My Husband Faked His Death to Marry a Billionaire

I set the croissant on the bench before I unlocked the bakery door. It was Tuesday. The morning air smelled like jasmine and old brick. The man was already there. He was always there.

He sat on the same bench every single day. Same spot. Same worn jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair was too long and his beard was scraggly. He looked like he hadn't slept indoors in months. But his eyes were clear. Sharp. I never asked his name.

He took the croissant without a word. He always did. Then he ate it slowly, carefully, like it mattered. Like he was tasting every crumb. I watched him for a second longer than I should have. He looked up. Our eyes met.

I felt something shift in my chest. Not attraction. Not pity. Something quieter. Something I didn't have a name for.

I turned away and unlocked the door. The bell chimed. I stepped inside and flipped the sign to Open.

The bakery smelled like brown butter and cardamom. I'd been up since three baking. I always baked when I couldn't sleep. Lately that meant every night. The townhouse was too quiet. Too full of him. Silas. His photo still sat on the mantel. His jacket still hung in the closet. Three years dead and I still couldn't let go.

I wiped down the counter and arranged the pastries in the case. My hands moved on their own. I'd done this a thousand times. The routine kept me functional. It kept me from thinking too much.

The bell chimed again. Miriam Cole shuffled in with her cane and her enormous sun hat. She was seventy-six and lived two doors down. She'd been checking on me since the day I came back from London.

"Morning, sugar," she said. "You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"You're always fine." She squinted at me. "That man still sitting out there?"

"Yeah."

"You ever talk to him?"

"No."

"Maybe you should." She tapped her cane on the floor. "Man sits outside your shop for two years, eats your leftovers, never says a word. That's either devotion or insanity."

I handed her a blueberry scone. "Or he's just hungry."

"Mm-hmm." She didn't believe me. She took the scone and left.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Customers came and went. I smiled. I made change. I boxed pastries. I did not think about the man on the bench. I did not think about Silas. I did not think about the fact that I was twenty-nine years old and my entire life had stopped three years ago.

When I got home that afternoon, there was an envelope taped to the townhouse door.

I pulled it off and opened it. My hands were shaking before I finished the first paragraph.

*Notice of Acquisition. Vacate within thirty days. Failure to comply will result in condemnation proceedings.*

I read it twice. Then I sat down on the porch steps and read it again.

They wanted to buy the house. They wanted me gone. The offer was a joke. Barely enough to cover six months' rent somewhere else. And if I didn't take it, they'd condemn the property and take it anyway.

I looked up at the house. Silas and I had picked it together. We'd painted the shutters blue. We'd planted the rosemary by the window. We'd made love on the floor before the furniture arrived because we couldn't wait.

This house was all I had left of him.

I went inside and called a lawyer. His name was Bill Travers. He'd helped me with my mother's estate after she died.

"Kathryn," he said when he answered. "What's wrong?"

I told him.

He was quiet for a long time. Then he sighed. "Who's the buyer?"

I looked at the letter. "It doesn't say. Just a holding company. Crestwood Properties LLC."

"I'll look into it." He paused. "But Kathryn, if they've got the kind of money to push condemnation through, you're not going to win this."

"I don't care."

"You should."

"I'm not leaving, Bill."

He sighed again. "All right. I'll file an objection. Buy you some time. But don't get your hopes up."

I hung up and sat at the kitchen table. Silas's photo stared at me from the mantel. He was smiling. He always smiled in photos. He had the kind of smile that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

I touched the copper penny necklace at my throat. My mother had given it to me the day before she died. She'd pressed it into my palm and whispered, *Keep this close. It'll keep you safe.*

She'd been wrong.

I made myself dinner. I didn't eat it. I poured a glass of wine and sat on the back porch and watched the sun go down over the river.

I didn't cry. I'd cried enough.

Three days later, they came to the house.

I heard the cars first. Expensive engines. Too many of them. I looked out the window and saw a convoy pulling up to the curb. Black SUVs. A white van with a florist's logo. A woman in a pencil skirt carrying a binder.

I opened the door.

The woman smiled. "Ms. Porter? I'm Claudia Voss. We're here to finalize the property transition and begin staging for the ceremony."

"What ceremony?"

"The wedding." She gestured to the florist. "We're on a very tight timeline, so if you could—"

"I'm not selling."

Her smile didn't move. "Ms. Porter, the acquisition has already been approved. We're simply here to—"

"Get off my property."

She blinked. Then she stepped aside.

And that's when I saw him.

Silas Wagner stepped out of the lead SUV. He was wearing a charcoal suit. His hair was perfect. His skin was tan. He looked healthy. He looked alive.

He looked at me.

The world stopped.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I just stood there staring at a dead man.

He froze too. His face went white. Then red. Then something else. Something I didn't recognize.

"Kathryn," he said.

My legs gave out. I grabbed the doorframe.

"Kathryn, I can explain—"

I slammed the door in his face.