Chapter 3

I stared at the message preview, practically boring a hole through the screen with my eyes, desperately hoping it would vanish the next second, or that maybe I'd imagined it.

I squeezed my eyes shut on instinct, took a deep breath, and slowly opened them again.

Those words in black font were still there, each one like a frozen curse, etched onto the screen and refusing to disappear.

My hand started to turn cold and numb, my fingertips tingling as if they'd been plunged into ice water.

I instinctively clenched my fist, my nails digging hard into my palm. The sharp pain shot up, finally making me realize this wasn't some hallucination.

The air conditioning in the office was cranked up to the max, the cold air sneaking down my neck and into my clothes, making me shiver uncontrollably.

I glanced down at the half-filled form on the table. The words "Marriage License Application" in bold black letters seemed to mock me.

I'd solemnly written "Single" on my own form. So, what was Michael supposed to put in the "Marital Status" box?

Married? Divorced? Or... Widowed?

He had a five-year-old son. If that was actually true, what did that mean for me?

Did that mean he was already a dad before I ever met him, even back when we first started dating?

Did that mean he'd been keeping this from me for three whole years?

Did that mean that right when we were about to get our marriage license, he was going to throw this "surprise" at me?

No, the message said, [Don't forget to tell her.] It was "don't forget."

So, was coming clean to me part of his plan all along? Was he really going to lay it all out?

He hadn't decided exactly when to tell me. Was it going to be before we got to the counter, or after we'd already picked up the license?

A flood of information, and all the secrets hiding beneath it, hit me like a tidal wave, completely overwhelming me.

My mind turned to mush, my stomach twisted itself into knots, and I felt so nauseous I could barely breathe.

I felt my face flush hot, then instantly turn cold, like I'd been tossed into a walk-in freezer.

"Emily, bored of waiting yet?" Michael's voice came out of nowhere, right by my ear.

I jolted, like I'd been caught red-handed, and instinctively looked up.

He was holding a freshly unwrapped pen, a relaxed smile on his face as he weaved through the crowd and headed straight for me.

He walked over at an easy pace, looking as chill as when he'd left. There wasn't the slightest hint that anything was wrong.

He slid into the seat next to me, grabbed his own form, and said, "Hey, you're fast. Let me see. This pen's nice. It makes my handwriting look way better."

He didn't notice anything off about me at all. With his head down, he was totally focused on his form, filling it out as if nothing were wrong.

My eyes were glued to the phone on the table, that message seared into my brain like a red-hot brand. I couldn't shake it off.

He wrote quickly: name, Michael Carter; gender, male; date of birth... The pen glided across the paper, making a soft, steady scratching sound.

That sound, which should've been totally normal, felt like a rusty blade, scraping at my nerves with every stroke.

Soon, he reached the "Marital Status" section.

My breath caught, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of my chest. I stared at his pen, not daring to make a sound.

What was he going to write? Single? Or something else?

He didn't hesitate and scribbled "Single" in the box, smooth and decisive.

Those two words dropped like boulders, crushing any last shred of hope I was clinging to.

He never intended to tell me. At least, not before we got the marriage license.

That reminder, "don't forget to tell her", he didn't give it a second thought.

He was planning to keep it hidden, claim he was single, and get the license with me.

Why? What was he after?

Once the shock faded, a cold wave of dread crept up my spine.

Who was this man I'd spent three years with, sharing my life and my bed, the one who was about to become my husband? What kind of person was he, really?

What else was he keeping from me?

A five-year-old kid, a woman who called him "Michael"... What else was hiding behind all this?

Deception. This was an utter, premeditated deception.

My vision blurred, and I quickly grabbed the table to steady myself, managing not to fall over.

"What's wrong? You look like hell," Michael finally seemed to notice something was off, turning to me with confusion in his eyes, and maybe a bit of annoyance.

Or maybe I was being paranoid.

"I'm... I'm fine," I croaked, my throat so dry it felt like sandpaper. "Maybe my blood sugar's low, or it's too stuffy in here."

I forced myself to tear my gaze away from his phone, pretending to fuss with my hair, but my fingers kept trembling uncontrollably.

I couldn't let him know I'd seen that message. Absolutely not.

Should I confront him right at that moment?

Should I make a scene here, in front of everyone, and ask him point-blank about that five-year-old kid?

And then what?

Would he admit it, or play dumb?

What would the people waiting in line think of me?

Was I really going to be the laughingstock in this circus?

No. I wouldn't let that happen.

I'd spent over twenty years keeping a low profile, always holding onto my dignity. I couldn't afford to lose it at that moment.

And what if I really did get it wrong?

Even though deep down, I knew that kind of self-comfort was as flimsy as paper.