I thought I had found my happily ever after when I married Damian. But that dream turned into a nightmare before the reception even began. Three days after our wedding, I buried my husband, only to come face-to-face with him behind the wheel of a taxi weeks later.
This isn’t something I can share openly, so I’m turning to the anonymity of the internet. You can call me Paige. I’m 28 years old, and not long ago, I was the picture-perfect bride.
Damian and I met at a small café where I worked part-time. He was one of those quiet, polite customers who tipped generously and always had a book in hand. From the moment I saw him, I was smitten. When he finally asked me out, I was stunned—he was gorgeous and charming, and I couldn’t believe he was interested in someone as ordinary as me.
We clicked immediately, and our relationship grew effortlessly. Just a year later, we were standing at the altar, ready to begin our lives together. Damian couldn’t stop smiling at me as I tearfully read my vows. It was the happiest day of my life—until it wasn’t.
Before the reception, while we were taking photos with friends, Damian suddenly collapsed. At first, I thought he was joking, but when he didn’t get up, panic set in. Paramedics arrived and worked on him right there, but nothing worked. They rushed him to the hospital, and I followed in a daze. Hours later, a doctor delivered the devastating news: Damian didn’t make it. A heart attack, they said. He was only 32.
In the days that followed, I could barely function. Everything felt surreal. The funeral was a blur, made worse by the presence of his adoptive parents. I had only met them once before, and Damian had warned me about their controlling and snobbish behavior. What I didn’t know, as one of Damian’s friends revealed to me, was that they were also filthy rich.
Damian never told me about their wealth. He wanted me to love him for who he was, not what he had. But now his parents were glaring at me like I was some gold digger who had orchestrated his death. I overheard his mother muttering about getting their lawyer involved. I was too heartbroken to fight back.
Three days after the funeral, I couldn’t take the grief anymore. My apartment felt like a prison, haunted by memories of Damian. Desperate to escape, I hastily packed a suitcase, grabbed my passport, and called a taxi. My plan was vague—maybe I’d go to Mexico or Aruba, anywhere but here.
When the taxi arrived, I climbed into the backseat without paying much attention to the driver. As I settled in, the voice from the front jolted me: “Fasten your seatbelt, please.”
It was Damian’s voice.
My heart raced as I stared at the rearview mirror, locking eyes with him. “Damian?” I whispered, barely able to speak. He pulled the car over to a quiet street, turned around, and met my stunned gaze.
“I can explain,” he said softly, his face filled with guilt. “Please don’t hate me.”
What followed was an explanation that sounded like it belonged in a thriller movie. Damian revealed that his adoptive parents had used him to build their shady business empire. When he tried to distance himself from their illegal activities, they turned on him. Their threats escalated when he met me—they were ready to destroy me to regain control over Damian.
His solution? Fake his death. With the help of a fixer, he orchestrated everything, from the collapse at our wedding to his disappearance after the funeral. He even managed to transfer all his legitimate assets to me, ensuring his parents couldn’t touch them.
“I did it to protect you,” he said, his eyes filled with regret. “I couldn’t let them ruin your life.”
I didn’t know whether to scream or cry. I was furious and heartbroken, yet a small part of me understood why he had done it. We argued for hours after he drove me home. I yelled about the pain he had caused me, about the cruelty of letting me think he was dead. He apologized repeatedly, his voice cracking as he tried to justify his actions.
By morning, I was emotionally drained. “What now?” I asked. Damian explained his plan: I would sell his business and assets, giving him the means to start over abroad. He asked me to come with him, promising to make things right. But I wasn’t ready to forgive him.
“I need time,” I said. “I can’t just pick up where we left off. You broke my trust.”
He nodded solemnly. “Take all the time you need. I’ll wait.”
Over the next few weeks, I worked on selling Damian’s assets while fending off his parents’ attempts to claim his estate. The process was grueling, but it gave me clarity. Damian’s actions had been reckless, but they were also driven by love. He had risked everything to protect me from his family’s wrath.
One night, I realized the truth: I still loved him. Despite everything, my heart couldn’t let go. I picked up my phone and dialed his number.
“Where are you?” I asked when he answered. “I’m coming to you, but you can never do this to me again.”
Now, I’m living in a new country with Damian. We had a quiet wedding, free from the shadows of his past. His parents will never find us, and we’re finally free to live our lives on our terms. It wasn’t the fairytale I imagined, but it’s our story, and it’s ours to write.
