Loving My Fake Wife For Real

Seven years of chasing Veronica, and I ended up married to her best friend. All because Naomi had leaned across a dimly lit bar booth one night and whispered: "People only ever crave what’s just out of reach. Trust me, Veronica has a sick little obsession with unavailable men." For years, Naomi had been my co-conspirator, my playbook, my personal translator for Veronica's every mixed signal. So I trusted her implicitly. And after we tied the knot, like clockwork, Veronica started blowing up my phone. I rushed home to tell Naomi, practically vibrating with excitement: "Your plan actually worked!" Naomi looked down at her hands. A long, heavy silence stretched between us before a faint, bittersweet curve touched her lips: "Good. Then pick a date for the divorce." I nodded, overflowing with naive gratitude. Except on the eve of filing the paperwork, Naomi's car went over the bridge. By the time I reached the hospital, the machines had already flatlined. The nurse handed me a folded slip of paper—her final words: "I’m sorry for keeping you so long for my own selfish reasons. Go find your happiness now." I wept until my vision blurred into blackness. And when I opened my eyes again, the blinding heat of a summer afternoon stung my face. I was sitting on the concrete bleachers of our college track field, back to the day we first met. A nineteen-year-old Naomi tilted her head, a languid, knowing smirk playing at the corner of her mouth: "Hey. Don't cry. Come on—I’ll help you get her." 1 "Per Ms. Monroe's notarized estate plan, her entire net worth passes unconditionally to you." The attorney gave a slight, solemn nod. My throat felt like crushed glass. My fingers tightened reflexively around the leather handle of my briefcase—inside it, still crisp and unsigned, sat our divorce petition. Memory hit me with the force of a physical blow. Just last night. Naomi had been wearing an oversized linen apron, leaning over the stove, carefully basting a pan of sea bass. I had burst through the front door, humming with manic energy. She glanced over her shoulder, her lips curving softly: "What put that smile on your face?" I kept it to myself for a second, teasing instead: "Why are you cooking? What happened to the chef?" She set my favorite side dishes onto the marble island, her voice low and cool: "Maybe because... today happens to be our second anniversary?" I blinked, then let out an easy laugh. "Come on, Naomi. Since when do we celebrate that?" I pulled out a stool. Naomi took off the hair tie around her wrist, reached out with long, slender fingers, and gently smoothed down a messy cowlick at my crown: "Go wash your hands." I leaned in, unable to contain the giddy triumph any longer: "Veronica’s been texting me all week." Her hand stilled in my hair. "After all these years, I finally turned the tables," I went on, oblivious. "You really are her best friend. Nobody knows how her twisted brain works like you do." Seeing that I had no intention of getting up, Naomi turned quietly to the sink, wetted a hand towel with warm water, and gently wiped down my fingers, knuckle by knuckle. Her voice was unreadable. "Sounds like you two made progress." I rubbed the back of my neck. "I mean... I guess so?" Naomi lowered her eyelashes. A beat passed, and then she smiled—a quiet, fragile thing: "Good. Pick a date, and let's sign the papers." A sudden chill settled in my stomach. A weird, hollow disorientation washed over me. I understood what she meant. We both knew our marriage was never real—no love, no shared bed, just an arrangement inked on legal parchment to bait Veronica into wanting what she couldn't have. Now that the bait had worked, the charade had to end. For seven years, I had orbited Veronica like a moth around a porch light, enduring her icy detachment and breadcrumb affection. Naomi was the one who pulled me out of the gutter after every rejection. Over time, I didn't even know if what I felt for Veronica was love or just an exhausting, seven-year addiction. Naomi was the constant. She was the one who actually knew how I took my coffee, who stayed up with me when I had flu-induced fevers. Even without romance, we had something deep and unbreakable. Or so I thought. Hearing her bring up divorce so clinically left me adrift. And right behind the panic came a suffocating wave of gratitude. She had sacrificed two years of her youth and reputation just to help me chase another woman. I made a silent vow right then: I would walk away with nothing. I’d sign over every asset, every property, and leave her entirely whole— 2 So why the hell was I the sole beneficiary of her will? The funeral was a blur of black umbrellas and rain. Most of the attendees were executives from her venture capital circle; I lacked the composure to entertain any of them. My chest felt hollowed out, aching with an unbearable, quiet agony. A clean paper tissue appeared in front of my face. A woman in an immaculate tailored black dress stood beside me. "My condolences," she said softly. It was the face I had spent seven years pining over. My lips parted: "...Veronica." She offered a quiet hum of acknowledgment, slipping into the empty space at my side. After a long silence, she said, "To be honest, during those two years you were married to her, I regretted it. Every single day." My eyelashes fluttered. Veronica's voice dropped to an intimate whisper: "I regretted letting you slip through my fingers." She looked just as she always had—gold-rimmed glasses, pristine posture, an untouchable ice queen perched on an ivory pedestal. No matter how long I ran behind her, she had never once looked back. Now, a faint, self-satisfied smile played on her lips: "I know you still have feelings for me. Don't you?" My voice came out raw and raspy: "...This is Naomi's funeral." It felt obscene. Desecrating. Veronica let out a breathy, dismissive chuckle: "Does it matter? She's gone. There’s nothing standing in our way anymore." The slate-gray sky pressed down. A biting gust of wind whipped damp strands of hair across my forehead. The cemetery began to blur at the edges. My knees wobbled, and I stumbled back a step. Someone nearby noticed, shouting, "Is he fainting? Someone catch him!" In the vertigo, a memory flashed unbidden into my mind: a lazy Sunday afternoon in our sunlit living room. Naomi had been leaning against the doorframe, a relaxed smirk tugging at her mouth as she sorted through a mountain of designer gift bags. I had looked at the pile in bewilderment. "What is all this?" "Presents for you." "It's not Christmas. What's the occasion?" Naomi tilted her head, her gaze fond and teasing: "Did Veronica break your heart again?" I had scratched the back of my head, sheepish: "Not really... her parents are setting her up with some corporate heir, and I just..." Naomi waved a finger, cutting me off with a dry chuckle: "Relax. Your crush pissed you off, but your wife’s right here to spoil you, isn't she?" Heat had rushed to my ears. "Stop it! You know we're not... you and I aren't real—" Naomi had stepped closer, intentionally messing with me: "How are we not real? Our marriage license is framed in the study." "We had a deal! We got hitched to bait Veronica—" Naomi’s expression hadn't shifted, but her dark eyes had shuttered for a fraction of a second. "Go on, open them. I spent weeks tracking those vintage records down." That day, my mood had instantly lifted. I remember sitting cross-legged on the rug, tearing through tissue paper, muttering: "God, if Veronica were even a tenth as good as you, I'd die a happy man." The memory shattered. I reached out into the damp cemetery air, desperately trying to clutch at the vapor of her presence. Nothing. In my head, the attorney’s voice echoed like a death knell: "I’m sorry for keeping you so long for my own selfish reasons. Go find your happiness now." Happiness? God, I was already happy. I was living in it, and I was too blind to see it. Veronica frowned, reaching out an elegant hand to steady me: "Are you alright?" I jerked violently away from her touch. A dark irritation flashed behind Veronica's lenses. She stepped forward, grabbing my forearm with an iron grip. I shoved her away with everything I had. The crowd gasped. The air froze. Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and uncontrollable, tracking down my hollow cheeks. "Get your hands off me," I choked out, each syllable splintering like glass. "This is my wife's funeral." 3 My eyes snapped open. Brilliant, unfiltered sunlight poured over my head. I blinked, disoriented, looking down at my faded sneakers resting against the cracked green bleachers of our college athletic track. While I sat frozen, a tissue was thrust under my nose. I lifted my head, stunned. A nineteen-year-old girl looked down at me, her hands shoved casually into the pockets of her oversized bomber jacket, her tone laced with cool amusement: "Hey. Don't cry. Come on—I’ll help you get her." I reached up and wiped my cheek. My hand came away wet. Naomi let out a quiet scoff: "Is Veronica really worth bawling your eyes out over?" The moment the words left her mouth, her brows pinched, as if realizing she sounded too abrasive. She softened her tone: "I know how her mind works. Let me help you chase her. Deal?" My lips parted, my voice sandpaper-rough: "Naomi." Her eyebrow arched. "You know who I am?" I nodded slowly. In the next second, I surged forward, clutching the coarse fabric of her sleeve with both hands. The familiar scent washed over me—cedarwood, rain, and a trace of vanilla. My eyes burned violently. Her lean, willowy frame stiffened under my touch. She stared down at my red-rimmed eyes, then muttered a quiet, venomous curse: "Veronica really is a heartless bitch." Right on cue, a crisp, detached voice cut through the air: "Naomi." Naomi looked up. Veronica stood ten feet away, clutching her leather binder, looking down at us with aristocratic disdain: "Who's this?" I couldn't bear to look at her. I kept my head down, back turned. Naomi clearly assumed I was too humiliated to be seen. Her voice went entirely flat: "My cousin. His parents cut off his allowance, so he came here to cry on my shoulder." Veronica's brows knitted in mild annoyance, not caring enough to dig deeper. "I have a message for that guy, Ian. He keeps leaving breakfast sandwiches on my desk. If you run into him, tell him to stop." Naomi’s tone remained ice-cold: "Why don't you tell him yourself?" Veronica sneered: "Looking at his face makes me sick." Naomi: "Understood." Veronica turned on her heel and strode toward the student union. A moment later, Naomi took a half-step back, forcing my fingers to slide off her sleeve. She caught my gaze, her expression unreadable: "I figured you didn't want her catching you in this state, so I lied." I sniffled, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I don't care if she sees." Naomi paused, her jaw tightening slightly. "My mistake, then." "Wait—" I didn't let her finish. Before she could walk away, I stepped directly into her path, staring straight into those guarded black eyes: "Date me." Surprise flickered across Naomi's face, but she masked it instantly with her trademark nonchalance. Her dark eyes scanned my face, searching, calculating: "Do you actually like me? Or are you just trying to make Veronica jealous?" I hesitated for half a second. And that single beat of silence was all it took. Naomi’s gaze turned dull and distant, slamming the iron door shut behind her eyes. During our two years of marriage, her prickly edges had smoothed out into warmth and easy banter. Whenever she looked at me, there had always been an underlying tenderness. Right now, she was still the sharp, cynical girl who trusted no one, hiding her bruises behind a veil of indifference. 4 After exchanging contact info, I sent her a silly cat sticker on Messenger. The indicator flashed "Naomi is typing..." for five straight minutes. Losing my patience, I hit the call button. She answered on the third ring. Her opening line was brutally pragmatic: "If you want to win Veronica, your current playbook is garbage." I rubbed my temple. So she genuinely thought I was executing some convoluted master plan to catch Veronica? I hummed noncommittally. "First rule," Naomi continued, businesslike. "Cut all contact. Keep your distance." "..." Hearing no response, she asked flatly, "Got a problem with that?" I stayed quiet. She hesitated, her voice dropping a fraction: "Or can you just not stop yourself from running after her?" I leaned back against my pillows and smiled softly. "It’s not that. It's just that I have a ton of energy, and I get lonely easily. If I'm not allowed to hang out with her, can I just hang out with you instead?" The line went completely dead for ten long seconds. Through the receiver, I could hear the wind rustling through tree branches—whether on my end or hers, I couldn't tell. "Whatever," she said. My chest bloomed with warmth. 5 A few days later, our department held an outdoor mixer on the quad. I packed a two-tiered bento box with meticulous care, carrying it across the lawn as I scanned the clusters of students. A guy from my seminar spotted me and waved, immediately shouting over his shoulder with an obnoxious grin: "Hey, lover boy! The girl you're looking for is over by the canopy!" I followed his line of sight. My eyes met Veronica's. Her brow twitched with immediate, icy irritation. Within seconds, the rest of the committee caught on. Whispers rippled through the lawn, followed by loud, theatrical jeers: "Veronica, your golden retriever is back! Look at that, he even brought you lunch. So domestic! Guess you won't be joining us at the diner today?" Veronica's face darkened. She marched across the grass toward me, her voice dripping with sharp condescension: "I told you to stop showing up where I am. Are you illiterate, Ian?" I let out a slow breath, looking her straight in the eye: "I'm not here for you." A collective snicker broke out among the onlookers. The frat boy standing near Veronica tilted his chin up, sneering: "Do you actually expect anyone to believe that? Dude, drop the hard-to-get act. You shadow her everywhere she goes. You're not even in this club!" Others chimed in, smelling blood: "Seriously, have some dignity." "It's getting pathetic." "She literally told him she's disgusted by him..." I frowned, keeping my temper in check. Veronica let them tear into me until she felt my pride had been sufficiently beaten down. Only then did she offer a dismissive flick of her wrist: "Just leave. You don't belong here, and nobody wants you around." I rolled my eyes. "For the tenth time, I'm not here for you, and this food isn't yours." Veronica's patience snapped. She thrust her hand out toward the thermal bag. "What are you doing?" I asked, pulling back. "I said I'm not eating it," she hissed, her voice rising. "Since you insist on shoving it in my face, I'm throwing it in the dumpster." God. Had she always been this insufferably arrogant? The mocking chatter grew louder as people circled around to watch the spectacle. Right at that moment, a cool, drawling voice sliced effortlessly through the noise, dropping the temperature of the quad by ten degrees: "What's all the barking about?" The crowd went dead silent. Naomi walked through the parting sea of students, hands tucked into her windbreaker, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes sweeping lazily across the group. The suffocating weight of her gaze shut everyone up instantly. The tension melted out of my shoulders. I took three quick strides toward her, bypassing Veronica entirely, and pushed the warm lunch container firmly into Naomi's hands. Turning back to the dumbfounded crowd, I enunciated every single syllable: "Get your eyes checked. This lunch was cooked specifically for Naomi." Naomi's dark eyes narrowed slightly, caught off guard. Her slender fingers curled around the strap of the container. She looked down at it, but didn't push it away. Veronica let out a dry, venomous laugh: "Is this how you salvage your bruised ego, Ian? Using Naomi as a prop?" "What?" She genuinely thought I had brought the food for her, got rejected, and pawned it off on Naomi to save face? A sick feeling hit me—Naomi probably thought the exact same thing. Frustrated, I reached out and took the box back from Naomi’s hands, setting it on the picnic table and popping the clasps open. The rich aroma of garlic, herbs, and butter drifted into the air. "Everything in here," I said coldly, "is Naomi's favorite." Veronica's lip curled in pure disdain, convinced I was digging my own grave. I tapped the lid right over the main compartment, locking eyes with Veronica: "You have a severe, anaphylactic allergy to Atlantic cod. If I had made this lunch for you, I’d be facing an attempted murder charge. But Naomi loves cod." Silence fell like a guillotine. I turned my head, catching Naomi's gaze. Her long lashes fluttered. Her lips parted, her voice barely carrying above the breeze: "How do you know what I like to eat?"