Fiancé Chose the Maid Over Me

I was scrolling through my phone in bed when the notification popped up. A message from Sarah with just three words: "Call me. Now."

My stomach twisted as I tapped her name. "What's wrong?"

"Alex, you need to see this." Her voice was tight with anger. "Someone posted photos of you online. They're... they're not what they seem."

I opened the link she sent, and my blood turned to ice. There I was—or what looked like me—wrapped around a man I'd never seen before. The image was grainy but convincing, showing my face clearly while the man's remained shadowed. Another photo showed my profile in what appeared to be an intimate embrace.

"No," I whispered, my fingers trembling as I scrolled through the comments. "No, no, no."

The captions read: "Future Hart wife's secret lover" and "Charity queen by day, party girl by night."

I recognized the background—it was from last year's literacy program in rural Guatemala. I remembered this exact moment: I'd been comforting a local volunteer who'd lost his father. The photo had been doctored, my body positioned differently, the man's face replaced.

"Alex? Are you there?" Sarah's voice pulled me back.

"This is Rosa," I said, my voice hollow. "She's been taking photos of me for weeks. She must have—"

The bedroom door slammed open. Lorenzo stood there, his face a mask of cold fury, his phone clenched in his hand.

"Is this why you've been acting strange?" he demanded, holding up the screen. "Is this why you've been distant?"

I threw off the covers and stood, my legs shaking. "Lorenzo, those photos aren't real. They're edited. Look at the background—that's from Guatemala, when I was working with the literacy program."

"Stop lying!" His voice cracked like a whip. "First you torment Rosa, now this?"

Something inside me broke. I fell to my knees, grabbing his hand. "Please," I begged, tears streaming down my face. "Please just listen to me. Rosa is doing this. She's been systematically destroying me, piece by piece. Check her background, Lorenzo. Please."

His eyes flickered with something—doubt? Pain? But then his expression hardened again. "I've seen enough," he said, pulling away from me. "We'll discuss this later."

---

The family gathering that evening was a nightmare. I sat at the far end of the dining table, avoiding Lorenzo's gaze. Victor Hart watched me with calculated interest, his smile never reaching his eyes.

"More wine, Alexandra?" he asked, reaching for my glass.

"I'm fine," I said, but he was already refilling it.

Across the table, Rosa began her latest performance. She hunched over, eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal.

"The bombs," she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The bombs are coming."

I recognized this persona—the war veteran with PTSD. She'd researched it thoroughly, right down to the military jargon she sometimes slipped into.

"Rosa," Lorenzo murmured, moving to her side. "You're safe here."

I took a sip of wine, trying to calm my nerves. The liquid tasted slightly bitter, but I attributed it to my churning stomach.

"I need to get out," Rosa whimpered. "There are people watching the house."

"I'll walk you to your room," Lorenzo offered, helping her up.

As they left, Victor's smile widened. "She's quite the actress, isn't she?"

I nodded absently, taking another sip. The room began to tilt slightly. "I feel strange," I muttered.

"Too much wine, perhaps?" Victor suggested, his voice distant through the sudden fog in my mind.

I tried to stand but stumbled. The room spun violently, and I gripped the table edge. "Something's wrong," I slurred.

When Lorenzo returned, his expression darkened further. "You've been drinking the entire time I was gone?"

"I only had one glass," I protested, but my tongue felt thick.

"Clearly more than that," he said coldly. "Is this how you cope with guilt? By getting drunk and making excuses?"

---

The sound of shattering glass jolted me awake. I stumbled from my bed, still disoriented from whatever had been in my wine.

"Lorenzo?" I called, following the sound to the bathroom.

The door was ajar, and through the gap, I saw Rosa on the floor, blood pooling beneath her. She'd slashed her wrists—superficially, but enough to bleed dramatically.

"Help," she whispered, her eyes finding mine. "She's trying to kill me."

Lorenzo burst past me, dropping to his knees beside her. "Rosa! Oh God!"

I stood frozen as he pressed towels to her wrists, his hands shaking. On the counter lay a note in Rosa's handwriting: "I can't take her persecution anymore. Please forgive me."

"She threatened me," Rosa whispered to Lorenzo. "She said she'd kill me if I didn't leave."

Lorenzo's eyes met mine over Rosa's head, and what I saw there made my blood run cold. Pure, undiluted hatred.

"Get out," he growled.

Hours later, after Rosa had been taken to the hospital, Lorenzo returned. His face was a storm of rage as he grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the door.

"If you ever come near Rosa again," he hissed, his fingers digging into my flesh, "I will make you regret it."

I stared into the eyes of the man I loved and saw nothing of him there—only a stranger consumed by misplaced protection and blind fury.

"Lorenzo," I whispered, "please believe me."

"Stay away from her," he snarled, shoving me back. "Or I swear to God, Alexandra, I will destroy you."