My Fiancé Had A Secret Wife Chapter 01
The first time, I found a woman’s pearl necklace in my fiancé’s car.
His mother called me herself. “Don’t get the wrong idea about Adrian, sweetheart. That necklace is mine—I must’ve left it in the back seat.”
The second time, it was two movie ticket stubs.
His best friend, Ryan, tagged me in the group chat: “Evelyn, those were mine. I asked Adrian to grab them for me. Don’t start a fight over it.”
Then a third time. A fourth. Every time, someone stepped up to explain it away.
By the ninth time, I picked a lipstick out of the crack in the passenger seat and held it up to him.
Adrian, practiced as ever, pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Anyone leave a lipstick in my car?”
My brother, Lucas, answered. “That’s my wife’s. Serena tore the whole house apart looking for it.”
Serena—my best friend—chimed right in. “Evelyn, Adrian is so good to you. If you keep pulling stunts like this, you’re only hurting yourself.”
Adrian hung up and looked at me, the picture of innocence.
“Can we drop this now?”
“Evelyn, that’s nine times. If every little thing you find in my car is going to send you spiraling, maybe we shouldn’t get married at all—”
I closed my hand around the pregnancy report tucked inside my purse. I cut him off.
“Fine. The wedding’s off.”
…
“Call it off, Adrian. I already spoke to the venue and the planner this morning. All that’s left is telling your side of the guest list.”
The car jerked to a stop at the red light.
For the first time in months, the polished calm on his face cracked.
“Are you serious?”
“You don’t even trust your own brother or your best friend anymore. What do you want from me, Evelyn? How am I supposed to prove I’ve been faithful?”
“Go see a therapist. This isn’t what a normal relationship looks like.”
What he didn’t know was that I’d planted the lipstick myself.
Before I could say anything else, his phone rang.
His whole face changed. The corners of his mouth softened.
“Something’s come up. Head home, cool off. Let’s just pretend today never happened.”
He dropped me at the curb and drove off without a second glance.
I wasn’t about to let it go. I flagged down the next cab and followed him.
Thirty minutes later, the car pulled up in front of the waterfront restaurant.
Through the tall glass wall facing the harbor, I could see a party in full swing.
White balloons. A three-tier cake. A christening banner strung across the room, the letters spelled out in soft ivory script:
Welcome, Noah.
A baby.
Every face behind that glass belonged to someone I loved.
And at the center of it all sat a woman I’d only ever met once.
She wore a cream silk dress and sat beside Adrian’s mother. Around her neck was the pearl necklace—the same one Adrian’s mother had “left in the back seat.”
At the nape of her low chignon was a pale blue silk hair tie.
The same one I’d pulled from Adrian’s coat pocket three months ago.
Whatever composure I had left collapsed the moment I saw her face.
Vivian Pierce.
A month ago, she’d come through my ER.
It had been a routine IV push, nothing more than minor infiltration—the kind of thing that happens. But her family filed a complaint. They accused me of patient abuse, went to hospital administration, and posted the whole thing online.
Her bodyguard had shoved me hard enough to fracture the fourth metacarpal in my right hand. My surgical privileges were suspended.
And the lawyer who’d promised—on his life—to handle the lawsuit for me, my own brother?
He was inside, taking shots on Vivian’s behalf.
The best friend who’d stayed up three nights in a row drafting my appeal?
Working the room, playing hostess for Vivian’s guests.
And the man who had held me while I sobbed in the orthopedic clinic, who had sworn no one would ever hurt me again, who had looked me in the eye in the car not an hour ago and pleaded his innocence—Adrian.
He had one hand on Vivian’s waist and the other under her chin, tipping her face up to his. And with the blessing of every person I’d ever trusted, he kissed her. Deeply.
So they were Vivian’s family.
They were the ones who’d blown a minor incident into a career-ending scandal. They were the reason I’d lost my job.
I’d been lied to by every last one of them. I was the punchline.
My phone buzzed in my hand.
An email, from the chief of surgery at Pinecrest Trauma Center—three hundred miles up the coast.
Dr. Hart, this is to confirm your transfer. We look forward to welcoming you to our Level I trauma team. Start date: Monday.
Three days.
Three more days in this city, and it would all be over.
I turned to leave. The restaurant door swung open behind me.
Vivian was walking toward me.
“Dr. Hart? Oh my God—did you come all the way out here for my son’s party?”