My Husband Faked Our Marriage

That same night, Johansen didn’t come home—despite his promise. I waited until the sky darkened, the house empty, and silence thickened like fog in my chest. I told myself not to care. I told myself it didn’t matter. But my fingers still scrolled through my phone, foolishly hoping for a message. Something. An apology. A lie to cling to.

Instead, it was Maureen.

"Hey, sis. You’re so lucky to have him. He’s been taking care of me all night. Can’t believe he’s this sweet."

A photo followed—Johansen spoon-feeding her soup in a hospital room.

"He said he’ll stay over just to make sure I’m okay. Hope that’s okay with you!"

I didn’t reply.

Another ping.

"Oops. Wrong send!"

More photos. Her in his arms. His hand on her cheek. Her smile smug, satisfied.

I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t subtle anymore. She was provoking me. Testing me. Seeing how much I could take before I snapped.

I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. I locked my phone, turned away, and forced myself to sleep in the coldest part of the bed.

The next morning, I woke up to the sensation of warm lips brushing against my cheek.

“Morning, baby,” Johansen whispered.

I flinched, pushing him away. “What are you doing here?”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean? I’m here to see you. You didn’t text me last night.”

“You were with Maureen,” I said quietly. “She made sure I knew.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Baby, are you jealous now? Come on. You know she’s sick. You told me to take care of her. She’s your best friend.”

He went on, “I was helping her because… she was there when you were gone. She was the one who listened when I missed you. She reminded me of you when I needed it. This… this is just me giving back. It’s the right thing to do.”

My chest tightened, the weight of his words pressing against something raw. He made it sound noble—like betrayal could be wrapped in ribbons of gratitude and called kindness.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I told you to be there for her… when I thought she was trustworthy. When I thought she was loyal.”

I swallowed hard. “But I’m here now, Johansen. I’m back. So stop doing it.”

He tilted his head. “You’re being ridiculous. This isn’t you! Are you seriously jealous over a sick friend?”

I stared at him. Friend?

Before I could answer, I heard footsteps down the hallway. Then Maureen’s voice, thick with fake emotion. “She… she hates me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come between you two. I should go—”

“No,” Johansen interrupted, holding her arm. “You should stay here.”

I blinked.

He turned to me. “She has stomach issues. She needs help. She’s staying here until she gets better.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re letting her stay here?”

“She’s going to need someone to cook for her too,” he added casually, brushing past me like this was some normal domestic arrangement. “Start preparing something light.”

“I don’t want to,” I said flatly.

“That wasn’t a request,” he snapped. “That was an order.”

Then, as if it was nothing, he turned away and added, “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re the one who told me to be there for her.”

And just like that, they left me standing in the hallway.

Half an hour later, I stood in the kitchen, forcing myself to move, to breathe, to cook. The scent of broth filled the air, mocking the emptiness in my chest.

Suddenly, Maureen appeared, stepping into the kitchen like she owned it. “Let me help,” she offered sweetly.

“I’ve got it.”

“Oh come on,” she said, reaching for the ladle. “Let me do something. I can’t just sit around and be pampered.” Then she whispered, “Can’t let you have Johansen’s attention.”

I turned to stop her, but she was already stirring the pot. She moved too fast, maybe intentionally, maybe not—and her elbow hit the plate rack.

A crash followed. Porcelain shattered on the floor. A sharp shard bounced and landed against my leg, slicing into my skin.

“Ugh! My arm!” Maureen gasped dramatically, holding her wrist.

Johansen burst into the room. “What the hell happened?!”

“She—she didn’t want me to help, and I tried, and the plate just fell!” Maureen whimpered.

“She didn’t even let me cook—” I began, defending myself.

But Johansen was already glaring at me. “Didn’t I tell you to handle this? Not to let her cook? She isn’t okay yet. Where is your concern? Look what you’ve done now to her!”

He shoved past me and wrapped his arms around Maureen.

I stared at the blood trickling down my shin. The sting from the broken plate. The sting of being replaced.

My voice trembled. “You’ve disappointed me, Johansen.”

And I walked out, ignoring the pain, ignoring their gasps, locking myself in the guest bathroom to clean the wound—alone.

Later that night, I heard the door creak open.

Johansen entered, carrying a bouquet of tulips and a pink paper bag. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to yell earlier. I was shocked. I just… I was worried about Maureen. And you.”

I didn’t look at him.

He placed the flowers beside me. “I got you a dress. That one you saw on the mannequin window last week. And this,” he added, holding up a small velvet box, “a bracelet to match.”

He reached for my hand and kissed it. His lips froze.

“Where’s your ring?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp.

I looked him straight in the eyes. “I threw it away.”

He flinched like I had slapped him.

“It means nothing to me now.”