Eight Years Of His Lies

Kiana Valenzuela POV:

"No," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I'm not hungry." I walked past him, my mother's small memorial tablet tucked securely into my bag.

"Where are you going?" Greg asked, his brow furrowed.

"Out," I replied, not bothering to elaborate. "I have something to do." I walked out the door, leaving him standing there, confused.

My first stop was a lawyer's office. I pulled out the framed "marriage certificate" Greg had given me years ago. The one I had cherished, the one that meant we were a family.

The lawyer, a kind-faced woman named Ms. Davies, examined it carefully. She held it up, scrutinizing the dates, the signatures. Then she looked at me, her expression softening with pity.

"Mrs. Valenzuela," she said gently, "I'm so sorry. This isn't a legal document. It's... a decorative piece. There's no record of your marriage in any official registry."

The words hit me like a slow-motion avalanche. Not legal. All those years. All those promises. All of it, a performance. I felt a dizzying wave wash over me, threatening to pull me under. My vision blurred.

I gripped the edge of the polished desk, trying to steady myself. My head throbbed, a familiar pain. Eight years. Eight years of my life. My youth, my dreams, my identity. All built on a lie. I had given everything, every ounce of my being, to a fantasy.

I had been so proud, so secure in my role as his wife, Josh's mother. Now, I was nothing. A fool. A puppet dancing on strings pulled by a master manipulator. He had carved away my self-worth, chipped at my sanity, piece by agonizing piece.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear my hair out. But all that came out was a quiet, desperate whisper. "No. No, it can't be." I yearned for her to say it was a mistake, a clerical error, anything but the crushing truth.

I drove back to the house, a hollow shell. As I opened the door, Brittany was there, standing by the fireplace, talking to Greg. She looked up, her eyes narrowing.

"Oh, Kiana," Brittany said, a saccharine smile on her lips. "I was just leaving. Greg and I were just discussing Josh's favorite cartoon." She made a show of gathering her purse.

"Don't," I said, my voice flat. My eyes bored into hers. "Don't bother leaving. Stay. Explain."

I held up the fake marriage certificate. The ornate frame felt heavy in my hand, a cruel joke. "This. This piece of paper. You know about this, don't you? You know it's fake."

Greg's face went white. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He began to stammer. "Kiana, I... I can explain. It's complicated."

His words faded to a dull buzz in my ears. My vision tunneled. The air grew thin. I couldn't breathe. My chest felt like it was being crushed by an invisible weight.

Not his wife. Not legally. A common-law partner, at best. A mistress, by definition. My entire identity, ripped away. I was nobody.

Greg rushed to my side. "Kiana, honey, calm down. It's okay. We can fix this. Anything you want, I'll do it. Just calm down." He reached for me.

I recoiled. Fix this? He thought he could fix this with words? He thought he could bandage a gaping wound with empty promises? My mind raced, trying to grasp the enormity of his deception.

It wasn't just the allergy, the winter separation, the gaslighting with the pills. It was everything. For eight years, he had lived a double life. For eight years, I had been a prop in his elaborate farce. He had kept me isolated, vulnerable, to maintain his secret.

I remembered his excuses for not traveling, for always finding reasons to stay close to home. He couldn't be away from "his business," his "obligations." Now I knew. His real obligation was to Brittany, his real wife.

"You used Josh," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "You used his deadly allergy as an excuse. As a ticket. So you could play house with her." My eyes burned into his. "And you call yourself a father?"

He looked desperate. "No! Brittany and I... that was years ago. It was a mistake. She means nothing. I was going to fix it, I swear."

Just then, Brittany's hand, holding a delicate china teacup, slipped. The cup crashed to the floor, shattering into a million pieces.

Greg, without a moment's hesitation, spun around. He rushed to Brittany, his priority clear. "Brittany, are you okay? Are you cut?" He knelt beside her, his back to me, his focus entirely on her.

I stood there, motionless. A shard of the broken porcelain had flown and embedded itself in my ankle. A sharp, searing pain. Blood welled up, a crimson stain spreading on the carpet. But he didn't see. He didn't care.

Josh, who had been hiding behind his father, looked at Brittany, then at Greg, then back at me. "Brittany, are you hurt?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. He didn't even notice my blood.

They were a unit. A family. And I was the outsider, bleeding on the floor.

I took a deep, shaky breath. I pulled the shard from my ankle, ignoring the pain. I turned and walked out of the house. I walked away from the shattered porcelain, the spilled blood, the broken promises. I walked away from them.

As I stepped onto the cold pavement, a forgotten melody floated into my mind. It was "Crazy for You," the song Greg had sung to me on our "wedding" day. I hummed it softly, a mournful, defiant tune. It wasn't crazy for him anymore. It was just crazy.

Greg heard the front door slam. He looked up, his eyes wide. "Kiana?" he called out, a note of panic in his voice. He spun around, finally noticing the blood on the floor. "Kiana!" He ran to the door, throwing it open. But I was gone. Only a few drops of my blood remained on the pristine white porch, a silent testament to the wound he had inflicted.