My Football Star Fiancé Faked My Death

*One month ago.*

"Ms. Lawson? Can you hear my voice?"

My eyelids fluttered. A harsh fluorescent light stabbed at my pupils. I tried to turn my head, but a dull, agonizing ache radiated through my collarbone and down my spine.

"Don't move too fast," a woman instructed.

A nurse leaned over the bed. She adjusted an IV tube taped to the back of my hand.

"Water," I rasped.

My throat felt like sandpaper. Every syllable scraped against my vocal cords.

She brought a plastic cup with a straw to my lips. "Just a small sip. You took quite a hit."

I swallowed the lukewarm liquid. It barely soothed the burning in my throat.

"Where am I?" I asked.

"St. Jude's Medical Center," she replied, checking the glowing monitor above my head. "VIP wing. You were brought in two days ago."

"Two days?" I pushed myself up on my elbows.

Fire flared in my ribs. I winced, falling back against the stiff hospital pillows.

"Lie back down," she ordered, pressing a firm hand against my shoulder. "Your body went through severe trauma."

"I need to see my fiancé," I insisted, fighting against her grip. "Jasper Crawford. Did they call him? Is he in the waiting room?"

The nurse frowned. Her brow furrowed into a tight knot.

"There is no one in the waiting room for you, sweetheart."

"That's impossible." I shook my head, ignoring the spike of pain at the base of my skull. "He would never leave me here alone. Call him. Please."

"You came in as a Jane Doe," she explained softly. "The paramedics pulled you from the riverbank. We only just identified you from a waterlogged driver's license in your coat pocket an hour ago."

"Then call him now," I demanded. "He plays for the city. Everyone knows him."

"I need to page Dr. Evans first." She stepped back from the bed, smoothing her scrubs. "Stay put. I will be right back."

The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind her.

Silence filled the sterile room.

I rubbed my temples, trying to clear the fog from my brain. The last thing I remembered was the sharp curve on Mulholland Drive. The brake pedal pressing all the way to the floorboards. The sickening crunch of metal as my car smashed through the guardrail and plummeted toward the dark water below.

I shivered.

A sleek silver tablet rested on the rolling nightstand next to my bed.

I reached out and grabbed it. My fingers trembled against the smooth metal casing.

I pressed the power button. The screen glowed to life, connecting instantly to the hospital's guest network. I tapped the blue icon for my favorite social media app.

I just wanted to see if Jasper had posted anything about me being missing. I needed to know he was looking for me.

The feed loaded.

My own face stared back at me.

It was a photo from our engagement party. I was smiling, holding up a glass of champagne. But the image was filtered in stark black and white.

A bold, capitalized headline stretched across the top of the screen.

*TRAGIC END: MIA LAWSON DEAD AT 24.*

My stomach plummeted.

"Dead?" I whispered to the empty room.

I scrolled down frantically. The screen blurred as my thumb swiped upward.

*Local authorities confirm the vehicle belonging to heiress Mia Lawson was recovered from the riverbed early Tuesday morning. No survivors were found. The current is believed to have swept the body away.*

I tapped another article. Then another.

Every single major news outlet reported the exact same story. I was gone. A tragic accident. A life cut short.

My chest tightened. It felt like an invisible vise crushing my ribs.

I swiped over to Jasper's official page. His follower count had skyrocketed overnight.

His latest post sat at the very top, pinned for the entire world to see. It featured a picture of us on the beach in Malibu.

*My heart is shattered,* the caption read. *Mia was my soulmate, my future, my everything. Waking up in a world without her doesn't feel real. I will love you forever, my angel.*

Underneath his words, the comment section exploded with sympathy.

*Stay strong, Jasper.*

*She is watching over you now.*

*I am so sorry for your loss.*

I scrolled slightly further and saw a comment from Zara, my best friend.

*I will help you through this, Jasper. Mia would want us to lean on each other.*

A cold chill swept over my skin.

"He thinks I'm dead," I muttered.

I tossed the tablet onto the blankets.

I needed my phone. I had to tell him. He was probably out of his mind with grief, planning a funeral for a woman who was sitting in a hospital bed just ten miles away.

I scanned the room. A clear plastic belongings bag sat on a chair in the corner.

I threw the blankets off my legs.

Pain shot up my calves as my bare feet hit the cold linoleum floor. I gritted my teeth, gripping the metal bedrail for support.

"Come on," I urged myself.

I limped across the room. My hospital gown rustled around my knees.

I tore open the plastic bag. My damp clothes were stuffed inside, smelling of river water and mud. My phone sat at the bottom, miraculously intact inside its waterproof case.

I snatched it up and held the power button.

The screen flashed the startup logo.

"Thank god," I sighed.

I didn't even bother checking my notifications. I pulled up the keypad and dialed Jasper's private number. The one only I and his agent had.

I pressed the phone to my ear.

It rang once.

Twice.

"Hello?"

His voice echoed through the speaker. It didn't sound broken. It didn't sound tear-stained. It sounded completely normal.

"Jasper," I cried out, a wave of relief washing over me. "Oh my god, Jasper, it's me."

Silence stretched over the line.

"Who is this?" he asked. His tone flattened into annoyance.

"It's Mia," I said quickly. "I'm alive. The news got it wrong."

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" he snapped. "My fiancée just died. Do not call this number again."

"Jasper, wait! Don't hang up!" I shouted into the receiver. "It's not a joke. It's really me. I survived the crash."

I heard a rustling sound in the background. A muffled female voice asked a question, but I couldn't make out the words.

"Mia?" Jasper's voice dropped an octave. The annoyance vanished, replaced by a sharp, icy tension.

"Yes, baby, it's me," I pleaded, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. "The police made a mistake. I managed to swim out of the car before it sank. Someone found me on the bank and brought me to the hospital."

"You're at a hospital," he repeated. It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"Yes. St. Jude's. I'm in the VIP wing."

"Who else knows you're there?"

The question caught me off guard. I frowned, staring at the blank wall opposite the bed.

"Just a nurse," I answered. "They just identified me. Jasper, please come get me. I hurt everywhere and I just want to go home."

"Did you talk to the police?" he demanded.

"No," I replied, my confusion growing. "Why are you asking about the police? Jasper, aren't you happy I'm alive?"

He exhaled a long, heavy breath.

"Of course I am, sweetheart," he said. The warmth returned to his voice, smooth and practiced. "I'm just in shock. I thought I lost you forever."

"I know. I saw your post. I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

"Listen to me very carefully, Mia," he instructed. "Do not talk to anyone else. Don't tell the doctors anything. I am coming to get you right now."

"Okay. I'll wait for you."

"Stay in that room," he ordered. "I'll handle everything."

The line went dead.

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at the dark screen.

Something didn't feel right.

The relief I expected to feel never came. Instead, a heavy knot formed in the pit of my stomach.

Why did he care if I talked to the police?

I stood up from the bed and walked over to the small window. The city of Los Angeles stretched out below, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon.

I replayed the conversation in my head.

He didn't ask if I was badly injured. He didn't ask how I managed to escape the sinking car. He only asked who else knew I was alive.

A sharp knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts.

"Come in," I called out, expecting the nurse to return with Dr. Evans.

The handle turned. The heavy door swung open.

But it wasn't a doctor standing in the hallway.

It was a man in a dark suit, his face obscured by a blue medical mask, and he was holding a capped syringe.

"Time for your medication, Ms. Lawson," he said, stepping into the room and locking the door behind him.