn't invited.

"Why?"

Chloe laughed.

"Because nobody wants a grieving widow at a birthday party."

Margaret nodded.

"It would ruin the atmosphere."

For a second, anger almost escaped.

Then I saw it.

The nervousness.

The way Margaret avoided eye contact.

The way Chloe immediately looked down at her phone.

They didn't want me there.

Not because I was depressing.

Because someone was coming.

Someone they desperately needed to keep away from me.

Someone whose face I wasn't supposed to see.

My pulse quickened.

I smiled.

"Of course."

Margaret relaxed instantly.

Good.

Let her think I believed her.

That afternoon, I started digging.

The house had dozens of rooms.

Most people assumed rich people had privacy.

The truth was the opposite.

Big houses created opportunities.

Too many places to hide things.

Too many places to make mistakes.

Margaret made one that same evening.

She left her bedroom unlocked.

I waited until both women left for a spa appointment.

Then I went upstairs.

My hands trembled as I entered.

For a moment, guilt hit me.

Then I remembered the snake.

The poisoned vitamins.

The laughter.

The guilt vanished.

I started with the obvious places.

Desk drawers.

Jewelry boxes.

Cabinets.

Nothing.

Then I found a locked drawer.

Interesting.

I searched for the key.

Ten minutes later, I found it hidden inside a Bible.

I almost laughed.

Margaret always did enjoy irony.

The drawer opened.

Inside were documents.

Bank statements.

Receipts.

Travel records.

I began taking photos.

One after another.

Then I froze.

A receipt.

Hotel de Crillon.

Paris.

Luxury suite.

Two guests.

I stared at the names.

Serena Brooks.

And beneath it—

Ethan Blackwood.

My vision blurred.

For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.

I looked again.

The name didn't disappear.

Ethan Blackwood.

Not an alias.

Not initials.

Not a nickname.

His full name.

The receipt was dated three weeks ago.

Three weeks.

While I had been arranging flowers for his grave.

He had been drinking champagne in Paris.

With Serena.

My husband.

My dead husband.

Alive.

The confirmation should have shocked me.

Instead, I felt strangely calm.

Like some part of me had already known.

Like my heart had accepted the truth before my mind did.

I photographed everything.

Every page.

Every receipt.

Every hotel charge.

Every luxury purchase.

Then I found something even worse.

A jewelry receipt.

Diamond necklace.

Two hundred thousand dollars.

Purchaser:

Ethan Blackwood.

Recipient:

Serena Brooks.

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

A broken little sound.

Because one year ago, Ethan told me we couldn't afford fertility treatment after the miscarriage.

Meanwhile, he was buying diamonds for his mistress.

My phone vibrated.

I jumped.

An unknown number.

For a second I hesitated.

Then I answered.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Then a man's voice.

Deep.

Familiar.

"Vivian?"

My heart stopped.

I knew that voice.

I hadn't heard it in years.

Not since my father's funeral.

"Lucas?"

A pause.

Then he sighed.

"You finally called."

Tears suddenly burned behind my eyes.

Not because I was sad.

Because for the first time in a year, someone sounded worried about me.

Not guilty.

Not demanding.

Not manipulative.

Just worried.

"I need help," I whispered.

Lucas became very quiet.

"What's wrong?"

I looked at the documents spread across Margaret's bed.

The hotel receipts.

The purchases.

The proof.

Then I whispered the words I never imagined saying.

"I think Ethan is alive."

The silence on the other end lasted several seconds.

Finally, Lucas spoke.

His voice had turned cold.

Dangerously cold.

"Don't touch anything."

"What?"

"Take pictures."

"I already did."

"Good."

More silence.

Then—

"I'm coming to get you."

I closed my eyes.

For the first time in a year, I didn't feel alone.

Downstairs, the front door opened.

Margaret and Chloe had returned.

I quickly hid the documents and slipped out of the bedroom.

Neither woman noticed.

Neither realized their secret was already falling apart.

Neither realized I knew.

And neither realized that after one year of being their victim—

I had finally found my first weapon.