I Faked My Death to Run away from My Cheater Fiancè

The bruises on my legs throbbed as I sat on the couch, pressing an ice pack against my aching skin. I should have been relieved, grateful even, that a stranger had pulled me out of harm's way before the truck barreled through the crosswalk. But all I felt was a numbness that seeped into my chest, spreading like a shadow. My body was bruised, sure, but it was nothing compared to the cracks in my heart—the ones that Colton had carved there.

The door slammed open, pulling me from my thoughts. Colton’s voice filled the room, frantic and sharp. “Layla!” he called, his gaze sweeping over me before he rushed forward. His suit jacket was half off, his tie loose around his neck. He knelt in front of me, his hands hovering, unsure of where to touch. “What happened? Are you okay?”

I stared at him, searching his face for answers he would never give me. His eyes were wide with concern, his brows furrowed like he actually cared. But I knew better now. I knew those same hands that hovered over me with worry had held Georgia, touched her in ways that had once been reserved for me. The thought turned my stomach, but I kept my expression calm. He couldn’t know what I knew.

“It’s nothing,” I said quietly, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me. “I wasn’t paying attention and almost got hit by a truck. Someone pulled me back.”

“A truck?” His voice cracked, and he grabbed my hands, his grip firm. “Layla, you can’t be careless like that! You’re a model, for God’s sake. What if something worse happened? You can’t risk your career—or yourself.”

His concern sounded genuine, and for a fleeting moment, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe that the man kneeling before me was the Colton I had fallen in love with—the one who had once made me laugh until my stomach hurt, who had whispered promises of forever into my ear late at night. But that man didn’t exist anymore. Maybe he never had.

“It was just an accident,” I said, pulling my hands from his grasp. The ice pack slipped, and he reached to adjust it for me, but I stopped him with a slight shake of my head. “I’m tired, Colton. I just want to sleep.”

He hesitated, his mouth opening as if to argue, but then he sighed and stood. “I’ll stay here with you,” he said. His tone softened, and for a moment, his hand hovered near my shoulder before he let it drop. “Just rest, okay? I’ll be here.”

I nodded, leaning back into the cushions and closing my eyes. His footsteps faded as he moved to the armchair across from me, and I could feel his gaze lingering on me. It felt heavy, like the weight of all the lies he had told me pressed into my chest. But I stayed quiet, pretending to drift into sleep, even as my thoughts raced.

Eventually, exhaustion won. My body gave in to the pull of sleep, though it was restless and uneasy. My dreams were fractured images—Colton’s smile, Georgia’s laugh, and the haunting memory of walking into his office to see her perched on his desk. The way her hand had lingered on his shoulder, the way she hadn’t moved to stop him, even when she saw me standing in the doorway.

When I woke in the middle of the night, the room was dark. The glow of my phone on the nightstand caught my attention, and I reached for it, my fingers brushing across the screen. A message notification blinked at me.

I opened it, and my heart stopped. The photo was unmistakable. Colton and Georgia lay tangled in each other’s arms, the soft hotel sheets draped around their bodies. Her arm was wrapped around his chest, her head nestled into the crook of his neck as though she belonged there. They looked peaceful, intimate. Like lovers.

The message beneath the photo was cruel in its simplicity: He’s mine now.

A sharp pain radiated through my chest as my breath hitched. My hands shook, the phone slipping slightly in my grip. I stared at the photo, willing it to disappear, to be anything other than what it was. But it didn’t change. It was real. The confirmation of everything I had tried so hard to deny.

How long had this been going on? How many nights had he spent with her, whispering the same sweet words he had once said to me? How many lies had he told to cover his tracks?

I thought of all the times I had questioned him—the late-night calls, the lingering scent of unfamiliar perfume, the excuses about long work hours. Each time, he had smiled, kissed my forehead, and told me I was overthinking. And I had believed him. I had let myself believe in the version of him that I wanted to see, even as the evidence piled up.

I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. My body felt heavy, my mind foggy with exhaustion and despair. I wanted to scream, to throw the phone across the room, to wake him and demand answers. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because deep down, I already knew the truth, and no explanation he could offer would change it.

He had broken me, yes. But I wouldn’t stay broken. Not for him. Not for anyone.