Married To A Five-Year Deception

My husband, Jackson, was holding hands with a dead woman.

For five years, I believed my adoptive sister, Scarlett, had died in a fiery car crash. My perfect, blissful marriage was built on her ashes.

But tonight, at a charity gala, I saw her hidden in the shadows with him. She was alive, and beside them stood a little boy with my husband's dark, curly hair. I overheard everything. My family had faked her death, destroyed evidence to save her from prison, and set her up in a beautiful new life.

My marriage wasn't love. It was a five-year "penance," a sacrifice Jackson made to keep me from asking questions while he, my parents, and my "dead" sister lived as a secret family.

My phone buzzed. A text from her, taunting me.

"You should come see all the beautiful things my family has given me."

When Jackson found me moments later, his face a mask of fake concern, the urge to scream was a physical force inside me.

But I swallowed it down. I looked into the eyes of the man who had demolished my world, forced a smile, and pulled him into an embrace that felt colder than the grave Scarlett was supposed to be in.

Chapter 1

HANNAH POV:

My husband, Jackson, was holding hands with a dead woman.

Five years. That's how long I'd believed the lie. Five years since my adoptive sister, Scarlett, the woman who had tried to ruin me, had been sent away by my family and reportedly died in a fiery car crash on a winding coastal highway.

Five years of a perfect, blissful marriage built on her ashes.

Tonight was the Beaumont Foundation's annual charity gala. The air in the Charleston ballroom was thick with the scent of gardenias and old money. I smiled, nodded, and played the part of Hannah Beaumont, the long-lost daughter returned to her rightful place, the devoted wife of the foundation's brilliant chief legal counsel.

But the smiles felt tight, the crystal chandeliers too bright. I slipped out onto the stone terrace for a breath of the humid South Carolina air.

And that's when I saw them.

Hidden in the shadows of a grand magnolia tree stood Jackson, my Jackson, his broad shoulders angled protectively. His hand was intertwined with a woman's. Her fiery red hair, the exact shade I saw in my nightmares, caught the moonlight.

Scarlett.

She was alive. And she was laughing, a sound I thought I'd never hear again. Beside them, clutching Jackson's other hand, was a small boy, no older than four, with Jackson's dark, curly hair.

My breath hitched, lodging itself in my throat like a shard of glass. I shrank back behind a marble column, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"You have to be more careful, Scarlett," Jackson's low voice drifted towards me, laced with a familiar tenderness that made my stomach churn. "Someone could have seen you."

"Oh, stop worrying," Scarlett's voice was a purr. "I just wanted to see the party. To see what I'm missing." She squeezed his hand. "Besides, I had to thank you again. And the Beaumonts. **If you hadn't made all that evidence disappear and set up the gallery for me... I'd be rotting in a cell right now instead of living in paradise."**

The world tilted. *Destroyed evidence?*

**"We did what we had to do,"** Jackson said, his voice heavy. **"It was that or let everything unravel."**

Scarlett's tone turned sly, laced with a cruel sort of pity. "And you. Five years married to *her*. Poor Jackson. Was it worth it? Your great sacrifice, your penance, just to keep her from asking questions about me?"

Penance. Sacrifice.

The words echoed in the sudden, roaring silence of my mind. My marriage... my life... my love... it wasn't real. It was a five-year-long lie. A deal made to protect a criminal. A cage designed to keep me docile and ignorant.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my clutch. The screen lit up with a picture of my mother.

"Hannah, dear?" Mrs. Beaumont's voice was as smooth as honey, but for the first time, I heard the poison underneath. "Are you alright? I haven't seen you for a moment."

"I'm... I'm just on the terrace," I managed to choke out, my voice a stranger's.

A beat of silence. A sharp intake of breath on her end. "The terrace? Jackson!" she called out, her voice suddenly sharp with alarm. "Go find your wife. Now."

The line went dead.

Seconds later, Jackson appeared from the shadows, his expression a mask of concern. The woman and the child were gone.

"Hannah? What are you doing out here in the cold?" He started to drape his suit jacket over my shoulders, his brow furrowed. "Are you okay? Did you... did you see anyone?"

His eyes darted around the empty terrace, a flicker of panic in their depths. He was checking. He was making sure the coast was clear.

The urge to scream, to claw at him, to demand the truth, was a physical force inside me. But I swallowed it down, letting it burn a hole in my gut. I looked into the eyes of the man I loved, the man who had orchestrated the complete demolition of my world, and I forced a smile.

"No," I whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek. "I just missed you."

He relaxed instantly, pulling me into his arms. His embrace, which had been my home and my sanctuary for five years, now felt like a tomb. For the first time, his touch was not warm.

It was colder than the grave Scarlett was supposed to be in.

HANNAH POV:

The drive home was a silent, suffocating ordeal. Jackson held my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles in that familiar, soothing way that now felt like a spider crawling over my skin.

"You know," he said, his voice carefully casual as he turned onto our oak-lined driveway, "in a couple of days, it'll be the... anniversary."

He didn't need to say her name. Scarlett's supposed death day.

"Your parents and I were thinking of going to the old chapel, just to... you know. Say a prayer." He squeezed my hand. "You don't have to come, of course. We wouldn't want to upset you by bringing it all up again."

It was the perfect excuse. A lie wrapped in a layer of feigned concern for my feelings. He was going to see her. They were all going to see her.

"Okay," I said, my voice flat.

He visibly relaxed, a small sigh escaping his lips. "Good. I just want to protect you." He leaned over to kiss me as he parked the car, but I turned my head at the last second, his lips grazing my cheek.

I didn't want his touch. Not anymore. I felt the sharp edge of my own fingernail dig into the palm of my other hand, the small, sharp pain a welcome anchor in a sea of nausea.

Back in our sprawling, silent house, I waited. I listened until the sound of the shower started upstairs, a steady drone that covered the frantic beating of my own heart. Then, I moved.

His study had always been his sanctuary, but it was never off-limits to me. He trusted me. The thought was so bitter it almost made me gag.

I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside. The room smelled of old books and his cologne. My eyes went straight to his laptop, sitting closed on the mahogany desk. I lifted the screen.

The desktop wallpaper hit me like a physical blow.

It was a picture of a perfect family, beaming under a sunny sky. Jackson, his arm wrapped around a smiling Scarlett, who was holding the little boy, Leo. They looked so happy. So real.

My own wedding photo was in a silver frame on the corner of the desk, gathering dust.

The computer was password protected. My mind raced. What would it be? A date? A name? Then, a cold, clear thought cut through the fog. Scarlett had mentioned a gallery. Jackson had mentioned an anniversary. But the boy... the boy was the center of their world.

I typed in the child's birthday, a date I'd overheard Scarlett mention to the boy on the terrace.

The screen unlocked.

My hand trembled as I clicked on the photos folder. It wasn't just one picture. It was thousands. A lifetime of memories I was never a part of.

Leo's first steps. Jackson holding him aloft on a beach, the sun glinting off their identical dark curls. Scarlett and Jackson sharing a kiss under a Christmas tree, the little boy asleep in his mother's arms.

Then, the final betrayal.

My parents. My father, Robert Beaumont, was in a photo from Leo's baptism, his hand resting proudly on the boy's head. My mother, Eleanor Beaumont, was there too, beaming as she held a tiny, giggling Leo. They were a family. A happy, whole, secret family.

My family. My husband. My parents. All of them.

My phone vibrated on the desk beside me, the screen lighting up with a text from an unknown number.

*'Heard you were on the terrace tonight. Hope you didn't catch a chill. I'm having a little anniversary party for my gallery next week. You should come. See all the beautiful things my family has given me.'*

It was from her. A taunt. A victory lap.

Just then, the study door opened. Jackson stood there, a towel around his waist, his hair damp from the shower. He smiled that easy, handsome smile that had once made my heart leap.

"There you are," he said. "I was wondering where you went. Listen, something's come up at work. I have to fly to Atlanta tomorrow for a couple of days. An emergency meeting."

He was looking right at me, lying with the same ease he used to tell me he loved me.

HANNAH POV:

I didn't reply to Scarlett's text. Provocation was her game, but I wasn't playing anymore. Instead, I used the money Jackson so generously provided to play a different game entirely.

Two days later, dressed in a drab uniform, a cheap fabric mask covering the lower half of my face, I stood in the gleaming marble foyer of a luxurious beachfront villa an hour outside of Charleston. I'd paid the regular housekeeper a handsome sum to fake a family emergency and recommend me as her temporary replacement.

This was Scarlett's house. Jackson's other home.

The first thing I saw, hanging in the center of the grand living room, was a massive, framed family portrait. It wasn't the photo from the laptop. This one included my parents. The five of them-Jackson, Scarlett, Leo, Robert, and Eleanor Beaumont-were posed together, the very picture of dynastic bliss.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" the head maid, a woman named Doris, said proudly, following my gaze. "The masters of the house."

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

Doris led me through the room, pointing out my duties. "That antique clock on the mantel," she said, gesturing to a familiar gold carriage clock, "was a gift from Mr. Beaumont to his grandson, Leo. A family heirloom."

A cold wave washed over me. I remembered begging my father for that exact clock as a wedding present. He'd refused, telling me it held too much significance to be given away so lightly. Apparently, it wasn't significant enough to deny his illegitimate grandson.

"And this cashmere blanket," Doris continued, picking up a soft, cream-colored throw from the sofa, "Mrs. Beaumont knitted it herself. **She told me she put more love into this for Leo than anything she ever made for her own daughter."**

The woman chuckled, oblivious. I felt nothing. Just a vast, cold emptiness where my heart used to be.

My task was to dust the endless family photos that lined the hallways. Photos of Jackson and Scarlett through the years-at proms, on vacations, their lives seamlessly intertwined. My own life with him was represented by a single, solitary wedding photo tucked away in his study. Here, their love was a living, breathing entity.

I was polishing a silver frame when I heard the sound of their laughter from the back garden. I froze, then quickly slipped into the shadows of the dining room.

Jackson, Scarlett, and Leo were returning from the stables, looking every bit the happy family. Leo was perched on Jackson's shoulders, giggling.

"I don't want him to have to hide forever, Jackson," Scarlett was saying, her voice serious for a moment. "He deserves to be acknowledged."

"He will be," Jackson soothed, lifting Leo down. "I promise. We just need more time." He knelt to look the boy in the eye. "Now, are you excited for your big birthday party in five days? Grandma and Grandpa are coming. They've arranged everything."

Five days. My plan now had a deadline.

I knew I had to leave. I had seen enough. As I turned to slip out the service entrance, I collided with a hard chest.

I stumbled back, my eyes flying up to meet Jackson's. He was looking down at me, his brow furrowed in suspicion.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice sharp. He hadn't recognized me in the dim light, with the mask and uniform. But something about me had set off his alarm bells.

His hand shot out, his fingers brushing the edge of my mask.

"Why are you covering your face?"