Erica was married for ten years to the man of her dreams-until the police revealed his real name. What do you do when the life you built was all a lie? A gripping tale of love, betrayal, and a woman's fight to reclaim her truth.
I met him at my cousin's wedding-tall, dark, and quiet, standing in the corner like a misplaced shadow. While everyone else danced, he watched. And when I caught his eye, he smiled like someone who had nothing to prove and even less to hide.
His name was David Okoro. That's what he told me. That's what I wrote in my diary the night we met, scribbled under "Maybe" with a heart beside it.
We talked all night. He was soft-spoken, almost too careful with his words, like someone afraid of being known too deeply. But in a world full of loud men who pretended to be what they were not, his calm presence felt like safety.
He told me he was an only child, that his parents died early. No family photos. No hometown stories. Nothing before the age of twenty-six. I thought it was grief. I mistook absence for mystery. Pain for depth.
We got married six months later.
He didn't propose with a ring, just a promise and eyes that looked tired of running. I said yes because I thought love was supposed to be a shelter, and I wanted to be his. I wanted to be the place he could rest.
For ten years, we built a quiet life. Two children, a tiny business, and matching toothbrushes in our bathroom sink. He worked late most nights, said it was consulting. I didn't ask questions-I was too busy being grateful.
But sometimes at night, I'd wake up and catch him staring at the ceiling like someone waiting for a knock.
I should've asked.
But I didn't.
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