My Fake Husband

DARIAN

“Where’s that bastard?”

My eyes snapped toward the woman storming into the room like a hurricane.

“I couldn’t stop her, Mr. Darian!”

I waved the guy away and studied the woman whose hair looked like it had gone through war, clearly fighting her way up here. My brothers looked just as entertained as I did confused.

“Which bastard?”

“My bastard of a husband! Where is Darian Freeman?”

My brothers burst out laughing like they’d just witnessed the world’s finest comedy show.

I, however, failed to see the joke.

She smoothed her wild hair, fixing those hazel eyes on me.

“Tell me where he is. I swear I won’t kill him. I just want to shove these papers down his throat,” she said, waving the papers in my face.

“There must be a mistake,” I said, still trying to piece this insanity together.

“Oh stop feeding me fairy tales! Where is that son of a bitch?”

“Are you insane? There’s clearly a mistake here! I am Darian Freeman and I am one hundred percent sure I am not your husband!”

---

ONE WEEK EARLIER

BELINDA

“What the hell are you doing?”

I stared at the lawyer, the repossession officers, and my landlord glaring at me like I’d personally ruined his precious morning.

I’d gone to bed late. Mornings and I? Never friends.

So why were these people outside my door at this ungodly hour?

“Add that too,” one of the officers said. I shot him my deadliest glare and blocked his way.

Sure, he was on official duty—but that didn’t mean he got to ignore me.

Who the hell did he think he was?

His attitude awoke the feral cat inside me.

“Hey! Look at me!” I snapped, shoving his shoulder. He had to tilt his head down to see me.

Yeah, I’m short. Yeah, that means my temper hits the ceiling fast. Try me.

“You owe a debt. You were notified several times.”

“I WAS NOT!” I shouted.

“Is the government lying then?” he asked, oh so smug.

“I—no, but—” My voice shrank.

The empty walls of my home hit me like a slap.

What was happening?

They were taking my furniture out. MY furniture. Without my permission.

I had no debt! Okay… not anymore. I had already paid off the debt my wonderful excuse for a husband left me with when he emptied our house and vanished like the useless stain he was.

So… how the hell was I being repossessed again?

Long story short?

My house was stripped bare. Correction: robbed clean by life.

The officers left. And I stood there with my cat, my bag, and my landlord staring like he owned the universe.

“Well, since you have no furniture left,” he grumbled, “get out of my house.”

He acted like he was being evicted. Old troll.

Next thing I knew?

Me, my barely-functional belongings and my fluffy traitor of a cat were kicked out.

So yeah. I was royally screwed.

---

I dumped my cat and luggage at the bar where I worked and spent the whole day chasing this debt.

Lawyers. Offices. Banks. Demons disguised as financial institutions.

Turns out the debt wasn’t 500,000.

It was three million.

People inherit fortunes.

I inherited debt.

Did I mention fate could kiss my ass?

And when I thought the universe was done—

It wasn’t.

Two days later, while I was singing on stage, two strangers dragged me off by force.

Turns out I owed another two million to a crime syndicate.

Because why the hell not?

Their boss threatened me, I cried, begged, survived…

But I had three days to pay. I had 500 lira to my name.

Which led me here.

A park bench.

A cat.

A suitcase.

A girl questioning every life choice since birth.

Crying solves nothing.

I cried enough in the orphanage, begging for parents.

All I ever got was cold floors and harsh words.

“Okay,” I told my cat, Paspas. “Time to hunt down my husband Darian Freeman and drown that bastard in his own spit.”

Paspas purred. Good. She agreed.

We were going to ruin him.

Not punish — destroy.

---

And here I was.

The bastard who left me broke apparently built a company.

Took me days, but I found him.

Ask and fate delivers. Sometimes by slapping you in the face.

Motels had chewed me alive.

Now it was my turn to chew him.

He left me heartbroken back then. I rebuilt myself. Slowly. Painfully. And stupidly believed he’d return, so I didn’t even file for divorce. That title protected me.

Idiot didn’t come back. So I came to drag him by the tail.

Cat in one arm, luggage swinging in the other, I marched into his empire.

“I’m here to see Darian Freeman,” I told reception.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Oh please. This was every drama ever.

“Yes,” I smirked. “Tell him someone he’s been waiting for is here.”

“And your name?”

“Belinda Freeman. His wife.”

Silence.

Judgment.

Rage.

“Out,” the receptionist hissed. “Mr. Freeman isn’t married. Are you insane?”

“Call him,” I barked.

Security moved. I moved faster.

As soon as he stepped forward, I sprinted to the elevator and slammed the top floor button.

Oof. I ran like my landlord was behind me again.

A woman entered on floor two.

“What floor is Mr. Freeman’s office?” I whispered sweetly.

“Sixth.”

“Thanks.” Ding. Floor six. War time.

Doors opened. I stormed down the corridor, checked rooms, ignored the looks—and found a secretary.

“I need to see Darian Freeman.”

“No appointment.”

“I’m his WIFE. Move.”

I put my cat on her desk like a furry grenade and shoved the door open.

I warned everyone, didn’t I?

Short girl. Fast temper.

Three faces snapped toward me.

Three ridiculously handsome faces.

And not a single one was my traitor of a husband.