Unveiling the Fake Love

The crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow across the ballroom as I adjusted Everett's bow tie one final time. My husband looked devastatingly handsome in his tailored tuxedo, his dark eyes reflecting the warmth of what should have been our perfect evening.

"Ready?" I whispered, my fingers lingering on the silk of his tie.

Everett caught my hand and pressed it to his lips. "With you, always."

The charity gala was in full swing—champagne flowing, diamonds glittering, and the elite of the city air-kissing in carefully choreographed social dances. As the wife of Everett Hall, I'd grown accustomed to these nights, though I still preferred the quiet of my psychology practice. But tonight was different. Tonight, we were celebrating the foundation Everett had established for mental health awareness—a cause dear to both our hearts after his recovery.

"Isla, darling, you look absolutely radiant," cooed Mrs. Whitmore, the event chairwoman, as she swept past us. "And Everett, the speech you gave earlier was simply moving."

I smiled, watching my husband's modest nod. Three years ago, I'd found him broken and bleeding in his apartment, a suicide attempt that still haunted my dreams. Now here he stood—confident, composed, alive because I'd refused to let him go.

"Have you seen the Hendersons?" I asked, scanning the crowd. "They were supposed to meet us by the—"

The double doors at the far end of the ballroom crashed open with a thunderous bang that silenced the orchestra mid-note. Every head turned toward the commotion.

A woman stumbled in—disheveled, thin to the point of gaunt, her once-elegant gown hanging from her frame like a ghostly shroud. Her hair, though dirty and tangled, caught the light with a familiar auburn glow.

"Everett," she whispered, her voice carrying across the now-silent room.

I felt my husband's hand tighten around mine, then go slack.

"Elisa?" The name escaped his lips like a prayer.

Before I could process what was happening, the woman collapsed. The crowd gasped as she fell directly at Everett's feet.

Without hesitation, Everett dropped to his knees beside her. "Elisa! Oh God, Elisa!"

I stood frozen, watching as my husband gathered the stranger into his arms with a tenderness I recognized—the same desperate care he'd shown during his darkest moments.

"She's alive," someone whispered behind me. "Elisa Coleman. I thought she killed herself years ago."

The woman's eyes fluttered open, locking onto Everett's face with uncanny recognition. "Three years," she sobbed, her fingers clutching his lapels. "Three years of hell, and I've finally found you again."

---

"I strongly recommend inpatient care," I said firmly, pacing the length of our home office. "Elisa needs professional monitoring—psychiatric evaluation, nutritional support, trauma counseling."

Everett stood by the window, his back to me. "She needs protection, not a hospital."

"Everett, please listen to me. This is my area of expertise."

He turned then, his eyes cold in a way I hadn't seen since our early days together. "Your expertise? Isla, she's been through hell. She needs a safe place to recover."

"And our home isn't that place," I countered, struggling to keep my voice level. "The guest house is barely furnished—"

"It's being prepared as we speak." His tone left no room for argument.

Three days later, Elisa sat at our breakfast table wearing Everett's robe, her slender fingers wrapped around a teacup.

"More tea, dear?" I offered, the perfect hostess despite the knot in my stomach.

Before she could answer, Everett entered, his eyes immediately finding Elisa. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Better," she whispered, then flinched dramatically as I set the teapot down. "I'm sorry, I'm just... jumpy around loud noises."

Everett's gaze hardened as it shifted to me. "Isla, please be more careful."

I bit back a retort, watching as Elisa's hand casually brushed Everett's arm. Her eyes met mine over his shoulder—a flash of triumph quickly masked by vulnerability.

---

The pregnancy test sat on the bathroom counter, two pink lines staring back at me like a miracle. My hands trembled as I picked it up again, just to be sure.

Positive.

A baby. Our baby.

For the first time in weeks, joy bloomed in my chest. This would fix everything—the distance growing between us, Everett's preoccupation with Elisa, the coldness creeping into our home.

I spent the afternoon preparing Everett's favorite meal, setting the table with candles and the crystal wine glasses we'd received as wedding gifts. By seven o'clock, the roast was perfectly carved, the vegetables arranged in delicate rows.

By nine, the candles had burned halfway down.

At ten-thirty, I heard the front door open. Everett's footsteps echoed through the foyer, heavy and measured.

"Everett?" I called, straightening the already-perfect tablecloth. "Dinner's ready."

He appeared in the doorway, his tie loosened, hair slightly disheveled. The scent of jasmine—Elisa's perfume—clung to him like an accusation.

"You're late," I said softly. "I have news—"

"What did you say to her?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

"To who?"

"Elisa. She's upstairs crying, saying you interrogated her about where she's been these past years."

My mouth fell open. "I asked a simple question—"

"Jesus, Isla." He ran a hand through his hair. "She's been through enough without you adding to her stress."

"But I—"

"I need to check on her." He turned away, then paused. "And clean this up. I'm not hungry."

The door closed behind him with a quiet click that echoed louder than any slam could have.

I stood alone in the dining room, one hand pressed against my still-flat stomach, the other gripping the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white.

In the silence, I could hear Everett's footsteps on the stairs, heading toward Elisa's room—and away from me.