Then she found proof.
When I read the final document she handed me, everything inside me shifted.
I walked back upstairs, heart pounding.
The reception was still going on—laughter, music, conversation.
I walked straight up to him.
“Arthur,” I said, holding up the document, “you need to explain this.”
The color drained from his face.
“What is that?” someone asked nearby.
“This,” I said, my voice steady despite everything, “is a death record. How is it possible that I just married someone who isn’t who he says he is?”
Silence fell.
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