After My Groom Chose His Wife Over Me

I found it on a Tuesday.

The wedding invitations were spread across the dining table in neat rows, cream cardstock with gold lettering that had taken me three weeks to choose. I'd been addressing them by hand all afternoon, my wrist cramping around the calligraphy pen. Outside the penthouse windows, Manhattan stretched away in every direction, glass and steel catching the late sun.

Kian's briefcase sat on the chair beside me. He'd left it there that morning before his meeting downtown. The clasp hung open.

I wasn't snooping. I needed his parents' correct zip code for their invitation. I flipped the leather cover back and reached for the address book I knew he kept in the front pocket.

The document was folded once, tucked beneath a stack of contracts.

I pulled it out without thinking. Unfolded it. Read the header.

Marriage Certificate. State of California. County of San Bernardino.

My hands went cold.

Kian James Anderson. Aleyna Maria Fernandez. Date of Marriage: April 14, 2018.

Six months before I met him.

I read it twice. Then a third time. The letters didn't rearrange themselves into something that made sense. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped wire around my ribs and pulled.

I set the paper down on the table. Picked up my phone. Put it down again.

The invitations stared at me. Mr. and Mrs. Kian Anderson request the honor of your presence.

I laughed. It came out sharp and wrong.

The front door opened at six fifteen. Kian walked in carrying takeout bags, his jacket slung over one arm. He smiled when he saw me at the table.

"Still working on those?" he asked. "Babe, you're going to get carpal tunnel."

I held up the certificate.

His smile didn't falter. It just... stopped. Froze in place like someone had paused a video.

"Eloise—"

"Who is Aleyna Fernandez?"

He set the bags down slowly. Walked to the table. Pulled out the chair across from me and sat. His movements were calm. Deliberate. Like he was approaching something fragile that might shatter if he moved too fast.

"I was going to tell you," he said.

My throat closed. "When?"

"Before the wedding. I just—" He rubbed his face. "I needed to find the right time."

"The right time." I heard my voice from a distance. Flat. "We've been engaged for six years."

"I know."

"Who is she?"

Kian leaned back in his chair. He looked tired suddenly, older than thirty-four. "She's from my hometown. We grew up together. Her family and mine were close."

"That's not what I asked."

He met my eyes. "She's my wife."

The wire around my ribs pulled tighter.

"Legally," he added, like that made it better. "On paper. It was—Eloise, it was complicated. Her father was dying. He wanted to see her settled before he passed. My parents pushed for it. I was twenty-six and stupid and I thought I was doing the right thing."

"You married her."

"I fulfilled an obligation." His voice was steady. Reasonable. Like he was explaining a business decision. "It wasn't love. It was duty. I've supported her financially ever since, made sure she's taken care of, but we don't have a life together. We never did."

I stared at him. At this man I'd spent six years building a future with. At his calm face and his reasonable tone and the way he sat there like I was the one being unreasonable.

"Why didn't you divorce her?"

Something flickered across his expression. "She's fragile. Emotionally. Physically. She has health issues. Leaving her would—"

"Leaving her." I tasted the words. "You're marrying me in three weeks."

"And I will." He leaned forward, reaching for my hand. I pulled it back. "Eloise. Listen to me. You're the woman I love. You're the one I chose. Aleyna is a responsibility I can't abandon, but she's not you. She could never be you."

"So what are you asking me to do?"

He hesitated. Just for a second. "I'm asking you to understand. You're sophisticated. You're intelligent. You know life isn't always clean and simple. I need you to trust that what we have is real, even if the paperwork is complicated."

I looked down at the certificate. At the invitations. At the positive pregnancy test I'd hidden in my purse that morning, waiting for the right moment to tell him we were going to be parents.

The right moment.

"Does she know about me?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And?"

Kian's jaw tightened. "She's upset. But she'll accept it. She doesn't have a choice."

I stood up. My legs felt strange, like they belonged to someone else.

"I need to think," I said.

He stood too, coming around the table. "Eloise—"

"Don't." I held up one hand. "Just... give me space. Please."

He stopped. Nodded. Watched me walk to the bedroom and close the door.

I made it to the bathroom before my knees gave out. I sat on the cold tile floor and pressed my back against the tub. The pregnancy test was still in my purse on the counter. I pulled it out and held it against my chest.

Two pink lines.

Outside the door, I heard Kian moving through the apartment. Opening cabinets. Running water. Living his life like the ground hadn't just split open beneath us.

I stayed on the floor until my legs went numb.

Then I got up, washed my face, and went to visit my mother in the hospital.