I thought my life had reached its peak. At twenty-eight, dressed in a flowing white gown, I stood across from Damian, the man I believed to be my one true love. He smiled at me with that calm, self-assured expression that had first drawn me to him. As I sobbed through my vows, he held my hands tightly and whispered, “Forever.” At that moment, I believed every word.
Damian and I had met several years earlier at the small café where I worked part-time. He was one of those quiet, unassuming customers—always polite, always generous with tips, always carrying a book, and always managing to make me feel like I was the center of his attention. He was stunning, with sharp cheekbones and warm hazel eyes, and somehow, inexplicably, he chose me: an ordinary girl from a modest background, still scraping by paycheck to paycheck. From our very first date, a long evening stroll along the pier, I felt it was fate. Within a year, we were planning a wedding together.
The wedding itself was everything I had ever imagined. The flowers were perfect, the music uplifting, the air filled with laughter and joy. But in the blink of an eye, my dream would turn into a nightmare I could never have anticipated.
As the photographer called everyone together for post-ceremony pictures, Damian suddenly collapsed. At first, I laughed nervously, thinking he was joking. He had a playful side, and I expected him to grin and tease me, but instead, he lay there motionless. Chaos erupted around us. Someone shouted for an ambulance while I stood frozen, staring at the love of my life as paramedics tried desperately to revive him. They rushed him to the hospital, and hours later, a doctor approached me with a face I could not comprehend. Damian was gone. A heart attack, they said. He was only thirty-two.
Three days later, I buried him, numb and barely conscious. His adoptive parents, whom I had met only once before, appeared at the funeral. They were wealthy, cold, and clearly disapproved of me. I overheard his mother whispering venomously to someone beside her: “She’s probably after his money. Call the lawyer immediately.”
Money? I had no idea. Damian had told me he ran a business, but never hinted that he was extraordinarily wealthy. Later, one of his friends confided in me that Damian’s family was extremely rich, but that he had deliberately kept it from me. He wanted me to love him for who he was, not for his fortune. Knowing this made his parents’ hostility toward me sting even more. I didn’t want their money—I wanted my husband.
Grief engulfed me. My apartment felt suffocating, every corner echoing with memories of him. His shirts still carried his scent. Then the threats began: phone calls, voicemails, messages from his family, all filled with anger and warning. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. I packed a suitcase, called a taxi, and decided to run—anywhere to escape the constant reminders of him and the shadow of his family.
When the cab arrived, I climbed in and slumped against the seat, overwhelmed and empty.
“Fasten your seatbelt, please,” the driver said.
My blood ran cold. That voice. I whipped my head toward the rearview mirror and froze. Hazel eyes—Damian’s eyes—stared back at me.
“Damian?” I whispered, trembling. “How… how is this possible?”
He veered off the road and parked on a quiet, deserted street, turning to face me. “I’m sorry, Paige,” he said, gripping the steering wheel as if it were his lifeline. “Please don’t hate me. I have to explain everything.”
And then the truth came out.
His adoptive parents had been manipulating him for years, using his brilliance to prop up their faltering fortune. But Damian had managed to build his own legitimate business and refused to allow them to corrupt it. When they threatened him—and indirectly threatened me—he made a choice.
“I couldn’t let them harm you to get to me,” he admitted, guilt heavy in his voice. “So I faked my death. The collapse, the hospital, the funeral—it was all staged. There’s a medication that slows the heart so it mimics death. I arranged everything to make it believable.”
I sat, stunned, my body trembling. “You let me bury you?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“I did,” he said, tears forming in his eyes. “I hurt you, but I thought it was the only way to protect us.”
Back in my apartment, my grief erupted fully. I screamed, I cried, I threw things. “YOU LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD!”
“I did it for us!” he pleaded.
“No,” I spat. “You did it without me.”
By morning, I was exhausted, hollowed out by the revelations. I asked him, “What happens now?”
With a mixture of relief and tension, he explained. Because he was legally dead, his legitimate assets had automatically transferred to me. His family could no longer access them. He wanted me to liquidate the assets and use the money, then meet him abroad. And then, as though nothing had ever happened, he asked, “Will you come with me?”
I looked at him, brokenhearted but slowly understanding. “You shattered me, Damian. I’ll handle the assets, but I don’t know if I can trust you again. I need time.”
He nodded. “Take all the time you need. I’m not giving up on us.”
Weeks passed, during which I dealt with his parents through lawyers and sold assets they couldn’t touch. Slowly, I understood why he had acted as he did. It was reckless, selfish even—but it came from love and desperation. Despite my anger, my heart still longed for him.
Finally, I called him. “Where are you?” I asked. “I’ll come. But never do that again.”
Now, we live in another country together. We remarried quietly on a sunlit beach, far from his family’s reach. It isn’t the life I imagined, but it is ours. Damian may have deceived the world once, but now, there are no more lies between us.