My Husband Pretend to Be Single

Marcus's explanation haunted me for days. I wanted to believe him—that this was all an elaborate act for his career, that he remained faithful despite the charade. But something felt wrong, like a splinter beneath my skin that I couldn't quite reach.

I found myself standing before the bathroom mirror, studying my reflection. My pregnancy had barely begun to show, just a slight rounding beneath my loose sweater. My face looked pale, with dark circles under my eyes from nights spent tossing and turning.

"He wouldn't lie about this," I whispered to my reflection. "Not about another baby."

But doubt had taken root, and I couldn't shake it.

Three days after the hospital incident, I made a decision. If Marcus was telling the truth, I'd find evidence to support it. If not... I needed to know.

I dressed carefully that morning in a simple but professional outfit—a navy pencil skirt that still fit my changing body and a cream blouse. I wanted to look like I belonged in the corporate environment of Marcus's office building without drawing too much attention.

"Just going shopping for baby things," I told Marcus as he rushed out the door, barely glancing my way. He nodded absently, his mind already at work.

An hour later, I stood across the street from the gleaming glass tower where Marcus worked. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my fingertips. This was madness. What kind of wife spies on her husband?

The kind whose husband pretends not to know her, a voice in my head answered.

I took a deep breath and crossed the street. The lobby bustled with professionals in suits and smart dresses, all moving with purpose. I approached the reception desk with a practiced smile.

"Good morning. I'm here to surprise my husband, Marcus Chen. Could you let me up?"

The receptionist, a young man with kind eyes, checked his computer. "I'm sorry, we don't have anyone by that name listed."

My smile faltered. "Marcus Chen? He's been with the company for three years. Works on the Westfield account?"

Recognition dawned on his face. "Oh, you mean Marcus Wilson? Fourteenth floor, marketing department."

Wilson. My stomach clenched.

"Yes, that's him," I managed. "My mistake."

He issued me a visitor's pass, and I rode the elevator in a daze. Marcus Wilson. Not a temporary alias for a client, but his professional identity.

The marketing department was a maze of cubicles and glass-walled offices. I spotted Marcus through one of those glass walls, hunched over his desk in animated conversation with a colleague.

A woman at a nearby desk noticed me hovering. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Marcus... Wilson," I said, the name bitter on my tongue.

"Oh, his office is down there," she pointed. "Are you a new client?"

"Actually, I'm his wife."

The woman's eyebrows shot up. "Wife? I didn't know Marcus was married."

My world tilted. "We've been married for three years."

She looked genuinely confused. "That's strange. He came to the holiday party alone last year. And I've never seen him wear a ring."

I thanked her and moved through the office in a trance. People nodded politely as I passed, but no one greeted me with recognition. No one said, "Oh, you're Marcus's wife! We've heard so much about you."

Because they hadn't heard anything about me.

I paused at Marcus's cubicle while he was away, presumably in a meeting. His desk was meticulously organized, with sleek modern accessories and a company award for excellence. What was missing spoke volumes: no photos of me, no ultrasound picture, no evidence that I existed in his life.

On my way out, I stopped at the break room for water, my throat painfully dry. Two men in suits were chatting by the coffee machine.

"Wilson's really climbing the ladder fast," one remarked. "Alexander's got his eye on him for that senior position."

"Helps that he's single and can work those crazy hours," the other replied. "No wife or kids to rush home to. Plus, landing the Westfield account with Victoria's endorsement? Genius move."

I slipped out before they could notice me, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

Back home, I opened my laptop with shaking hands. Marcus and I had both deleted our social media accounts years ago, preferring privacy—or so I thought. It took only minutes to discover his active profiles under Marcus Wilson. His timeline was filled with photos of networking events, client dinners, and industry parties. In every image, he looked confident, successful, and completely unattached.

There was not a single trace of me anywhere in his digital life.

A notification popped up on his profile as I watched: a tagged photo from "Victoria Westfield." My finger hovered over the link, my heart in my throat. Did I really want to see?

I clicked.