To save myself from a lot of unnecessary drama, I always pretend I’m married. It started out as a simple shield. One afternoon, while out shopping with my coworker Rachel, I spotted a coat that I absolutely fell in love with. It was gorgeous, but the price tag was steep—nearly four thousand dollars. The sales associate was laying on the charm, practically begging me to try it on, when I waved my hand and let the lie slip naturally: “Oh, thank you, but I’d better not. My husband would lose his mind if I bought this. Even if I took it home, I’d just end up having to return it.” I didn’t think twice about it. But the very next morning, a courier package arrived at the office. When I tore open the box, my heart stopped. It was the exact coat. Rachel’s eyes went wide. She snatched the card tucked inside the tissue paper and read it aloud: “To my beautiful wife: If you love it, you should have it. You deserve every beautiful thing in this world. —Your loving husband.” I stood there, completely frozen. My husband was a ghost. A phantom. A convenient excuse. I’ve never even been in a serious relationship, let alone walked down an aisle. Where on earth did this husband come from? 1 For a second, I thought Rachel was playing a trick on me, making up the words on the fly. I snatched the card from her hand, but there they were—two lines of elegant, flowing handwriting, staring back at me. “Natalie, look at you, playing the humble wife!” Rachel nudged me, grinning. “Here you are, always complaining about how strict your husband is, and then he goes and drops four grand on a coat without blinking!” A few other coworkers started drifting over to my desk. “Wow, Natalie, I had no idea your husband was this loaded!” “Seriously, talk about low-key.” I forced a stiff smile, my mind racing so fast I couldn’t find my voice. I had been at this marketing firm for three months, and my “married” persona was airtight. Whenever there was a happy hour I wanted to skip, or a tedious weekend project I wanted to dodge, I’d sigh and say, “I’d love to, but my husband has plans for us.” It was the perfect boundary. But the reality was that I was a textbook case of a late bloomer. I hadn’t even held a man’s hand, let alone built a life with one. I peeked into the box. Even the size was correct. Who could have sent this? A tiny, narcissistic part of me wondered if I had a secret admirer. But the only person who had been there when I saw the coat was Rachel. I watched her closely as she gushed over the fabric. She seemed entirely genuine, completely devoid of any secret, knowing looks. I spent the rest of the day in a haze of anxiety. As soon as I got home, I called the boutique’s customer service line. An order of that size had to have a paper trail. But after a few moments of typing, the representative sighed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This purchase was made anonymously. The buyer requested full privacy protection, so we don’t have any billing details on file.” Anonymous. I stared at the coat hanging on my door for a long time before finally shoving it into the darkest, deepest corner of my closet. The next morning, Rachel eyed my plain knit sweater. “Natalie, where’s the coat? I was dying to see you style a four-thousand-dollar piece today!” “Oh,” I laughed nervously, “it’s way too nice for a regular Tuesday at the office. I don’t want to ruin it.” I certainly wasn’t going to wear something when I didn’t know who bought it. I tried to lose myself in my spreadsheets, but an hour later, the receptionist buzzed my line. “Natalie, there’s a package for you at the front desk.” A cold prickle of dread washed over me. Sure enough, when I opened the small, heavy parcel, it was a limited-edition designer vault containing every single shade of a luxury lipstick line. The card inside bore the same message: Your loving husband. Rachel gasped from the desk next to mine. “Oh my god! Isn’t this the vault we were looking at online last week? The one you said you wanted so badly?” She was right. And I remembered exactly what I had said to her: “I’d buy the whole set in a heartbeat, but my husband would roll his eyes. He constantly tells me my vanity is already overflowing.” Rachel shook her head, green with envy. “He tells you no, and then he buys the entire collection anyway? Natalie, what kind of fairy-tale marriage are you hiding?” Fairy-tale. That was one word for it. Another word was terrifying. I didn’t even know who this person was. My head throbbed as I shoved the lipsticks into my desk drawer. “Hey, are you okay?” Rachel asked, her tone shifting to concern. “You look pale. Did you and the mister have a fight?” I leaned into the excuse, offering a weak, miserable nod. “Ah, that explains it,” Rachel said, satisfied with her own deduction. “He’s trying to buy his way out of the doghouse. Honestly, with peace offerings like these, you should let him stay there a bit longer.” I didn’t answer. I quietly noted the tracking number on the shipping label, logged onto the courier’s website, and initiated a live chat with customer support. Ten minutes later, the prompt popped up: 【We apologize, but this shipment was dispatched under an anonymous corporate account. No sender information can be disclosed.】 Can you even do that with standard mail? I was still staring at the screen when the receptionist’s voice echoed through the office. “Natalie! You’ve got flowers!” 2 Flowers? I stood up slowly, my legs feeling like lead. A delivery guy was standing by the glass doors of our lobby, holding an enormous, breathtaking arrangement of white roses and delicate hydrangeas. “Are you Natalie?” the guy asked, checking his clipboard. “These are from your husband.” I stood there like a statue. By the time I snapped out of it, the courier was already halfway down the corridor toward the elevators. I ran out after him. “Wait! Please, wait!” He stopped, turning around with a look of mild amusement. “Yes, ma’am?” “Who placed the order? Do you have a name?” “Your husband,” he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “No, I mean—can I please see the account details on your tablet? Just the username, or a phone number?” The courier looked hesitant, but when he saw the sheer panic in my eyes, he relented and scrolled through his delivery app. The sender’s profile was entirely blank. “Look, all I know is the order came through our premium dispatch. The arrangement was five hundred dollars, and the guy left a three-hundred-dollar tip for a direct hand-delivery. Your husband is incredibly generous, ma’am.” I handed his tablet back, my hands trembling. I managed to murmur a thank-you before retreating back to the office. Naturally, my coworkers swarmed. “That bouquet must have cost a fortune!” “First the coat, then the vault, now this? Your husband is setting the bar impossibly high.” “Look, there’s a card. What does it say?” I looked down at the small piece of cardstock nestled in the blooms. Please don’t be angry anymore, sweetheart. My fingers shook so hard I nearly dropped the arrangement. “Natalie, you have to forgive him now,” Rachel teased. “I don’t care what he did. A man who loves you this much deserves a clean slate.” I couldn’t hear her over the roaring in my ears. The coat. The makeup. The flowers. The only person who knew about those exact conversations was Rachel. And the moment I let her believe I was “fighting” with my husband, a bouquet arrived asking for forgiveness. Was she doing this? Was it some elaborate, incredibly expensive prank to expose my lie? But Rachel was a junior copywriter living in a studio apartment with two roommates. She didn’t have thousands of dollars to throw away on a psychological game. None of it made sense. My mind was a chaotic mess, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, I felt a desperate need to ground myself. I decided to visit my grandfather. Grandpa’s house was always my sanctuary. He cooked a massive dinner, and I sat beside him on the sofa, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. It was only then that I realized he wasn’t wearing his hearing aid. “Grandpa,” I said, raising my voice. “Where is your hearing aid?” He turned his good ear toward me, blinking. “Oh, that old thing? It fell right into the lake yesterday while I was casting my line. Don’t worry about it. I can get by just fine without it.” “Of course you can’t,” I insisted, pulling out my phone to search for the best models on the market. “Don’t go spending your hard-earned money on me, Natalie,” he muttered, patting my hand. I ended up staying the night in my old bedroom. The next morning, a sharp knock at the front door woke me from a restless sleep. I rubbed my eyes and padded down the hallway. Grandpa was already opening the door to a delivery driver holding a small cardboard box. “Sign here, please.” Grandpa looked at the label, confused. “Natalie, did you order something? It’s already here?” I froze, the last remnants of sleep instantly vanishing. I rushed forward. There, in the courier’s hand, was a box from a high-end medical supply company. Inside was the exact top-of-the-line hearing aid I had been researching the night before. But I hadn’t placed the order. I had only added it to my cart. A cold sweat broke out across my back. 3 “Ma’am? Can you sign for this?” the driver prompted. Grandpa reached for the pen, but I grabbed his wrist. “Actually… I think there’s been a mistake. We didn’t order this. I need to refuse the delivery.” This was for my grandfather. I couldn’t risk him using something that came from an unknown, potentially dangerous source. As I pushed the box back toward the driver, my eyes caught the shipping label. Tucked under the plastic sleeve was a small, familiar note. Only the best for Grandpa. —Your Grandson-in-law. The breath left my lungs in a sharp gasp. After sending the confused driver away, I took half the day off, drove my grandfather to a local clinic, and bought him a certified hearing aid in person, using my own savings. On the drive back, I held his hand. “Grandpa, if you get any packages over the next few weeks—anything at all—promise me you won’t open them. Call me immediately.” He didn’t quite understand the urgency, but he nodded, sensing the terror in my voice. “Alright, sweetheart. I promise.” When I finally went into the office that afternoon, I was running on pure adrenaline. How did this person know my grandfather’s address? More importantly, how did they know about the hearing aid? I had only researched it on my phone the night before, while sitting in Grandpa’s living room. Could my phone be tapped? It was the only logical explanation. Someone was monitoring my search history, my location, perhaps even my microphone. I left work early, went straight to an electronics store, and bought a brand-new phone with cash. I did a factory reset on my old device and sold it to a refurbished tech kiosk. It was a massive hit to my bank account, but the peace of mind was worth every penny. For the next four days, the silence was deafening. No packages. No flowers. No notes. I finally began to breathe again. But on the fifth night, I fell into a deep, vivid dream. I was standing in a room filled with soft, golden light. A man was standing in front of me. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes so expressive they made my throat tight. He looked at me with an expression of profound, aching sorrow. “Wife,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You won’t wear the coat. You won’t touch the makeup. You even sent back the hearing aid for your grandpa. Do you hate my gifts? Or do you just not want anything to do with me?” He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush my cheek, though I couldn’t feel his touch. “It’s your birthday today. If you don’t like my choices, I’ll just give you money. Buy whatever makes you happy.” I bolted upright in bed, gasping for air, my chest heaving. It was morning. The alarm on my phone was blaring. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. Today was indeed my birthday. I forced myself to get ready and head to work. I sat at my desk, chewing on a piece of toast while reviewing a marketing proposal, when my phone vibrated in my palm. I tapped the screen, and my heart stopped. It was an alert from my banking app. Deposit Received: $1,000,000.00. One million dollars. I stared at the screen, convinced it was a glitch, a decimal point error. I logged out and logged back in. The balance was real. The available funds were there. Under the transaction details, there was a single memo: Happy Birthday, my love. The words from my dream echoed in my head: I’ll just give you money. Buy whatever makes you happy. My hands began to shake violently. I sat there, paralyzed, as my entire understanding of reality began to crumble. “Natalie? Are you okay?” Rachel asked, waving a hand in front of my face. I slammed my phone face-down on the desk. “Yes! Yes, I’m fine. Just… a headache.” My god. What was happening to me? Where did one million dollars come from? Was it possible to have a husband I had somehow completely forgotten? “Hey, I saw your calendar,” Rachel said gently. “It’s your birthday today. What are your plans?” I picked up the phone again, staring at the impossible number of zeros. None of the physical gifts had been fake. The coat was real wool. The lipsticks were real wax and pigment. Was this money real, too? Could I actually spend it? I took a deep, shaky breath. “You know what? It’s my birthday. Dinner and drinks are on me tonight. Everyone is invited.” The office erupted into cheers. “Natalie, seriously?” Rachel asked, her eyes wide. “Are you sure? We have a pretty large team.” “I’m sure,” I said, a strange, reckless confidence washing over me. “My husband is traveling for work, so I have some extra cash to burn.” I sent a reservation link to our group chat—a high-end French restaurant downtown. Rachel gasped when she saw the menu prices. “Natalie, are you insane? This place is incredibly expensive!” I just smiled. But deep down, I was terrified. What if my card declined? 4 But the transaction went through effortlessly. When the waiter returned my card after processing a fifteen-thousand-dollar bill, my coworkers looked at me as if I were royalty. “Natalie, seriously, what does your husband do?” Rachel whispered, leaning in over her empty champagne glass. “This is insane.” “He’s just… in finance,” I lied, my voice hollow. “Lots of international travel.” I barely heard the rest of their chatter. I was too busy staring at my hands. We went back to my place for cake. As Rachel lit the candles, she urged me to make a wish. I closed my eyes. If this was some bizarre, inexplicable superpower where whatever I thought of manifested into reality, I wanted to test the limits. I want more, I thought fiercely. Give me enough money to never have to worry again. I blew out the candles. Later that night, after everyone had left and the apartment was quiet, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I snatched it up, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was another bank notification. Deposit Received: $100,000,000.00. One hundred million dollars. And the memo: I will always give you everything you want. I got out of bed, pacing the floor of my tiny apartment. This wasn’t a dream. This was terrifying. If the government saw this kind of money appearing in a middle-class girl’s account, they’d think I was funding a cartel. I needed to go to the police. Even if they locked me up, at least I’d be safe from whatever supernatural force was tracking my every thought. I resolved to go to the precinct first thing in the morning. But as I reached to put my phone down, my finger accidentally swiped open my photo gallery. My breath caught. There were new photos in my camera roll. Dozens of them. And they weren’t of me alone. They were candid, beautiful photos of me and the man from my dream—the dark-haired man with the sorrowful eyes. We were laughing on a beach, sharing coffee in a diner, holding hands under a canopy of autumn leaves. I had no memory of these moments. I had never seen this man in my waking life. I kept the lights on all night, sitting in the corner of my living room with a kitchen knife in my hand, waiting for the sun to rise. At 6:00 AM, I took a cab to the local police precinct. The station was quiet, smelling of stale coffee and floor wax. A young officer at the front desk looked up at my pale face and dark circles. “Can I help you, ma’am?” “I… I need to report something,” I stammered, gripping the edge of the desk. “My phone has been compromised. Someone is adding photos to my gallery, and I’ve had… a large amount of money deposited into my account from an untraceable source.” The officer frowned, pulling over a notepad. “How much money?” “One hundred and one million dollars.” He stopped writing. “Excuse me?” From the back room, another officer walked out, holding a clipboard. “What’s going on, Briggs?” I froze. Briggs. The name struck a chord deep in my chest. I stared at the second officer’s face—the sharp jawline, the slight scar over his left eyebrow. Suddenly, my head exploded with pain. Memories—sharp, violent, and fragmented—flooded my brain. I saw a crowded street, the screech of tires, the smell of burning rubber, and then… nothingness. My vision blurred, the room began to spin, and before I could call out, the world went completely black.
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