My Husband Faked Our Marriage

“I’m ready. Arrange it for me.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by my mother’s sharp intake of breath. “Cassandra!” she gasped. “What do you mean? What happened? Didn’t you turn down the proposal because you said you were so in love with Johansen? You told me he was your forever! What on earth is happening now? Are you getting divorced?”

I closed my eyes, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

“No, Mom,” I whispered. “We were never married at all.”

Silence.

“What?” she breathed, barely audible.

“He fooled me,” I said, forcing the words out like they were thorns in my throat. “Everything was a lie. I thought I was his wife. I thought we had forever. But it was all fake, Mom. I was just a piece of a bigger plan. And I can’t stay here anymore. Please… I need to leave. I want to forget all of this. I want to start a new life.”

There was a long pause. I could almost hear her struggling to process everything.

Finally, her voice came back, low and firm. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll take care of everything. You just stay calm. I’ll handle it. Give me one week. I’ll make sure everything’s ready. New records. New address. New life. No traces of what you left behind. When the week is over, you’ll be free.”

My heart clenched with a strange mix of grief and hope.

One week. Just seven more days of pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I nodded. “That’s fine.”

That night, Johansen messaged me about the birthday of his best friend.

Babe, don’t forget about Parker’s birthday. I told them we’d come together. I’ll be waiting. Love you.

I stared at the message for a long time. Then I typed a short reply: Sorry, still finishing some designs. I’ll follow later.

He replied within seconds. No worries. Just text me when you’re on your way. I’ll be there to welcome you.

I inhaled deeply, steeling myself. One week. Just one more week, Cassandra. You can do this.

I dressed simply, did my makeup, and drove to the venue. The night felt colder than usual as if the air itself knew something was wrong.

As I approached the garden entrance, I heard laughter—low, familiar male voices. I paused.

“…Man, you really brought two girls to my party?” one of Johansen’s friends laughed. “What’s your end game here?”

Johansen’s voice followed, light and cocky. “Honestly? I don’t even know. I loved Cassandra once, I really did. But she left me to chase her dreams. I was lonely. Maureen was there. We… happened. We got married.”

My stomach turned.

“And when Cassandra came back,” he continued, “everyone expected us to get married. We were the golden couple. So I faked it. I didn’t divorce Maureen. Why should I? Cassandra’s family is loaded. She’s useful.”

The others laughed.

“Two wives, one man,” one of them chuckled. “You’re living the dream.”

And Johansen said, “Exactly. And you know what? I was enjoying it. Why only one when you can have both? But I might need to dispose of Cassandra soon, once I got all her inheritance.”

I didn’t realize I was gripping my clutch until I felt my nails dig into my palm. I straightened up, wiped away the single tear that had dared to fall, and walked toward the main hall.

Inside, the lights were warm, and laughter filled the air. And there she was—Maureen—sipping champagne like she belonged there.

“Oh, Cassandra,” she said sweetly when she saw me. “You made it. I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I was just late,” I replied coolly. “What are you doing here?”

She smiled, wide-eyed and innocent. “Johansen brought me. I’m here with him.”

My jaw clenched. “Well, the wife is here now. So maybe it’s time for you to go.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Always the dramatic one. Come on, Cass. We can share him. I mean, isn’t what we’re doing?”

She blinked. It wasn’t the first time Maureen was so bold like that, but before she laughed at it, knowing Maureen was just joking—now she had realized that jokes were always half-meant.

Then Johansen arrived, his arm slinging around her possessively. Maureen immediately feigned distress. “She doesn’t want me here,” she said, sniffing. “I didn’t mean to offend her. I think she thinks I’m stealing her position as your wife.”

Johansen turned to me. “Cassandra, what is this? Are you seriously making a scene over Maureen? She’s your best friend. I thought we moved past all that. You’re the one who always wanted to be with her before.”

I stared at him. “But I’m here, Johansen. Why do you still need her?”

He blinked. My tone, my defiance—it must’ve surprised him. I’d always been quiet, kind, too forgiving. But not anymore.

“I just… I want both of you here,” he said, confused. “It’s not that deep. Just enjoy the night. Be civil.”

I looked at Maureen. Then at Johansen. I realized nothing I said would change anything. So I simply stood. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I’m going home.”

And I walked away.

Johansen started to follow, but Maureen suddenly groaned, clutching her stomach. “I think… I think I need to go to the hospital.”

Of course she did. Later that night, back home, I stared at my phone. A message lit up the screen.

Sorry for tonight. Maureen wasn’t feeling well. Had to take her in. Let’s talk tomorrow? I love you. I’ll make it up to you.

I said nothing. No reply. Just silence.

I removed my ring. And dropped it into the trash.