He Faked His Death for Ten Years,Then Begged Me to Sign for His Millions

After he ran into his battered first love, my husband walked away with her without a second thought.

Then he vanished off the face of the earth, never sent me so much as a word.

The only two things he left me with

were eight hundred thousand in loans and a death certificate, issued after he'd been missing four years and declared legally dead.

The bank took the house we'd bought for the marriage, and I ended up in a four-hundred-a-month basement room.

After work I held down three jobs.

I scrubbed toilets, I sold my blood, I signed up as a test subject for drug trials.

Every day it was stale bread and tap water.

It took me ten years to clear the debt, and then I landed a job as a records officer.

The very first application that crossed my desk was a request to restore the identity of a man who was legally dead.

He said he'd been young and foolish, that he'd run off from home and canceled his own residency records.

Now the old family factory was being torn down for redevelopment, and he needed his records restored to claim a demolition payout worth over a hundred million.

I stared at the painfully familiar name on the application form.

And smiled.

"The paperwork's incomplete. Denied."

Jude Delgado didn't recognize me. There was a clipped edge of displeasure in his voice.

"I've got proof of residence from the neighborhood association, and a DNA test from my parents."

"You could at least look at my documents first."

I pushed the folder aside and bent my head to other work.

"No need to look."

"Your paperwork's incomplete. Application rejected."

The youngest colleague in the department panicked, tapped my shoulder, and dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Amelia Simmons, just process it for him."

"He's a pretty famous couples blogger. He's got over a million followers online."

"He posts one video and the whole office gets buried under an online pile-on."

I didn't look up. I called the next person in line.

"Everyone's equal under the rules. Influencers don't get special treatment."

Jude looked down at me from where he stood.

Then he smiled.

It was contempt, the kind that despised me from the bone out.

"I know how this works."

"Name your price. How much to get it done?"

I lifted my head.

And looked, calmly, at the man I hadn't seen in ten years.

So there was no such thing as karma after all.

He hadn't ended up broke and broken. If anything, he was living more comfortably than ten years ago.

Comfortable enough that throwing money at problems had become a habit.

And me?

Life had worn the light right out of my eyes.

There was nothing left in my face of the woman I used to be.

I looked years older than I was.

That was why he didn't recognize me.

But now he was in my hands.

A hundred-million demolition payout.

If I didn't sign, he didn't get a cent.

I looked at him, calm, and gave the textbook answer.

"Like I said. Your paperwork doesn't qualify."

It had probably been a long time since anyone turned Jude down in public.

He shot to his feet, slammed the folder on the desk, and jabbed a finger at me.

"My paperwork was specially approved by your superior."

"Who are you to refuse me?"

I sat up straight and smiled.

"I don't care who specially approved it. The person who signs off now is me."

"I say it doesn't qualify, then it doesn't qualify."

He ground his teeth, livid.

"You just wait!"

"Refuse me today, and tomorrow it might not be you sitting in that chair!"

The threat was right there in his eyes, plain as day.

Then he turned and walked out.

I watched him go.

My fingers were trembling with the thrill of it.

Wait. Of course I'd wait.

Ten years.

I'd been waiting for this day even in my dreams.

Now it was only just beginning.

I picked up my phone and searched for his first love's name online.

Daphne Dickerson, a verified account.

Smarter than Jude. At least she hadn't canceled her records.

Over a million followers, and a new video almost every day.

The same script every time: the devoted husband, the cherished wife.

She'd built herself a leading-lady persona, coaching her audience on how to fight back against abuse and find true love.

Online, she spared no effort showing the world how happy she was now.

And never once mentioned the other woman whose husband she'd stolen.

I'd barely set my phone down

when a woman shoved my office door open without knocking.

Daphne Dickerson.

Even after ten years, I recognized her in a heartbeat.

Her long hair was styled into careful waves, and she wore an expensive tweed suit.

A bright diamond ring caught the light on her finger.

The woman who'd cowered behind my husband ten years ago, trembling, was gone.

In her place stood a polished, confident creature.

She looked at me.

One look, and she'd sized me up from head to toe.

"Ms. Simmons, I'm not going to dance around it."

She dropped a thick canvas bag on my desk.

Square and solid. Two hundred thousand, by the look of it.

"Everything has a price."

"If it doesn't work, the price just wasn't high enough."

Her long, slim fingers tapped lightly against the desk.

Fair, smooth, not a single dry line.

Nothing like my hands.

Those years of side jobs had left their mark.

Chilblains that flared up again and again, calluses layered over calluses, and a scar where a chemical had eaten into the skin.

I pushed the bag back across the desk.

"Not everything can be fixed with money."

"I'm accountable for my work. I only answer to evidence."

She shifted her weight and set her phone on the desk.

I saw the screen light up.

She was recording.

Daphne's displeasure showed plainly. She kept her tone clamped down as she asked,

"You say my documents don't qualify. The least you can do is tell me why."

I didn't move. My voice stayed perfectly even.

"I don't need a reason."

"My decision is lawful and by the book. I don't owe you an explanation."

She crossed her arms and stared at me, arrogant.

Then she let out a cold little laugh.

"I get it now."

"There are plenty of people like you online."

Her tone sharpened with every word.

"Your own marriage is miserable, so you resent every woman younger and prettier than you."

"I know exactly what you are. Jealous. Bitter about anyone with money."

"So you use what little power you've got to make life as hard as possible for people."

"It's the same sickness with all you old, broke, middle-aged women."

She pointed at me, the threat vicious now.

"I have millions of followers across every platform."

"One video, and you lose your job."

"Don't believe me? Try me."

I felt no anger. No humiliation either.

Just how absurd it all was.

Ten years ago, my mother was gravely ill.

To keep from setting her off, I'd swallowed everything and begged Jude Delgado not to leave.

He'd pushed me away and said,

"Daphne isn't like you."

"She's too kind, too fragile. She can't survive without me."

But this woman in front of me, all teeth and pressure,

where was the kindness, the fragility?

Soft and meek was only the tool she used to handle a man.

This sharp-tongued, spiteful version was the real face.

I didn't engage. I picked up the intercom on my desk.

"Ms. Dickerson, are you leaving on your own, or do I call security to escort you out?"

A young male colleague pushed the door open right on cue and gestured toward the exit.

Daphne fixed her eyes on me.

Slowly, a flicker of confusion crossed that well-maintained face.

"Have we met somewhere before?"

I looked at her.

Ten years apart, and I wasn't the woman she remembered.

I'd cut my hair short to make the long hours easier.

Three years as a drug-trial subject had wrecked my liver and gallbladder, and my skin had gone dry and sallow for good.

Even my features had sharpened.

She stared at me for a long moment, then turned and slammed the door on her way out.

"You've got three days. You'll be on your knees begging me to approve it."

I listened to her heels fade down the hall, and the corner of my mouth curved up.

Beg her?

We'd see who ended up begging whom.

I shut the door and messaged my best friend, the lawyer, laying out the whole situation.

The reply came fast.

*Your in-laws have been dead five years, and your husband's record was canceled as a presumed-dead missing person.*

*By law, the factory property passes to you, and the demolition payout is yours.*

*But if your husband actually gets his residency reinstated, you won't see a cent.*

*Have you thought it through? Maybe cut a deal with him. Money in hand is the only money that's real.*

I scoffed, cold.

And typed back, certain.

*Don't worry. He can't get it reinstated.*

*I need you to look into something for me.*

A hundred million.

There was no way I was letting him off cheap.

Then I called the redevelopment office to confirm.

Once they verified I was eligible to receive the payout, I grabbed my ID and marriage certificate and went straight over.

I beat Jude Delgado to it and registered the demolition claim.

That afternoon, Jude and Daphne Dickerson posted a video on their account.

The title: *How Hard It Is for an Ordinary Person to Get Anything Done.*

Not a word about the demolition. Just the two of them claiming they'd been stonewalled at the window over a simple residency matter.

They'd used the footage they secretly shot of me, stripped out the audio, blurred my face.

But they made sure to name where I worked.

The second it went up, the sympathy poured in.

In two hours it cracked a hundred thousand views, hundreds of comments.

All of them slamming me for being obstructive, for making people jump through hoops on purpose.

I'd just gotten back from the redevelopment office when I was called into the director's office.

Jude and Daphne were there too.

Cary Lambert stood at the window with his hands behind his back. The moment I walked in, his face went hard.

"Officer Simmons, there's some unhappiness online about how our office handles things."

"What's your take?"

My phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

*You'd rather take the hard road.*

*Just approve it and be done with it.*

Across the room, Daphne shot me a taunting look.

I smoothed my skirt, unhurried.

"I've already made my position perfectly clear."

Jude scoffed and turned to Cary.

"You see? It's not that we won't take the video down. Someone just won't cooperate."

Cary, frazzled, poured me a cup of tea.

"Proof of residence, blood-relation test, the materials are all there, aren't they?"

"So why won't you issue the certificate?"

"If that's not making things deliberately difficult, then what is it?"

I had it all worked out, and I didn't bother explaining.

"Director, I have my reasons for this."

"All of it is based on residency law."

Daphne shot to her feet, jabbing a finger at the tiny camera in her hand.

"Simmons, don't push your luck!"

"You're nothing but a low-level clerk. Let this blow up and that seat won't be yours much longer!"

With that, she grabbed Jude and headed for the door.

She left one last line before she went.

"We'll see about this!"

"Let's find out which is stronger, the pressure of public opinion, or that little chair you're sitting in!"

After they left.

Cary slammed his thermos down on the desk.

"Amelia! What the hell are you trying to pull?"

"Do you have any idea how much weight public opinion carries these days?"

"One complaint, and every bonus in this office, top to bottom, is gone."

"Let this blow up any further, and you might not even have a job here."

I stood up calmly and gave him a small smile.

"Director Lambert, I don't think it's blown up enough yet."

"Better if it gets bigger."

Early the next morning.

Jude and Daphne showed up with a dozen people in tow.

And went live right there in our service hall.

Cary kicked open my office door, his face dark as a storm.

"Amelia, get out there and look at the mess you made!"

"They've strung up a banner, brought a megaphone, and now the whole street's crowding in to watch."

I took a leisurely sip of tea before strolling out after him.

Jude had dug up some faded, washed-out T-shirt from somewhere.

There he stood, megaphone in hand, weeping his heart out to the gathered crowd and the cameras.

"A lot of you probably can't imagine how hard life is for someone with no official records."

"I can't pay into social security, can't get admitted to a hospital. Every single day I live in fear of getting so much as sick."

"I can't take the subway or a bus. Ten years, and I haven't been able to board a plane or a train."

"I've had all my paperwork ready. All I want is to live like an ordinary person again. Why is that so hard?"

The crowd around him flared up at once.

"These clerks are heartless."

"He's got the paperwork and they still won't process it. Are they trying to drive the man to his death?"

"Even if something's wrong with it, just tell him how to fix it. They won't even give him a reason."

The live stream view count blew past ten thousand in no time.

People started spamming the chat on their own.

"What gives them the right to push an honest man around? Give us an answer!"

Daphne seized the moment to whip up the stream.

"Today isn't just for my husband. It's for the millions of ordinary people who get stonewalled like this."

"Are ordinary people just supposed to be bullied at every turn?"

"Is this how power gets abused?"

The stream boiled over.

Endless comments scrolled past.

So true. Ordinary folks can't get a single thing done.

We have to back him today. Drag that Director Simmons out here!

Thank you for standing up and speaking for the little guy.

Plenty of people out on the street heard the noise and poured into the hall too.

Before long the place was packed wall to wall.

Cary couldn't take the pressure and shoved me out to the front.

"You made this mess, you clean it up."

"I'm in no position to protect you."

The second I appeared, Daphne swung the camera straight onto me.

"Officer Simmons, in front of all these people, I want an explanation."

I looked at her, unhurried.

"You keep saying you're speaking for all the ordinary people."

"But you're not an ordinary person."

"You're a big influencer. You want your records restored so you can collect a hundred-million-dollar demolition payout."

The air seemed to freeze.

The next instant the whole room erupted.

"What is this? You used us as your weapon?"

"A rich woman playing poor, throwing us out front as cannon fodder?"

Jude's face went stiff. He pushed through it anyway.

"So what if he's an influencer? Do influencers not need social security, not need hospitals?"

"The fact is you're holding up my application for no reason and disrupting my normal life."

"You're giving me an explanation today."

I nodded.

I turned the camera on myself, picked up my phone, and dialed the police.

"Fine."

"I'll make sure you accept it completely. The officers will come and give you your explanation."