The first letter arrived on a Tuesday, tucked inside a crisp, ridiculously expensive-looking envelope that felt out of place in my cluttered mailbox. I almost threw it out, assuming it was another one of Hamilton' s many fan letters that somehow found its way to our private address.
But my name was on it. Anya Alexander. Not Hamilton Glass.
The letter was from a law firm I'd never heard of, informing me that their client, Mr. Fred Warner, had passed away and named me the sole beneficiary of his estate. It requested my presence for the reading of the will. The estimated value of the inheritance was listed in a string of numbers so long my brain refused to process them.
It had to be a mistake. A very elaborate, cruel prank.
The second letter arrived an hour later, this time via a stoic courier who demanded my signature. This one was from the county clerk' s office. It was a single, devastating page. A response to an inquiry I had made weeks ago, a nagging little worry I had tried to push down.
"Dear Ms. Alexander," it read, the words cold and impersonal. "In response to your request, please be advised that our records show no marriage license issued for Anya Alexander and Hamilton Glass."
My breath hitched. My fingers went numb, the paper trembling.
No record.
Seven years. I had been with Hamilton for seven years. I was the ghost in his machine, the silent architect behind the billion-dollar empire of Glass Innovations. He was the charismatic face, the handsome visionary on magazine covers. I was the coder in the shadows, my name buried under a past I couldn' t outrun.
A criminal record. That' s what they called it. Years ago, I took the fall for a massive data breach to protect him, to keep his fledgling company from imploding before it ever had a chance to fly. It was my choice. I loved him. And in return, he promised me the world. He promised me forever.
"We' ll get married, Anya," he' d whispered to me that night, his arms a safe harbor in the storm of flashing police lights and public disgrace. We were in a small, sterile government office, the air thick with the smell of cheap coffee and despair. He' d slipped a simple silver band on my finger. "A quiet ceremony. Just us. It won' t be official on paper, not until this mess with your record is cleared, but in my heart, you' ll be my wife. Forever and always."
I believed him. I built his empire from our small apartment, my code the bedrock of everything Glass Innovations became. I was his secret weapon, his ghost developer. He was my sun, my moon, my everything.
The silver band was still on my finger. A symbol of a promise that, according to the county clerk, never existed.
My phone buzzed, vibrating against the cold granite of the kitchen island. A news alert. I glanced down, my heart a leaden weight in my chest.
A picture of Hamilton flashed across the screen. He was on one knee.
Not in front of me.
He was on the sprawling lawn of his parents' estate, a place I' d never been invited. He was holding a velvet box, and inside it, a diamond so large it looked obscene. And kneeling before him, her face a perfect mask of tearful, joyful surprise, was Kacey Nolan.
My protégée. The junior executive I had personally mentored, the one who always looked at me with wide, admiring eyes.
The headline was a sledgehammer to my already fractured world: "Tech Mogul Hamilton Glass Proposes to Long-Time Love, Kacey Nolan, Ahead of Their Wedding."
Long-time love. Wedding.
The world tilted on its axis. The air rushed out of my lungs, leaving a raw, burning vacuum. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles white. Another alert popped up. A celebrity gossip site. It had more details. It mentioned their marriage. Their legal, registered, official marriage. Dated six months ago.
I stumbled back, my hand flying to my stomach. A wave of nausea, sharp and acidic, rose in my throat. It wasn't just the shock. It was the secret I' d been holding close for the past two weeks, a secret I was going to share with Hamilton tonight, on our seven-year anniversary.
I was pregnant.
And my world, the entire universe I had built around this one man, had just been obliterated by a single news alert.
I sank to the floor, the cold tile a stark contrast to the fire raging through my veins. The letters, the news alert, the proposal-it all swirled into a vortex of betrayal so profound it stole the very air I needed to scream. He hadn' t just cheated on me. He had constructed an elaborate lie, a seven-year fantasy where I was the star, only to reveal I was nothing more than a fool in the audience.
The last thing I saw before my vision tunneled to black was the anniversary gift I' d prepared for him on the counter: a custom-made watch, the back engraved with the words, My Ghost, My Love, My Forever.
Forever had just become a lie.