Escape from False Marriage

The house felt different with Cassidy in it. Not just occupied—violated. I swept up the glass shards from the kitchen floor, each piece catching the light like tiny accusations. Robert's words from the porch still echoed in my mind: *Ninety-nine times and she still believes I've forgotten her.*

Ninety-nine times.

I needed to know how deep this deception ran.

Robert had taken Cassidy to her supposed doctor's appointment—another performance in their elaborate charade. The house stretched empty around me, filled with the kind of silence that begged to be broken. I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, my feet finding the creaky spots I'd learned to avoid during his light-sleeping periods after missions.

His desk sat in the corner, mahogany wood polished to a mirror shine. I'd dusted it countless times, careful never to disturb his papers. Now I pulled open the bottom drawer, my hands trembling as I rifled through mission reports and military correspondence.

Then I found them.

A stack of letters, each one addressed to Cassidy in Robert's careful handwriting. The paper was expensive—cream-colored stationery I'd never seen before. My fingers traced the first envelope, postmarked three years ago. Three years. This had been going on for three years.

*My dearest Cassidy,* the first letter began. *If you're reading this, I didn't make it back from this mission. I need you to know that every day without you has been agony. Grace is a good woman, but she's not you. She'll never be you.*

The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. I forced myself to keep reading.

*I've set aside money for you—account details enclosed. Take care of yourself and our future. You are my heart, my soul, my everything. I'm sorry I couldn't give you the life you deserved while I was alive.*

I grabbed another letter, then another. Each one a variation on the same theme. Each one a promise of eternal devotion to a woman who wasn't his wife. Each one dated to coincide with his supposed amnesia episodes.

The ninety-ninth letter was dated last week.

*My beloved Cassidy, this might be my last chance to tell you how much you mean to me. Grace suspects nothing—she's too trusting, too naive to see what's right in front of her. I've transferred another payment to your account. When I return, we'll be together properly. I'll make sure of it.*

The paper crumpled in my fist. Ninety-nine letters. Ninety-nine promises to another woman. Ninety-nine times he'd planned to betray me while I cooked his meals, cleaned his house, and prayed for his safe return.

Footsteps on the stairs made me freeze. I shoved the letters back into the drawer and slammed it shut, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Grace?" Cassidy's voice drifted up from the landing. "Could you help me with something?"

I wiped my eyes and descended the stairs, finding her in the living room. She'd rearranged the throw pillows on the couch—my grandmother's handmade pillows that had sat in the same configuration for five years. Now they were stacked in the corner, replaced by a silk scarf I'd never seen before.

"I hope you don't mind," Cassidy said, one hand resting on her belly. "I needed to make the space more... comfortable for the baby. These old things looked so worn."

Old things. My grandmother's pillows were old things.

"Of course," I managed. "Whatever you need."

Cassidy smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Robert gave me access to his accounts for medical expenses. The baby requires specialized care, you understand. Very expensive."

She was already spending his money. Already claiming territory in my home. Already erasing me piece by piece.

"I also moved some of your things from the master bathroom," she continued casually. "I need the space for my prenatal vitamins and medications. I put your toiletries in the guest bathroom. I hope that's alright."

It wasn't alright. None of this was alright. But I nodded anyway, the same automatic response I'd given ninety-nine times before.

That evening, I stood at the edge of the meadow three miles from our house, watching the helicopter circle overhead. Grayson had been coming here every third day for months, appearing like clockwork with an offer I'd never been brave enough to accept.

The aircraft settled onto the grass, rotors slowing to a whisper. Through the cockpit window, I could see him—patient, steady, waiting. He never pressured me, never demanded explanations. He simply appeared, offering escape without conditions.

Tonight, with the weight of ninety-nine letters burning in my memory, I took a step forward. Then another. The helicopter door opened, and Grayson's gentle eyes met mine across the distance.

"Grace," he called softly over the dying engine noise. "You don't have to decide tonight. I'll be here again in three days."

I stood frozen between two worlds—the life I'd known and the unknown future waiting beyond the helicopter's threshold. Behind me lay a house where another woman was rearranging my belongings and spending my husband's money. Ahead lay possibility, terrifying and vast.

The letters had shown me the truth: I was already gone from Robert's heart. I had been for three years.

But my feet wouldn't move. Not yet.