Part 1The Fake Widowhood

As a senior partner at a high-profile family law firm, I have handled more divorces than I can count.

I have watched betrayed wives tear down mistresses in public, and I have exposed conniving husbands hiding millions in offshore accounts. But I never expected that same brand of cheap, dirty drama to drag me under.

It didn't just rain on my parade; it was a torrential downpour of ice-cold water, straight to the chest.

It started on a busy Tuesday morning when a young, fragile woman blocked the entrance of my firm. She was dressed in a simple white linen sundress, faded from too many washes, which only served to make her pale face look more pathetic. Her stomach was slightly rounded, showing a pregnancy of about four or five months.

"Please, ma'am," she sobbed, her voice carrying across the busy lobby. "I beg you to let him go. A child needs a father."

It was peak morning rush hour. Colleagues and clients stopped in their tracks, whispering and pointing. The receptionist tried to steer her away, but the girl's shrill voice cut through the air, freezing everyone in place.

"I know what we did was wrong, but I love him, and he loves me! Please, just give him his freedom!"

I stood at the top of the lobby steps, feeling absolutely nothing. In my line of work, I saw this exact performance at least eight times a month.

"Miss," I said, walking down the steps, the sharp click of my designer heels echoing against the polished marble floor. "If you are trying to pull a scam, you should really do your homework first. I am a widow."

The murmurs in the lobby died down instantly.

Everyone in the firm knew my husband had died three years ago. It was a tragedy that had nearly broken me, a topic no one dared to bring up in my presence.

But instead of running away, the girl reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a stack of glossy photographs, throwing them onto the floor between us.

The pictures scattered across the marble.

I looked down, and my chest went tight.

They were intimate photos of a man and a woman. The man's face was one I saw every time I closed my eyes: Elliott.

My husband, who had been dead for three years.

In the photos, his skin was darker than I remembered, and there were a few more lines around his eyes, but that lazy grin and the familiar way he draped his arm over the woman's shoulder were things I would recognize even if he were burned to ash.

But it was what the girl said next that made the room spin.

"He has a red, butterfly-shaped birthmark on his lower back," she said, looking at me with a defiant pout. "And when he gets passionate, the color deepens. Am I right?"

My hand trembled, and my hot americano nearly spilled over my fingers.

The eyes of my colleagues felt like needles pressing into my skin.

"Audrey's husband is alive?"

"Faking his death? Insurance fraud? What is going on?"

The wild theories began to fly around the lobby.

I took a slow, deep breath, pushing my gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to project a calm I didn't feel. I bent down and picked up one of the photographs. My thumbnail dug into Elliott's face, hard enough to rip the glossy paper.

Then, I looked up and offered her a cold, empty smile.

"Are you absolutely certain this baby belongs to my husband?"

The girl thrust her chin out, her face filled with stubborn pride. "Elliott said that as soon as you sign the divorce papers, he will marry me!"

"Elliott?" I repeated the name, tasting the bitterness of it.

"Yes! Elliott!"

I nodded, slowly pulling out my phone, and dialed a number in front of the entire crowd.

"Yes, I'd like to report a disturbance at my office," I said into the receiver, my voice steady. "A woman is harassing my staff and attempting to extort me. She claims she is pregnant with the child of my husband, who died three years ago. I suspect she is either a grave robber or mentally unstable."

I hung up, looking at the girl's suddenly pale face.

"Since you claim he is the father, this actually works out perfectly," I said, stepping closer. "My husband's ashes are currently resting at Oakwood Cemetery. We can head over there now for a DNA test, or I can arrange to have him dug up so you two can catch up. What do you think?"

The girl stumbled back a step, but the look in her eyes wasn't fear. It was something far worse: pity.

"You are just lying to yourself," she whispered. "Elliott is alive. He said if you agree to sign the papers, he will meet you."

She held up her phone, showing me an address on the screen.

In that single second, the blood in my veins turned to ice.

Alive?

My three years of grieving, the tears, the empty bed, the quiet house: what had it all been for?