I was thrilled to surprise my fiancé, Nathan, after work. Our four-month romance had moved fast—he’d proposed, and I was already picking out wedding dresses. Holding lilies he’d given me, I left my law office, eager to brighten his day with an unexpected visit.
Nathan’s odd excuses—like skipping dinner with my family due to a flooded house—had me worried. My dad, a former sheriff, got his address for me. I took a cab to Nathan’s place, my heart fluttering with hope that seeing him would calm my fears.
At Nathan’s grand house, I rang the bell, picturing his warm hug. A woman opened the door. “I’m Rachel, Nathan’s wife,” she said, her ring gleaming. My breath caught. “I’m Olivia, his fiancée,” I said, showing my ring. Shock hit me like a wave—Nathan was married.
Rachel’s face flushed with fury. “You’re after my husband!” she screamed, tossing a mug at me. I dodged, begging, “I didn’t know!” She ordered me to leave and shut the door. I sank onto the steps, crying, my trust in Nathan shattered.
Rachel came back, her anger faded, with wine in hand. “He’s betrayed us both,” she said, sitting with me. I told her Nathan asked for $50,000 for his dad’s treatment. Rachel laughed coldly. “His dad’s long gone.” She admitted Nathan had manipulated her into a lucrative career for her money.
Rachel proposed we face Nathan at his office. We found it empty but discovered fake passports and loans in her name. Our plan became to lure him with the money and catch him with the police. I sent the $50,000 over lunch, hiding my pain as Nathan thanked me.
When I couldn’t reach Rachel, I went to their house. It was bare—nothing left, not even my mom’s ring Nathan took from my home. Rachel had played me, too, vanishing with my savings. Heartbroken but determined, I called my dad, vowing to fight for justice.
