My Husband Faked Our Marriage

"Baby… why would you throw that away?" Johansen asked, staring at my bare hand like it was a crime scene. "That was our wedding ring."

A bitter laugh almost escaped my lips. Our wedding ring? The one tied to a fake ceremony? To a forged certificate? To a life that never truly existed?

"I don’t want it anymore," I said simply.

Johansen blinked, recovering quickly. “Oh, that’s all? You should’ve told me. Don’t worry—I’ll buy you a new one at the next auction. Bigger, better.”

He leaned in and kissed my cheek, brushing my hair back like he hadn’t just spent the night with another woman. "How about you get dressed now, hmm? Let’s go on a date. Just you and me. Something special.”

He left the room humming under his breath. But as I moved toward the closet to change, I paused in the hallway—just long enough to hear his voice murmuring in the next room.

“She bought it,” he was saying. “I told you she threw the ring out, but I kissed her, promised her a new one. She won’t suspect anything. Just keep pretending you’re weak. Soon, we could dispose of her since my father and her family had been thinking of handing their business to me.”

Maureen’s voice followed, soft but sharp. “You really think she’ll leave on her own?”

“She’s already unraveling,” he chuckled. “A little longer, and we won’t need to do anything. She’ll walk out on her own. Or break. Or stay? Whatever! You’re the one I want now.”

I forced myself to keep walking, not let my pace falter. I’d heard enough. More than enough.

But tonight, I’d play the role he expected. It was supposed to be our third wedding anniversary. Or what I used to think was real.

I dressed in a soft cream dress, paired with the bracelet he had gifted me the night before. My expression in the mirror was neutral, unreadable. Just like I wanted it. It was easier now—putting on masks. Smiling with dead eyes. Pretending this wasn’t all built on lies.

Johansen took me to a five-star restaurant downtown. Everything was extravagant—the view, the wine, the lighting that softened the angles of his face. He was all smiles and charm, like the man I once knew. The man who had whispered vows I now knew were empty.

But my heart still remembered.

“Do you remember our first date here?” he asked, sliding his chair closer. “You wore that pale blue dress. I couldn’t stop staring.”

I did remember.

I had worn my hair loose, nervous out of my mind, but he was so steady. He pulled the chair out for me, ordered my favorite wine before I even asked, and later confessed he had memorized my food preferences from our college lunch breaks. He gave me tulips that night, and I laughed because I’d once told him tulips were my favorite in passing—he remembered.

Back then, I thought that kind of attention meant forever.

He reached across the table and held my hand now, like he always used to. “To us,” he said, lifting his glass. “Three years of love.”

I forced a smile and clinked my glass against his.

Three years of what I thought was love.

He slid a small red box across the table with that familiar grin. “I wanted to make up for the lost ring,” he said sweetly.

Inside was a glittering band, probably worth more than my tuition back in fashion school. The diamonds caught the candlelight. I nodded and slipped it on, letting him believe he had me back.

Letting him believe I was still the fool.

But my mind drifted again—against my will—to the memory of us. We had gone to prom together. Had matching bracelets in college with our initials. We used to write notes on each other's books, silly doodles and love poems. Everyone said we were the couple that would never break, the couple that made others jealous. I used to believe that if love had a shape, it looked like Johansen.

I used to be so sure.

But now, even as I stared into his eyes, all I could think of was the way he kissed Maureen when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way he laughed about our fake marriage like it was a joke at a party.

“I missed you,” he said now, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. “I don’t ever want to lose what we have.”

Neither did I. But what we had no longer existed.

I nodded, smile in place, and leaned in like I used to.

But this time, I felt nothing. Except the quiet, hollow ache of someone finally waking up.

The evening dragged on with false laughter, hollow memories, and endless wine. I thought the performance was going smoothly—until his phone rang.

Johansen frowned at the screen, stood up, and excused himself with a finger raised. I watched him walk outside, phone pressed to his ear. The glass window gave me a perfect view of his expression shifting from mild annoyance to wide-eyed worry.

Then he broke into a sprint.

I followed, confused—until I saw his phone fall from his ear as he rushed to the car.

“What happened?” I called.

He didn’t even turn around. “Maureen… she fell down the stairs.”

That was all he said before the engine roared and he drove off.

No goodbye. No checking if I had a way home. No concern. Just… gone.

I stood there alone on the sidewalk, the wind biting at my skin. I clutched the ring box and exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

This time, I didn’t cry.

I hailed a taxi, not wanting to sit around feeling abandoned again.

But halfway through the ride, on a quiet, dimly lit street, the taxi slowed.

“Hey,” I said to the driver, “what’s going on?”

But it wasn’t him. Two men appeared from the side of the road, yanking the back door open before I could react.

“Give us your bag!” one shouted, grabbing at me.

I screamed, tried to fight, but one of them was already pulling at my purse, and the other lunged forward with something shiny in his hand.

Pain burst through my side.

It was quick. Burning. A stab so deep I couldn’t scream anymore.

They ran off with my things, but not before kicking my phone from my lap.

Luckily, it had fallen under my leg instead of out the door.

Shaking, bleeding, I pulled it out with trembling hands and called the only person whose number I could dial without thinking.

“Johansen…” I gasped.

His voice was muffled, distracted. “What is it?”

“S-Something happened… I was attacked—stabbed—I need you—”

My voice trembled, barely holding together as I pressed the phone to my ear, blood seeping through my clothes, the pain blurring my vision.

There was a pause. A long, cold silence.

Then Johansen's voice came through, flat and irritated.

“Can’t you call someone else? I’m kinda busy right now.”

My breath caught. “What…?” I croaked.

In the background, I heard a light laugh. Maureen.

Then Johansen spoke again, sharper this time. “You know Maureen just got hurt, right? She’s in pain and she needs me. Don’t pull this kind of drama just to get my attention, Cassandra. Not tonight.”

My heart cracked open. I could barely believe what I was hearing. “I’m not—” I tried to explain, but he cut me off.

“God, Cassandra, not everything is about you. I’m dealing with something real here. Please don’t add to it.”

I didn’t even realize I’d dropped the phone until it hit the pavement with a hollow clatter. My fingers went numb. My chest felt hollow. The pain in my side surged again, hot and unbearable.

Then the world went dark.