Chapter 1

It was late April, tax season.

Ethan Miller sat at his large oak desk in the sun-drenched office of the boutique hotel Ava "gifted" him.

He liked to be organized, to get things done.

He was preparing their joint tax returns, same as every year.

This year, the new software flagged something about their marriage verification.

He frowned. He didn't remember needing the actual certificate before.

Ava handled all that paperwork after their whirlwind Taos wedding five years ago.

She said it was all filed, all official.

He searched his desk, then their safe. No original marriage certificate.

"Ava probably has it with her art documents," he muttered.

But Ava was in her studio, "in the zone," and hated interruptions.

He decided to request a copy. Easier.

He remembered Ava saying their license was filed in Sandoval County, something about her family lawyer having an office there, making it convenient at the time.

He found the number for the Sandoval County Clerk's office.

A polite woman answered.

"Sandoval County Clerk, how can I help you?"

"Yes, I'd like to request a copy of a marriage certificate," Ethan said.

"Certainly. I'll need the names and the approximate date of marriage."

"Ethan Miller and Ava Thornton. We were married about five years ago, May 2019."

He heard typing. A pause.

"Sir, I'm not finding a record for Ethan Miller and Ava Thornton."

Ethan felt a small knot in his stomach.

"That can't be right. Ava Thornton. Or maybe Ava Miller by then? It was in Taos, but filed in Sandoval."

"Let me check under Miller for the bride as well, sir."

More typing. A longer pause.

The clerk's voice was still polite, but firm.

"No, sir. I have no marriage license on file for an Ethan Miller with an Ava Thornton or an Ava Miller around that date, or any other date."

"Could you check again? Please? It's very important."

His voice sounded strained even to himself.

This was just a bureaucratic mistake, surely.

"I understand, sir. I've searched thoroughly. There's no record of that marriage in Sandoval County."

Then, she added, "However, I do show an active marriage certificate for an Ava Thornton..."

Ethan held his breath.

"...to a Julian Vance. Dated March 2014."

Julian Vance.

The name echoed in the quiet office.

Ava's "struggling artist friend" from years ago. Someone she'd helped out.

The sun outside seemed too bright.

The hotel, his "gift," suddenly felt like a gilded cage.

Five years.

His marriage.

His life.

The clerk was saying something about mailing a copy if he was a party to that record, but he wasn't.

"Thank you," he managed, his throat dry. He hung up.

His eyes ached. The numbers on the tax forms blurred.

All illusions instantly shattered.

He drove home.

The house Ava owned, filled with her large, imposing art, felt cold.

He heard her voice from her studio, the door slightly open.

She was on the phone, her tone sharp, business-like.

"Listen, David," she was saying, presumably to her lawyer. "Julian absolutely needs to keep using my name for his residency application in Berlin. It's critical for his visa, and the prestige helps."

Ethan stopped, his hand on the doorknob to their bedroom.

"And yes, Ethan's stable presence is vital for the upcoming Artforum feature. Especially with the introduction of Maya. It paints the perfect family picture. The devoted husband, the artistic muse, the new child."

Maya.

The five-year-old girl Ava had recently brought to Santa Fe.

From a "private care situation" in Europe, she'd said.

Ava wanted him to formally adopt Maya. To complete their "family image."

The pieces slammed together in his head.

Julian. Ava's legal husband. Maya. Their daughter.

His stomach churned.

He felt a wave of dizziness, stumbled, and his shoulder hit the wall hard.

A small ceramic piece on a nearby pedestal wobbled and crashed to the floor.

Ava rushed out of the studio.

"Ethan! Darling, what on earth happened?"

Her eyes flicked to the broken ceramic, then back to him, concern flooding her face.

"Are you alright? You look pale." She dismissed her assistant or lawyer on the phone. "I'll call you back."

Her hand was on his arm, cool and smooth.

Her concern felt like another performance.

He looked at her, his mind reeling.

"Ava," he began, his voice hoarse. "The marriage certificate. I called the county clerk."

He paused, searching her face for any sign of truth.

"They said... there's no record of us. But there is one... for you and Julian Vance."

He watched her. A final, desperate test.

"Maybe... maybe we should go to the courthouse tomorrow. Together. Get a new one, just to be sure. Clear up any mix-up."

Her eyes flashed panic for a millisecond, then it was gone, replaced by an offended frown.

"Ethan, really! After all these years, you're questioning me over some bureaucratic error? My lawyer will sort it out. You know how these small-town offices are."

She stroked his cheek. "You must have hit your head. You're not thinking clearly. Let me get you some ice."

She didn't address going to the courthouse. She deflected.

The last thread of hope snapped.

It wasn't a mix-up. It was a lie. An elaborate, five-year lie.

That night, sleep was a torment.

He saw their Taos "wedding" – picturesque, fraudulent.

Ava's loving vows, now hollow echoes.

His sacrifice, leaving his promising architectural career in Denver, moving to Santa Fe to support her art.

All of it twisted with the clerk's calm, devastating words and Ava's cold, calculating voice on the phone discussing Julian and Maya.

His life wasn't his. It was a carefully constructed stage, and he was just a prop.