My Husband Faked Our Love

My thumb rested against the ridged plastic switch hidden deep inside the bouquet of white roses. One push, and the audio of his threats would broadcast to twenty-three million people.

Asher's fingers dug harder into my spine. "Answer the man, Nora."

I slid my finger away from the switch. Not yet. The trap needed to be tighter.

"I want everyone to see something first," I announced, leaning directly into the officiant's lapel microphone.

The teleprompter operator froze. The scrolling text on the monitor halted abruptly. The studio audience murmured, a low wave of confusion rippling through the dark room.

Asher's smile remained frozen in place, but his eyes turned completely cold. "What are you talking about, sweetheart?"

"My dress," I lied, keeping my voice bright and loud. "The bodice wire just snapped. It's cutting into my ribs."

"We can fix it after the vows," he whispered, his lips grazing my ear. His tone carried a venomous edge meant only for me. "Do not ruin this broadcast."

"I'm bleeding, Asher," I replied, projecting my voice so the front row could hear every syllable.

The interviewer gasped, dropping her cue cards. "Oh my goodness, get the cameras away! Give the bride some privacy!"

A swarm of production assistants rushed the stage, holding up black privacy screens. Asher reached for my arm, but I stepped backward, letting the heavy tulle of my skirt slip through his fingers.

"I'll come with you," he demanded, stepping forward to close the distance.

I held up a hand. "Stay here. Entertain our guests. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Nora—"

"The shareholders are watching," I reminded him, throwing his own words back at him. "Show them stability, darling."

Before he could argue, I turned and hurried down the side stairs, leaving him trapped under the glare of the studio lights.

The hallway leading to the VIP dressing room was empty, the thick carpet muffling my footsteps. I pushed the heavy oak door open, slipped inside, and threw the deadbolt.

Silence enveloped the room, broken only by the low hum of the vanity lights.

I dropped the heavy bridal bouquet on the makeup counter. My hands shook as I grabbed my white beaded clutch from the velvet chair.

I tore the clasp open. Deep inside the silk lining, folded into tight squares, sat the photocopies. I pulled them out and spread them across the glass tabletop.

Eleven pages. Eleven death warrants for the life I used to own.

"Transfer of Controlling Interests," I read aloud, my voice echoing in the empty room.

I moved to the next page. "Medical Proxy Authorization."

I flipped to the third. "Offshore Asset Reallocation."

Every single document bore a date from the two years I lay in a hospital bed, hooked to ventilators and feeding tubes.

I dragged my fingernail down to the bottom of the first page. The signature read Nora Vale.

It looked perfect to the untrained eye. The slant matched. The ink pressure looked consistent.

But it wasn't mine.

I picked up a black eyeliner pencil from the vanity tray. I uncapped it and pressed the tip against the brightly lit mirror.

Nora Vale.

I wrote my name across the glass. The wax squeaked against the surface, leaving thick, dark lines over my own reflection.

I grabbed the first document and held it up next to the mirror.

"Look at the 'V'," I whispered to the empty room.

The forged 'V' on the paper had a sharp, aggressive point at the base. My actual 'V' on the mirror curved softly at the bottom. The loop on the 'a' on the paper was entirely closed, choked off. Mine always remained slightly open.

Someone sat at a mahogany desk, practicing my name over and over, while I fought for my life in an intensive care unit.

They stole my company. They drained my trust fund. They signed away my right to make my own medical decisions. They systematically erased my identity, stroke by stroke, leaving nothing but a compliant shell for the cameras.

A sharp knock rattled the heavy door.

"Nora." Asher's voice penetrated the wood. "Open this door."

I dropped the paper onto the glass counter. "I need another minute. The stylist is helping me."

"There is no stylist in there with you," he countered, the brass doorknob rattling violently. "I saw her in the green room. Open it now."

Panic flared in my chest. I snatched the eleven pages off the table.

"I'm fixing the wire myself!" I yelled back, folding the thick stack of papers in half.

"Are you having another episode?" Asher asked, his voice carrying a dangerous, threatening edge. "Do I need to call Dr. Evans? You know what happens when you get confused, Nora. You hurt yourself."

Gaslighting. Even through a locked door, he couldn't stop playing the devoted, concerned caretaker.

"I'm not confused," I shot back. "My dress is torn."

"The network is threatening to cut to commercial," Asher warned. "You are embarrassing me."

"I said give me a minute!"

I shoved the stack into the small opening of the clutch. The thick bundle fought against the tight silk lining. I pushed harder, crushing the edges of the paper, desperate to hide the evidence.

A loud, metallic click echoed from the door.

He had a master key.

"Asher, wait!" I shouted, tossing the eyeliner pencil onto the tray.

The door swung open, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

Asher stepped into the dressing room. He filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the hallway light. He wore his crisp white suit, but the charming television smile was entirely gone. He stared at me, his jaw set in a hard line.

"Are you done playing games?" he asked, stepping closer.

"I told you I was bleeding," I said, putting my hands on my hips to block his view of the vanity table.

"Show me the blood."

"I wiped it away."

He didn't blink. "You are going to walk back out there, take my hand, and finish those vows. Do you understand me?"

"And if I don't?" I challenged, lifting my chin.

"Then I make a phone call, and the board dissolves Vale Technologies by morning. Your mother's legacy will be sold for scrap."

I stared at him, absorbing the threat. He wasn't hiding it anymore. Not behind closed doors. The loving fiancé routine evaporated the second the cameras stopped rolling.

"Fine," I said, forcing my shoulders to drop. "Let's go finish the broadcast."

I reached behind me and grabbed the beaded clutch from the counter.

Asher's gaze shifted. He looked past my shoulder, tracking the movement of my hand.

The room went entirely still.

His eyes narrowed, locking directly onto the thick, folded edge of white copy paper protruding awkwardly from the unclasped bag.