Chapter 2: Exposed Under the Spotlight

A woman in the back gasped, clutching her pearls. A teenage boy whipped out his phone, streaming live to TikTok. The whispers swelled into a roar, everyone hungry for the truth.

I reached out, my hand shaking, and grabbed Connor’s sleeve. "Can’t you recognize me? Two years ago, I was kidnapped... I escaped..."

My fingers barely brushed his jacket. He flinched, eyes flicking to the cameras, lips pressed into a hard, flat line. I searched his face, desperate for any sign of the man I’d once loved.

All at once, I tore off my jacket. My body was covered in scars—some fresh, some faded. I stood there, exposed.

The live broadcast camera zoomed in. Phone screens everywhere captured every jagged mark, every wound.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. I heard someone mutter a curse under their breath. The scars were ugly—angry red lines, puckered skin—each one a story I never wanted to tell.

"Connor! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through these past two years? How could you do this to me? How could you betray me..."

My voice broke, raw with pain and disbelief. The world spun. For a moment, I thought I might pass out right there on stage.

The other "Savannah" panicked and shrieked, "Security! Get this lunatic out of here!"

Bodyguards rushed the stage, grabbing me hard.

She shrieked, mascara streaking down her cheeks. Two burly men in black suits grabbed my arms. My feet scraped across the shiny floor as the crowd yelled and filmed every second.

My feet left the ground as I kicked and screamed. "Connor! Say something! Are you scared to face the truth?!"

"Who is that woman pretending to be me?!"

I twisted, desperate to get free, my voice hoarse. I locked eyes with Connor one last time, pleading with him to remember me.

Suddenly Eli rushed the stage, waving his phone over his head. "I called the cops! Either she’s crazy or Connor’s a bigamist—let the police sort it out!"

He barreled through security, his voice booming over the chaos. The crowd surged, hungry for even more drama.

——

Connor Callahan was a big name in Maple Heights. The love story of "Connor and his little wife" was town legend. We were childhood sweethearts, separated at twelve, reunited in college, and became the talk of the town.

Every diner waitress and gas station attendant knew our story. People would whisper about us at the Fourth of July parade, say we were proof that soulmates really existed.

But the second the press conference video went viral, the whole town blew up. The media dug up old interview clips—Connor looking at me like I was the only girl in the world:

"My wife’s been my dream girl since I was a kid."

"The moment I met her, I knew I’d never marry anyone else."

Those clips played on every local news channel. The comment sections blew up, side-by-side photos of our faces sparking heated debates over every tiny detail.

Now, with two identical women in front of him, Connor just kept his mouth shut. All that old love—gone, replaced by something cold and sharp as ice.

His silence was louder than any denial. It cut me deeper than any knife.

The public instantly split. Some shouted, "Connor would never cheat! This is just a misunderstanding!" Others sobbed, "I’m bawling, God, are you seeing this?"

Twitter blew up with our names. Hashtags everywhere: #TeamSavannah, #FakeWife, #MapleHeightsScandal. Everybody had an opinion. Nobody had the truth.

The press conference was shut down, and we all got hauled off to the police station.

Flashing lights, reporters yelling, the whole circus trailed us down Main Street. I sat in the back of a cruiser, hands shaking, my mind a tornado of fear and fury.

The light in the interrogation room flickered overhead. An officer pushed open the door. "Ms. Savannah Callahan, your husband Connor’s DNA doesn’t match up with the files."

"What do you mean?" I was stunned.

The overhead light buzzed even louder. My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear him. I stared at the officer, praying he’d say it was all a mistake.

Detective Harris looked grim. "The current Connor Callahan isn’t your husband."

He slid a folder across the table. My hands shook as I opened it, dread crawling up my spine.

——

The news leaked, and the media lost their minds:

"Restaurant mogul Connor Callahan replaced? What’s the real story?"

Every channel ran wild with it. Anchors breathless, talk shows booking experts on identity theft and doppelgängers. My face and hers everywhere.

I’d just escaped hell, only to lose my husband. I felt like I was dangling over a cliff, barely holding on.

I pressed my forehead to the cold tabletop, fighting to keep myself together. Grief, rage, exhaustion—everything pressed down on me, threatening to swallow me whole.

The police looked at me with sympathy.

"You said after you were taken two years ago, you escaped and found another woman who looks just like you at Connor’s side?"

I nodded, correcting them: "I gave birth to a son for the buyer before I escaped. She not only looks like me, she even has my name."

Detective Harris handed me a report. "The DNA of 'Savannah Callahan' matches a woman named Grace Monroe. You’re the real Savannah."