My Husband Faked My Death While I Was Saving the World

In my fifth year working at the remote space tracking station in the northwest desert, I finally completed my mission and could go home.

The moment I got the news, I called Julian Harding, my voice trembling with excitement.

Julian, the mission wrapped up perfectly! I might be coming home soon. Are you happy? Surprised?

Two seconds of silence on the other end.

Maybe it was the signal, but his voice came through choppy and broken.

"Mavis, why so sudden? You're not going to stay a little longer?"

"The country's work comes first. Don't worry about me. Just focus on your job. No matter how long it takes, I'll wait for you."

My heart softened. I was about to tell him that this time it was real, that I was actually coming back.

But the signal cut out, and the call dropped.

Once I made it back to the city, I retrieved the personal phone that had been locked away for five years. I was going to message Julian and explain everything.

But the second my finger swiped the screen, a viral post on the trending topics stopped me cold.

The account was called "Mavis's Julian." The profile picture was our wedding photo.

The caption read:

My beloved wife, Mavis Henson, passed away last month in a mission-related accident.

She devoted her entire life to the aerospace career she loved. She was my hero, and the love of my life.

I will raise our child and live well for both of us, seeing all the beauty of this world on her behalf.

Three photos were attached.

The first was my official ID photo in my work uniform. I'd left it with him before I deployed. I'd almost forgotten what I looked like in it.

The second showed him holding a little boy on the couch of the riverfront apartment I'd bought outright with my own money. The boy looked about four, with crescent-moon eyes when he smiled and tiny dimples bracketing his mouth.

Something about him felt inexplicably familiar.

The third was a birth certificate.

Under "Mother," written in black and white, was my name: Mavis Henson.

Every drop of blood in my body went ice-cold, draining from my head to the soles of my feet.

My phone hit the floor with a sharp crack.

I was dead?

Yesterday I'd been on the phone with him. Today I was the woman who'd tragically passed in his viral post?

And there was a child?

Julian and I had been married six years. I'd spent five of those in the desert. Forget having a baby. I hadn't even spent a full month with him at a stretch.

Where did a four-year-old come from?

I picked up the phone. My fingertips shook so badly I couldn't even type in my passcode.

It took three tries to unlock it.

I tapped into the account's profile.

Tens of thousands of followers. Every single one gained off the persona of "devoted husband of an aerospace hero."

I scrolled back through his posts. All of them dripping with the performance of a grieving, loving man.

"Took Mavis's little one to get his shots today. He was so brave, didn't cry at all. If Mavis were here, she'd be so proud."

The photo showed him holding the boy's hand. Behind them was the most exclusive private children's hospital in the city.

"Mavis's favorite spot was always the balcony. I planted it full of the roses she loved. They bloomed this year. She never got to see them."

The photo was of the riverfront apartment. The one I'd bought him with every cent of five years' worth of bonuses.

"Celebrated Mavis's mom's birthday on her behalf. Her mother is doing well, everyone. Don't worry. I'll take care of her for as long as she lives."

The photo showed him with my mother, her face warm and smiling.

But I'd called my mom just days ago. She told me Julian hadn't visited once in the past six months.

I scrolled through post after post.

Each one was a poisoned blade, driven straight into my chest.

Now I finally understood.

Why every time I mentioned coming home, he found some excuse to talk me into waiting.

Why every time I called, he barely said two sentences before rushing off the line, claiming he was busy.

He wasn't busy with work. He wasn't busy taking care of the family.

Busy building a devoted-husband persona around his "dead wife."

Busy using my money, my reputation, to pave a golden road for himself and his new lover.

Five years. I'd spent five full years at an aerospace tracking station in the Gobi Desert.

Total lockdown management. Phones were collected and stored during work hours. We got exactly thirty minutes of satellite phone time per week. One home visit per year, and I'd never taken a single one.

Not because I didn't want to.

Because every time I brought it up, Julian would say:

"Mavis, you're doing something important for the country. Something bigger than us. I can't be the one holding you back."

"I've got everything handled here. Don't worry about a thing. Just focus on your work. When you come home, we'll get a cat. We'll have our quiet little life."

I believed him.

For five years, I weathered the sandstorms of the Gobi.

Winters hit twenty below. My fingers cracked and bled, and still I sat in front of the monitors, guarding data streams through the night. Summers, the tin-roofed station hit a hundred and ten degrees, the air conditioning cutting in and out, and pulling all-nighters was just part of the job.

I came away with chronic migraines and a stomach condition that never fully healed.

I turned down three separate transfers back to the D.C. research institute. I declined every public commendation that would have put my face in front of a camera.

All I wanted was to finish the mission and get back to him.

I sent every cent of my salary home. Every last dollar. Out in the desert, I spent maybe fifty bucks a month on soap and toothpaste.

I always felt like I owed him.

I was the one who'd insisted on taking the assignment. I was the one who'd left him alone in the city for five years.

But now, all that guilt, all that consideration, had become a joke.

I stared at the little boy in the second photo.

That familiar feeling when he smiled suddenly had an answer.

I pulled up a photo I'd saved on my phone for nearly ten years. It was a childhood picture Julian had shown me back in college, taken when he was four.

The same eyes. The same parenthetical dimples at the corners of his mouth. Even the way he tilted his head when he laughed was identical, down to the last detail.

The boy didn't look like me. He looked like Julian.

This was not my child.

This was his son with another woman.

He'd told the world I was dead and registered the boy under my name. He'd used the benefits reserved for outstanding aerospace personnel to secure the child a D.C. residency.

And I, the person whose name was on all of it, was still out in the Gobi, risking my health to earn him money, naively dreaming about coming home to surprise him.

I kept scrolling. The top comment, posted three days ago, had the most likes.

The username was "Bianca's Happy Place."

"Julian, you work so hard. You have to take care of yourself. Mavis wouldn't want to see you this sad, even from heaven. I'll be right here with you. We'll raise Nolan together."

Julian had replied with a heart emoji:

"Thank you, Bianca. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Bianca.

Bianca Whitmore.

My bunkmate for all four years of college. My best friend in the world.

Before I left, I'd begged her, over and over. Look after Julian for me. Check in on the house. Keep an eye on things.

She'd kept an eye on things, all right. She'd kept such a close eye that she'd ended up in bed with him.

I closed my eyes. The tears I'd been holding back finally fell.

Five years of my youth. Everything I'd nearly killed myself to earn. All of it had become someone else's fairy tale.

I booked the earliest flight back to D.C. that night. I didn't tell a soul.

The plane touched down the next morning, just after dawn.

The sky was barely light.

A cool wind hit my face.

I couldn't feel the cold. All I felt was the burning in my chest.

I flagged down a cab and gave the driver the address I knew by heart.

The riverfront apartment I'd bought outright with five years of project bonuses. The deed was still in Julian's name.

The cab pulled up to the entrance of the complex.

I was about to step out when I spotted it: parked beside the convenience store, the BMW I'd bought him last year.

The car door opened, and Julian stepped out.

His hair was meticulously styled, and he'd put on some weight since five years ago.

He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door, one hand bracing the roof of the car. The gesture was so tender it was almost dripping with sweetness.

"Careful, babe. The ground's slippery."

The woman in the passenger seat stepped out, smiling as she looped her arm through his.

It was Bianca.

The coat she was wearing was one I'd saved up six months of government talent benefits to buy and had someone bring back from overseas. I'd planned to give it to her as a surprise when I came home. She was already wearing it.

Something seemed to cross Bianca's mind. Her brow creased slightly, and she leaned into Julian with a wheedling pout.

"Oh, by the way, that government talent benefits payment came through, and Nolan's spot at the elite private school is locked in. But I just can't stop worrying..."

"What if Mavis comes back one day and finds out about all this? What do we do then?"

The words said concern, but her eyes couldn't hide the smugness.

She nestled closer into Julian's arms, all soft and boneless.

Julian let out a derisive laugh and tightened his arm around her waist. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her cheek, his voice thick with contempt.

"What's there to be afraid of? She's not coming back."

"What do you think that job of hers is, anyway? Stuck in the middle of the desert, working year-round without a single day off. Can't even use a phone. It's basically prison."

"Only an idiot like her would treat some dead-end aerospace gig like it's a treasure. Abandoned her own home, gave up a perfectly good life, just to go suffer out there."

He pinched Bianca's cheek as he spoke. The adoration in his eyes was practically overflowing.

"My Bianca's so much better. Sweet, thoughtful, always knows exactly what I need. Here by my side every single day, keeping the house in perfect order, and giving me such an adorable son."

"Not like her. All she ever cared about were her precious data sets. Couldn't say a tender word to save her life. Like talking to a block of wood."

Bianca lowered her gaze and let out a theatrical little sigh. Her finger poked gently at his chest, her voice syrupy and coy.

"Don't say that. She's contributing to the country, after all..."

"Besides, she sends her entire salary and bonuses to you every month, doesn't she? The house we live in, the car we drive, that shop of yours. It's all her money. It doesn't feel right to talk about her like that."

Julian's smirk turned even more mocking.

"She sends it to me of her own free will. I never forced her."

"She's the one who wanted to go suffer. She's the one who wanted to be some model worker or whatever, leaving her husband behind, abandoning her home. So the money she earns, the benefits she gets, if she's not spending them on me, who else would she spend them on?"

"What, am I supposed to want her back? Go back to seeing her once every six months?"

He paused. Something vicious flickered through his eyes.

His tone was light, almost casual, but every word cut to the bone.

"Besides, the whole internet already thinks she died in an accident on a mission. Even if she did show up one day, who'd believe her? Who's going to take a dead woman's word for anything?"

"I hope she never comes back. Better yet, she can die out there in the desert. Saves her from coming home and ruining things for our nice little family of three."

Bianca finally couldn't hold back her laughter. She burrowed deeper into his arms, her voice cloyingly sweet.

"You're terrible. But honestly, she really is stupid enough to deserve it. Five years, and she never came home once. All it took was a few sweet words from you, and she handed over everything she had. I almost feel bad for her."

"Stupid works just fine for us."

Julian kissed the top of her hair, his voice brimming with satisfaction.

"If she weren't stupid, where would our good life come from?"

"Relax. She's completely cut off from the world in there. She doesn't know a thing. By the time she figures it out, it'll be way too late. For the rest of her life, she's nothing but a dead woman. All we have to do is sit back and enjoy."

I stood not far away, listening to every word they said, trembling from head to toe.

My teeth ground together so hard they clicked, and I tasted blood on the tip of my tongue.

I'd eaten sand in the Gobi Desert, pulled all-nighters until my body gave out, traded my life for money and honors, and poured every last drop of tenderness and trust into this man.

And he'd taken everything I had, handed it to my best friend, and ground my heart into the dirt beneath his feet.

I walked toward them, one step at a time.

The morning wind swept a handful of dead leaves across my path.

They finally noticed. Both of them turned around.