"I want a divorce! My husband doesn't love me anymore!" The moment I stepped into City Hall, clutching my water-damaged marriage certificate, I heard a young woman's cry from the next counter over. She was a mess, tears carving streaks through her makeup as she wailed about her broken marriage. The crazy thing was, her husband had the same name as mine: Damian Holt. Except her Damian Holt was the richest man in Northwood City. Mine was just an ordinary guy. I smiled at the strange coincidence and handed my certificate to the clerk. "I need a replacement, please." But a second later, the clerk gave me a confused look. "Ma'am, our records show your status as 'unmarried.' And this gentleman... he's already married." She tapped her screen, then pointed at my document. "This certificate is a fake." I froze, a glacial chill creeping over me, stealing the air from my lungs. My head turned on its own, my eyes drawn to the woman at the next counter. Her phone screen lit up, the wallpaper a wedding photo. The man in the tuxedo was the same man I’d been married to for three years. 1 As I stood there, stunned into silence, the woman made a call. "Damian Holt, I want a divorce. Get down here and sign the papers now!" She had it on speaker. I heard a familiar voice on the other end, laced with a weary sort of affection. "What's this about a divorce again? Honey, I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry, okay?" The woman wiped at her tears. "Don't call me that. I won't be your 'honey' for much longer. This isn't a discussion; it's a notification. Get down here and sign." "If you don't," she threatened, "I'll fly abroad where you'll never find me. Two years of separation is an automatic divorce anyway." A new edge of panic entered the man's voice. I even heard the clatter of a chair being knocked over. "Don't go anywhere! I'm on my way!" The call ended. The woman sniffled, turning back to the clerk. "My husband's coming. Once we file, it's a 30-day waiting period before it's final, right?" "That's correct. You can pick up the final decree in thirty days." She nodded and moved to a nearby waiting chair, her eyes red and puffy, the picture of heartbroken vulnerability. I wanted to run, but it felt like every ounce of strength had been siphoned out of me, leaving me rooted to the spot. My mind was a blizzard of white noise. This had to be a dream. It was the only explanation. How could the marriage certificate we got two years ago be a fake? Snapping back to reality, I pleaded with the clerk, "Could you please check again? We got married right here, two years ago. How can it be fake?" The clerk held up the soggy, ruined document and pointed to the seal. "Ma'am, look here. The official seal is crooked. It's definitely a forgery." Her voice softened. "As for why... you'll probably have to find that out for yourself." Her eyes were full of pity, a look I couldn't bear. I forced myself to stand and shuffled away. That's when the young woman looked up and saw me. Her eyes widened slightly. "Hey, we look kind of alike, don't we?" My heart skipped a beat. Looking at her, at the familiar shape of her eyes and curve of her brows, my face hardened into a mask. I opened my mouth to say something, but the main door swung open. A man burst in, looking like he'd rushed all the way here. "Honey!" At the sound of his voice, both of us turned. And I saw his face. A face I knew intimately. Just last night, he had held me, whispering promises against my skin. But now, his eyes saw only one woman, and it wasn't me. 2 Seeing Damian, the woman—Mila—crossed her arms, her expression instantly turning frosty. "Good, you're here. Let's get this over with." Damian looked frantic, so focused on her he didn't even notice me standing just a few feet away. "Even a criminal gets to know the charges against them, right? Honey, just tell me what I did wrong. I'll change, I promise." His voice was a desperate plea. "I spent eight years chasing you before you finally married me. We've only been married a year. You can't just divorce me. You might as well just kill me." Mila sniffed, her eyes welling up again. "When you married me, you promised you'd treat me like a queen for the rest of my life. A year in, and you already take me for granted." "You're always busy with work," she accused, her voice cracking. "You're away for half the month." As she spoke, my own face grew paler with every word. Damian was always busy. Always traveling for business or pulling all-nighters at the office. I worried he was working himself to death, so I'd wake up at five in the morning to cook him breakfast, always trying new recipes to nourish him. But it was all a lie... Mila began to list his crimes. "Three years ago, when I went abroad, you promised you'd wait for me. Six months in, you missed sending me a 'goodnight' text once." Three years ago. That was when I met Damian. He told me it was love at first sight. Countless times, in our most intimate moments, he would kiss my eyes, his gaze filled with a love so deep I thought I could drown in it. "Last Valentine's Day," she continued, "I said I was craving those famous crab cakes from the Harbor District. You sent your assistant to get them. You didn't even go and wait in line yourself." That day, Damian had told me he was stuck at the office with a deadline. He didn't come home all night. When he finally showed up, he was carrying a box of cold crab cakes. I knew the line for that place was hours long, and my heart swelled with a mix of sympathy and love as I threw myself into his arms. "And last week! I told you my stomach hurt, and you didn't come home immediately to make me some soup! It took you two whole hours to get here!" That day, I had a raging fever. I called Damian, begging him to take me to the hospital. He'd barely been home for a few minutes when he glanced at his phone, claimed an urgent work emergency had come up, and left me with a box of fever reducers. I was drenched in a cold sweat, too weak to get water. I dry-swallowed the pills and curled into a ball, shivering through the night alone. My vision blurred. Every word out of Mila's mouth was another needle piercing my heart. My nails dug into my palms, but I was too numb to feel the pain. "I never had to peel my own shrimp when we were dating," she sobbed. "This morning, you forgot to peel my shrimp for me." "You've changed," she concluded, her voice trembling. "Your heart has changed. I don't want to be with you anymore. We're getting a divorce!" She spoke like a wounded princess, every complaint a testament to a world of pampering I had never known. Damian's face was etched with pain as he gently wiped her tears away. "I just walked away from a multi-billion dollar deal for you, and you say I don't love you? I'll cut back on work. I'll spend more time with you, okay?" He cradled her face in his hands. "Please don't cry. It kills me to see you cry. I'm sorry. I'll fix it. I'll fix everything." After a long session of his gentle coaxing, Mila's tone finally softened. "Fine. This is your last chance. If you make me angry again, I'm never forgiving you." They clung to each other, ready to leave as one. Just then, Mila seemed to remember something and turned, her gaze landing on me. "Honey, look. Doesn't she look a lot like me?" Damian looked up. His eyes met mine, and for a split second, his pupils contracted in shock. Then, just as quickly, he looked away, his expression smoothing over into indifference. "I don't see it. My wife is much prettier." Mila gave him a playful, scolding glance. I just stood there. My heart felt like it had been plunged into ice water, the cold so sharp it was a physical pain. 3 I dragged my numb body home. When I opened the door, I found an unexpected person inside. Damian Holt. He was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, still in the tailored suit that looked so out of place in my cramped little apartment. It was laughable. How had I never noticed? How did I ever believe he was just a regular office worker? When he saw me, the warmth I was used to was gone, replaced by an icy calm. "So, you know." It wasn't a question. My hands clenched into fists. I couldn't understand how he could be so composed after his entire world of lies had been exposed. No shame, no guilt, no apology. He acted as if this was a minor inconvenience. But this was my three years. The marriage certificate was a lie. The love I believed in was a lie. His very identity was a lie. Every memory we had made, every shared moment, was a fraud. I bit down on my tongue, the sharp tang of blood holding back a fresh wave of tears. My voice came out raspy. "What are you doing here?" Damian looked at me like I was a stranger, like we were two parties negotiating a business deal. "Mila saw you today. I can't have you appearing in front of her again." He stated it so matter-of-factly. "I'll arrange for you to move abroad. I'll also give you a sum of money that will set you up for life." His words fell like shards of ice, and the blood in my veins turned to slush. "What... what are you saying?" He met my gaze without flinching, his eyes empty of any emotion. "I'm saying I won't let anyone destroy my marriage." A bitter, broken laugh escaped my lips, and tears finally streamed down my face. "Your marriage? If what you have with her is a marriage, then what was this with me?" "You already know, don't you? The certificate was a fake." He paused, then delivered the final blow. "Three years ago, Mila was going abroad for her studies. You looked a bit like her, so I pursued you. But now that she's back, you no longer have any value." Value. Even though I had suspected it, hearing the truth from his own mouth was like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. I was just a substitute. A placeholder he used to ease his longing for another woman. The taste of blood filled my mouth. I clenched my jaw, my voice defiant. "And what if I say no?" Damian rose from the sofa and closed the distance between us, looming over me. "If you want your mother to rest in peace in her grave," he said, his voice dangerously low, "you'll do as I say." My eyes flew wide with disbelief. "You're threatening me with my mother? Damian, are you even human? You lied to me for three years, and now you're using my mother's ashes to force me out?" His tone was flat, devoid of emotion. "If you accept my offer, it's not a threat." Tears streamed down my face. I raised my hand to slap him, but he caught my wrist in a grip of steel. With a cold shove, he sent me stumbling backward. I lost my balance and fell, my forehead cracking against the corner of the coffee table. A warm liquid immediately trickled down my skin, painting my vision red. Damian's brow furrowed, and he took an instinctive step toward me. But then, his phone rang. I watched as his expression instantly softened, his voice turning gentle. "I'm on my way. I'll make it for you and bring it right over." He turned to leave, then stopped. He strode back, grabbed my arm, and hauled me to my feet. "Mila's craving seafood chowder," he said, his grip bruising. "You make the best. Go cook it for her." My eyes, bloodshot and filled with tears, stared into his. I struggled against his hold. "Damian, what do you take me for?!" His eyes narrowed. His voice was quiet, but it carried a chilling finality. "Don't forget your mother's ashes." All the fight drained out of me. I closed my eyes, and I surrendered. 4 I was taken to a lavish villa. After I finished making the seafood chowder, Damian took it to Mila without so much as a glance in my direction. He left in such a hurry that I didn't get my phone back. The gash on my forehead remained untreated. Night had already fallen. I had no choice but to start walking. In a daze, I remembered another night like this, two years ago. My phone had died, I couldn't call a cab, and I had to walk home. Damian couldn't reach me and had spent two hours frantically searching. When he finally found me, he'd pulled me into his arms, his voice trembling. "You scared me to death, Claire. I thought something had happened to you." He'd even teared up when he saw my blistered heels. But now, he could look at the bleeding cut on my forehead without a flicker of emotion. My heart felt like a hollow, aching cavern, the pain so deep it had become a dull numbness. I was halfway home when the world swam, and everything went black. I woke up in a hospital. A nurse was checking my vitals. "You fainted from low blood sugar," she explained gently. "A kind stranger brought you in." I remembered then that I hadn't eaten all day. The seafood chowder I'd spent an hour simmering—I hadn't even had a single spoonful. The nurse paused, then added, "You're also about two months pregnant. You really need to take better care of yourself and be mindful of your diet." The world stopped. I looked down at my still-flat stomach in disbelief. Pregnant... A twisted, unrecognizable smile pulled at my lips. If this had been yesterday, I would have been overjoyed. But now... After the IV drip was finished, I left the hospital in a fog. I'd barely been home for a few minutes when several men burst through the door and grabbed me. I thrashed in their arms, terror seizing me. "Who are you? What are you doing!" They drove me to the cemetery and dragged me out of the car. There, standing in front of my mother's headstone, was Damian. My heart hammered against my ribs, my voice shaking. "Damian, what are you doing?" He turned, his expression surprisingly calm. "What did you put in the soup? Mila had severe stomach pains after she ate it." His gaze was cold. "Claire, you just don't learn, do you?" "What?" I stared at him, bewildered. "I didn't do anything." "You suspect I tampered with the soup?" His eyes were like chips of ice. "Are you still denying it? You made the soup. Who else could it have been?" His voice dropped, laced with accusation. "Did you know Mila was pregnant with my child? Is that why you tried to make her miscarry?" Mila was pregnant too... My hand unconsciously went to my own stomach, my fingers curling into a fist. "No! I didn't know she was pregnant. I didn't do anything." Damian's cold stare was unnerving, but I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He was hesitating. I opened my mouth to explain again, but just then, his phone rang. After a brief, tense conversation, his face contorted with rage. When he looked back at me, his eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated fury. "Claire, how dare you tell her!" he roared. "It seems you really don't take my warnings seriously. Well, you won't like the consequences!" Before I could process his words, he signaled to one of his men. In the next horrifying second, I could only watch as the box containing my mother's ashes was smashed onto the ground, shattering into pieces. "NO!"
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