Five years into my marriage, I discovered our marriage certificate was a fake. The five years I thought were sacred vows, legally, never existed. The loving husband I thought I had was legally married to someone else. I left quietly, no arguments, no accusations. But he regretted it. 0 I handed my medical report to the nurse. “Can’t I use my husband’s health insurance for payment now? Is his coverage sufficient?” The nurse took my ID, typed some information into her computer, and frowned slightly. “Ms. Maxwell, your marital status shows as ‘single.’ We need your spouse’s ID and a valid marriage certificate to open your file.” I froze. “That’s impossible. My husband and I registered five years ago.” She turned the screen toward me—my marital status in the system was indeed blank. My fingers turned icy cold. I pulled our marriage certificate from my bag. “See? This is our marriage certificate. There must be a system error.” The nurse took the document, examined it closely, and her expression subtly shifted. “Your marriage certificate… it might be problematic.” She picked up a UV pen from the desk and shone it on the official seal. A real Registrar’s Office seal would display security features under UV light. Mine showed nothing. I remembered that day, five years ago. Marcus Thorne had insisted we use some special “private appointment” channel, claiming it would expedite the process at the Registrar’s Office. Now, it all felt like a twisted joke. I stumbled out of the hospital, my head spinning. The early summer sun stung my eyes. Standing on the steps, I suddenly thought of Marcus when he was eighteen. I had just started college, and I casually mentioned craving a specialty pastry from an old bakery across town. He skipped his afternoon classes, cycled across the entire city, and bought the last box just before the shop closed. When he delivered it to my dorm, his white shirt was drenched with sweat, but he still smiled and said, “Taste it quickly, it’s best warm.” On my twenty-fifth birthday, I was pulling an all-nighter in the lab, finishing a thesis. He waited downstairs until two in the morning, holding a thermal container filled with tiramisu he’d failed five times to make. I scolded him for not going home sooner, but he kissed my fingers and said, “I have to be there for every important moment of your life.” And now, at thirty, I stood on the hospital steps, clutching that torn, fake marriage certificate. I finally understood that those sweet moments were just seeds planted for this absurd drama unfolding today. I walked out of the hospital in a daze, clutching the marriage certificate that had been declared a “forgery.” Unconsciously, I found myself in the most bustling downtown mall. I mechanically pushed open the glass doors, and the cool air washed over me. Then, I saw them. Marcus Thorne stood in front of a jewelry counter, impeccably dressed in a suit. Beside him, Scarlett Hayes was bending her head, trying on a diamond ring. “Mr. Thorne is so thoughtful for his wife,” the sales associate beamed. “This is a limited edition piece; there are only three pairs in the entire city.” Scarlett shyly pursed her lips, and when she looked up at Marcus, her eyes sparkled like stars. “Honey, do you like it?” Honey. The word was a blunt knife, slowly slicing open my heart. Even more ironic, the diamond necklace around her neck was the exact same one Marcus had given me for my birthday last month, calling it a “one-of-a-kind gift.” Now, it adorned another woman. Marcus gently stroked her long hair, his voice filled with indulgence. “If you like it, we’ll buy it.” The sales associate exclaimed enviously, “You two are truly a perfect match, made for each other!” Made for each other? What did that make me? I stood hidden behind a marble pillar, gripping my ultrasound scan tightly. A sudden sharp pain shot through my abdomen, as if the baby was weeping for this grotesque play. My nails had dug into my palms at some point, but I felt no pain. So, the happiness of these past few years, it was all a lie. Since Marcus was so desperate to keep me in the dark, I would make him truly understand the consequences of deceiving me. 0
I turned and walked away, heading straight to my mentor, Professor Davies. The lab was empty that evening, only the innermost office still had its light on. I knocked softly and heard his familiar voice. “Come in.” Professor Davies looked up from a screen full of code, his eyes widening when he saw me, drenched from head to toe. “Rain?” “Professor,” my voice was calmer than I expected, “did you say there’s still a faculty position open at Cambridge?” He rose and handed me a towel. “Dry yourself first.” Only then did I realize I was trembling. Professor Davies said, “The Cambridge faculty is very impressed with your new concept.” He paused. “But a more critical position is at ETH Zurich—they need someone to lead their newly established AI Ethics Institute.” “How soon?” I clenched my fists. Professor Davies handed me a file. “Expedited visa processing will take two weeks.” I lowered my head, thought for a moment, and then said, “Professor, is there a way for me to get a new identity?” Professor Davies pulled a passport and plane ticket from a hidden compartment in his bookshelf. “Use this identity: Lin Moran, Visiting Scholar at Zurich University.” “Thank you.” The three words felt heavy as lead when I spoke them. He shook his head. “When you cracked that encryption system at MIT all those years ago, I knew you’d go far.” As I pushed open the front door of our house, the rich scent of butter and garlic wafted out. Marcus was stirring pasta with his back to me, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows. He turned and smiled, a smudge of tomato sauce on the tip of his nose. “Baby, you’re back. Dinner’s almost ready.” Chilled white wine sat on the dining table. My mind, however, drifted back to that summer night. That evening, dragging my suitcase filled with things from overseas, I heard a sound in the darkness. His black Mercedes was subtly rocking in a secluded corner. I don’t remember how I was drawn to it, how I saw Marcus holding that girl’s face and kissing her. “Rain!” I still remember the look on Marcus’s face when he tumbled out of the car—a mix of panic and embarrassment, but not a trace of guilt. His explanation sounded rehearsed countless times. “She looked so much like you, I couldn’t help myself…” After that, he practically lived on my doorstep, begging for forgiveness and showing me every single message on his phone. “I’ll make her quit tomorrow. I’ll never see her again in my life.” I softened, choosing to forgive him. But three months later, at the company’s annual gala, I saw her, dressed in her assistant’s attire, adjusting his tie. Marcus said, “I told her to leave, but then she apparently got hired back as an executive assistant *on her own merit*, and I couldn’t exactly interfere with company policy, could I?” Looking back now, this absurd play had signs all along. How ridiculous. I was just the most laughable supporting character in their love story. He plated my steak, medium-rare, drizzled with black pepper sauce, accompanied by my favorite asparagus. The knife and fork were placed at the perfect angle, just like on every anniversary for the past five years. I stared at his long, slender fingers as he cut the meat. I suddenly thought of how those hands had trembled as they unbuttoned my shirt on our first night together, and how they had clutched Scarlett’s waist, pressing her against an office desk, just last night. He rose and came behind me, resting his chin on my head. “Baby, I missed you so much.” After dinner, he suddenly suggested watching a movie. He picked *Notting Hill*. When the scene with the gallery walk came on, he squeezed my fingers. “Remember? We walked like that in Boston.” Of course, I remembered. Back then, he’d cupped my face and said that “company meetings were less important than our honeymoon,” ditching a multi-million dollar contract just to be with me. Halfway through the movie, Marcus’s phone lit up. He glanced at the screen, his thumb unconsciously rubbing his left wrist watch—a habit he had when he lied. “Urgent tax reports from Finance,” he said, rising. He even thoughtfully pulled the blanket higher onto my shoulders. “You go to sleep. Don’t wait up for me.” “Go ahead,” I pulled the blanket he’d given me tighter. “I’ll just finish the ending.” The moment the front door clicked shut, I threw off the blanket and rushed into the garage. His taillights hadn’t even vanished around the corner. I started the second car he thought I didn’t know about—Scarlett’s lucky charm still hung from the rearview mirror. 0
The 23rd floor of the office building was brightly lit. Through the blinds, I saw Scarlett wearing a nightgown identical to mine, twirling the leftover pasta with a fork. He laughed, leaning in to bite the other end, and as their lips met, she deliberately smeared sauce on his tie. “You’re awful~” Scarlett’s voice drifted through the barely closed window. “Didn’t *your wife* keep you satisfied?” He lifted her onto the desk, piled high with documents. “We’re the real deal, baby.” *The real deal*, huh? Just as that phrase struck me, “Marcus,” she drew out his name, her fingertip tracing the sauce stain on his tie. “Where’s my lucky charm? You promised it to me today.” My heart instantly stopped when Marcus pulled a velvet box from his inner suit pocket. It was the consecrated charm, one I had literally *begged on my knees* to get for him after his car accident, pleading for hours at a spiritual sanctuary until my knees were bruised. The spiritual guide had said its vibrant red color was supposed to ward off bad luck. “It’s beautiful~” Scarlett held the bead up to the light, the red glow reflecting on her face like blood. “You giving me this… won’t Rain be upset?” “Why would she be upset? I’ll just say I lost it on a business trip,” Marcus knelt to tie the red string around her wrist, his movements practiced, as if he’d done it a thousand times. “If she complains, I’ll just tell her to go kneel and get another one.” I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted blood. Scarlett suddenly tugged on his tie. “I want you to thread it yourself.” She conjured a fine needle and red thread. “Just like she did for you back then.” As the needle pierced Marcus’s fingertip, a spasm twisted in my stomach. In my sophomore year, he’d broken his leg playing basketball. I’d stayed up all night in his hospital room, using embroidery thread to weave a bracelet from the special wooden beads my grandfather had given me. The thread was too thick for the holes, so I used a strand of my hair to guide it, pricking my fingertips until they were dotted with blood. Now, he held the needle, and a drop of blood rolled onto Scarlett’s foot. She laughed sweetly, licking away the blood, her red tongue like a venomous snake’s. I took one last look at the entwined figures, then turned and walked toward the elevator. My pale face reflected in the mirror. As my car pulled out of the garage, the lights on the 23rd floor were still bright. I rolled down the window, and the night wind rushed in, blowing away the fake marriage certificate. At four in the morning, I stood by the villa’s floor-to-ceiling window, looking at a message Marcus had sent on my phone: “Urgent situation with the company’s Riverbend City project. I need to handle it personally. Can’t be with you for the next couple of days, baby. Get some rest.” I stared at the message for a long time, my finger hovering over the screen, eventually replying with just “Okay.” Two days later, Marcus returned, travel-worn, his suitcase filled with so-called “Riverbend City specialties”—even though the exquisitely packaged pastries clearly bore the logo of a famous bakery right here in our city. “I brought you a gift.” He smiled, pushing a blue velvet box toward me. Inside was a diamond necklace, the pendant shaped like a tiny computer. I let him put it on me. “There’s a surprise tonight,” he kissed my forehead. Marcus had booked out the entire Contemporary Art Museum. In the center of the exhibition hall hung a massive digital oil painting: my neural network algorithm diagram, published in an international journal, which he’d had someone render into art. The surrounding walls were adorned with my academic achievements from over the years; every title page of every paper was framed like a masterpiece. “Mr. Thorne is truly a model husband!” Mr. Collins exclaimed, raising his champagne glass. “My wife’s partner doesn’t even know what her thesis was about.” “Rain loves these things,” Marcus said, his arm around my waist, his fingers gently caressing my side. “I want to celebrate every important moment of her life in a special way.” His voice was so tender it almost made me believe that what I’d seen in his office that night was just a nightmare. Until my lower leg began to ache faintly, protesting from standing too long, my old injury flaring up. “Tired?” He noticed my stiffness and immediately waved for his assistant. “Go get her spare flats from my car, they’re in the grey storage box in the trunk.” Ben hurried off, and Marcus continued to chat and laugh with the guests. 0 Twenty minutes later, the art museum’s glass doors were pushed open, and a damp gust of wind, carrying rain, swept into the hall. Scarlett stood in the doorway, soaked through, water dripping from her hair. She held a shoe box, looking timidly at Marcus. “Mr. Thorne, the shoes you asked for…” I recognized the diamond-studded high heels she wore—Marcus had custom-ordered them from Italy last month, claiming they were a gift for a client’s wife. Marcus’s smile froze on his face. Scarlett stumbled toward me, leaving a winding trail of water behind her. “Rain,” she handed me the shoe box. “I’m so sorry, I was just nearby…” “Thank you.” I took the shoe box and calmly headed to the restroom.
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