Faked Death, True Love

The Portland rain tapped against the window of my rental car as I pulled up to the attorney's office. Three years of marriage to Marcus had taught me to appreciate these quiet moments before diving into work. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and taking a deep breath. This was supposed to be a simple trip—sign some papers for my parents' old home, then fly back to Seattle where Marcus would be waiting with takeout and that smile that still made my heart skip.

I'd grown up in that house on Maple Street. After my parents passed, neither Marcus nor I had the heart to sell it, so we'd kept it as a weekend getaway. Now, with the city's urban redevelopment plans, the paperwork needed updating.

"Ms. Thompson, please come in." Mr. Harrington, our family attorney since I was a child, greeted me with a handshake that felt oddly formal. His office smelled of leather-bound books and coffee—comfortingly familiar.

"It's Mrs. Sterling now," I corrected with a smile, though I'd kept my maiden name professionally. "But Rebecca is fine."

Something flickered across his face—discomfort? Concern? He cleared his throat and gestured to the chair across from his desk.

"I'm afraid there's been a complication with the property." He adjusted his glasses, not quite meeting my eyes. "The deed was transferred approximately eight months ago."

I blinked, certain I'd misheard. "Transferred? That's impossible. Neither Marcus nor I authorized any transfer."

He slid a document across the desk. "The transfer appears to be authorized by your husband." His finger pointed to a signature I recognized instantly. Marcus's distinctive scrawl, with that peculiar loop on the 'S'.

"There must be some mistake." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. "Who was it transferred to?"

"An Ashley Parker."

The name hit like ice water. Marcus's intern. The pretty blonde he'd hired last year, whose eager smile seemed to brighten whenever he entered a room. The one he insisted was "just ambitious" when I noticed how late they worked together.

"I need to make some calls," I said, standing abruptly. My legs felt unsteady. "And I need copies of everything."

An hour later, I sat in my car outside the county recorder's office, rain drumming harder now, matching the pounding in my chest. The manila envelope on the passenger seat contained a document that had shattered my reality: my marriage certificate.

Or rather, what I had believed was my marriage certificate.

The clerk had been apologetic but clear. "This document was never filed with any county in Oregon or Washington state, ma'am. It's not authentic."

I traced the ornate border with my finger, remembering our wedding day. The small ceremony in Marcus's parents' garden. The judge who'd officiated—a family friend of the Sterlings. The witnesses who'd signed—all Marcus's business associates.

Three years. Three years of building a life together, of working side by side at his company, of planning our future. All based