My Fake Husband
So where had this woman—claiming she was my wife—fallen from, right into the center of our company?
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“Can you calm down now?” I asked the woman. Her crying had taken me off guard at first, but now she was fraying my nerves.
“If you’re Darian Freeman, then who was my husband?” she demanded. Her hazel eyes, reddened from crying, looked almost green. The whites were bloodshot; her makeup had streaked down her face in dark tracks.
“I don’t understand you,” I said, impatient.
“I was married to Darian Freeman. To the bastard who owns this company!”
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