My Husband Faked His Death to Marry a Billionaire

He came back the next afternoon. Alone this time.

I was in the kitchen kneading dough when I heard the knock. Three sharp raps. Confident. I wiped my hands on my apron and went to the door.

Silas stood on the porch with his hands in his pockets. No suit today. Just dark jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked relaxed. Casual. Like he was dropping by to borrow sugar.

"Kathryn," he said. "We need to talk."

I should have slammed the door. I should have called the police. Instead I just stood there staring at him. At the man I'd mourned for three years. The man I'd bled for in a London factory. The man whose face I still saw every time I closed my eyes.

"Please," he said. "Five minutes."

I stepped aside.

He walked in like he still lived here. He looked around the living room. His eyes lingered on the mantel. On his photo. On the candles I'd kept lit for months after he "died."

"You kept everything," he said softly.

"Get out."

He turned to face me. "I know you're angry—"

"Angry?" My voice cracked. "You let me think you were dead. For three years. I mourned you. I—" I stopped. I couldn't say the rest. Couldn't tell him about London. About the scars. About the money I'd wired for chemotherapy that never happened.

He stepped closer. "I had no choice."

"You had a choice."

"Wagner Industries was bankrupt. My mother was facing criminal charges. I was drowning, Kathryn. Nyomi Spencer was my only way out."

"So you faked your death."

"I did what I had to do." He reached for my hand. I jerked away. He sighed. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Then why are you here?"

His expression shifted. The warmth drained out of it. What replaced it was something colder. More honest.

"Because I still care about you," he said. "And I want to take care of you."

I laughed. It came out sharp and ugly. "Take care of me."

"Yes." He moved closer. Too close. I could smell his cologne. The same one he'd always worn. "Marry Nyomi. I have to. But that doesn't mean I have to let you go."

I stared at him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I can set you up. A nice apartment. Somewhere in the city. You wouldn't have to work. You could bake if you wanted to, but you wouldn't need to. I'd take care of everything." His voice dropped. Softened. "You'd be mine, Kathryn. The way you were always supposed to be."

The words landed like a slap.

"You want me to be your mistress."

"I want you to be happy."

"Get out."

"Kathryn—"

I slapped him.

My palm connected with his cheek hard enough to snap his head to the side. The sound echoed in the quiet room.

For one second—one raw, unguarded second—his face changed. The mask fell away. What I saw underneath was fury. Pure and cold and absolute. His hand came up. His fingers curled.

Then he stopped.

He lowered his hand. He touched his cheek. He smiled.

"I deserved that," he said quietly.

I was shaking. "Get out of my house."

He straightened his collar. Smoothed his hair. When he looked at me again, his eyes were flat.

"You should think about my offer," he said. "Because if you don't take it, things are going to get a lot harder for you."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's advice." He walked to the door. Paused. Looked back. "I loved you, Kathryn. In my way. But you need to understand something. Nyomi Spencer is my future. And nothing—not you, not sentiment, not the past—is going to get in the way of that."

He left.

I locked the door behind him. Then I sank to the floor and pressed my forehead to my knees.

I didn't cry.

I just sat there in the dark and tried to remember how to breathe.

---

The harassment started that night.

I woke at four a.m. to silence. Wrong silence. The hum of the refrigerator was gone. I got up and flipped the light switch. Nothing.

The power was out.

I grabbed my phone and went downstairs. The breaker box was in the basement. I checked it. Every switch was flipped off.

Someone had been in my house.

I reset the breakers and went back upstairs. My hands were shaking. I made coffee and tried to tell myself it was a coincidence. A malfunction.

But when I opened the bakery that morning, I saw the crack in the front window. A clean spider-web fracture right in the center. And tucked under the door was a folded piece of paper.

I opened it.

*Last warning.*

I stood there staring at it. Then I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.

I opened the bakery anyway. I smiled at customers. I boxed pastries. I pretended everything was fine.

But when I locked up that night and walked home, I felt eyes on me. I looked over my shoulder twice. Saw nothing.

The next morning, the crack in the window was boarded up. Neat plywood. Fresh screws. I hadn't called anyone.

I touched the board. Ran my fingers over the smooth edge.

Then I looked across the street.

The man on the bench was watching me.

Our eyes met.

He didn't look away.