Chapter 1: The Wine and the Revelation

The first thing I felt at my engagement party wasn’t joy. It was the sting of cold wine splashing across my face, courtesy of my best friend Derek. The red soaked my cheeks, dripping onto my starched collar. For a split second, the world froze—the band’s jazzy “At Last” cut off, every conversation died, and all eyes locked on me. I blinked, stunned, as Derek stood over me, chest heaving, anger radiating from every line of his face.

As the wine dripped down my neck, my mind scrambled for answers. Was Derek about to apologize? Or—deep down—did I already know what this was about? I caught his gaze and felt a twist of dread in my stomach.

Derek’s voice cracked through the silence: "She gave up everything for you! Everything! And now? She’s barely hanging on while you’re up here playing prince charming!"

His words hit me like a slap, echoing off the marble floors. Somewhere behind me, a fork clattered to the floor. At the head table, my fiancée Natalie’s face turned to stone. I opened my mouth to respond, but my throat felt tight, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

Derek pulled out his phone and shoved it in my face. On the screen: security footage. My wife, in a wedding gown, stood on a coffin surrounded by flames. She clutched our wedding photo, her voice raw with grief: "Ten years have passed, but you never came. I promised to marry you—alive, I’m yours; dead, I’ll haunt you. I love you, unwavering, until death."

My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone. I couldn’t look away, even though every second felt like a knife. Her sobs echoed through the tinny speakers, the video’s flickering light dancing across the shocked faces in the ballroom. My lungs burned—I’d forgotten how to breathe.

Tears streamed down my face. The world behind me faded to a blur of whispers and horrified stares. My knees wobbled. The floor seemed to tilt beneath me, as if I’d been struck by a car.

I croaked, "Wasn’t she already gone?"

My voice barely carried. The words tasted like ashes, each one a denial of the impossible. Could she really still be alive? Or had I been lying to myself for years?

Derek’s face twisted with rage. "Gone? She waited ten lonely years for your promise! Every dollar she earned, she sent to you. Now she’s spent her entire savings, and it’s only enough for me to buy a ticket to find you!"

He was shaking, veins standing out on his neck. The weight of his accusation slammed into me—I’d left her behind, blinded to her pain. A few guests tried to hush him, but Derek wouldn’t be silenced. His loyalty shamed me more than the crowd’s judgment.

My heart hammered as I touched her face on the screen—the face I’d missed for a decade.

I hovered my thumb over her image, wishing I could reach through the glass, wishing I could turn back time. Memories crashed over me: her laugh, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the scent of her perfume—vanilla and wildflowers—lingering above the sour wine.

Derek slammed a faded gold ring into my hand. "She doesn’t dare see you. She asked me to return this."

The cheap ring felt heavier than iron. Its edges bit into my palm. The room hushed, everyone watching, waiting for my reaction. Derek’s hand lingered on my shoulder—a silent plea: remember what matters.

I clutched the ring. It was cold, but the memory of it seared my skin. The weight of the past pressed down, making it hard to breathe.

Ten years ago, she took on massive debt for me. That morning in Maple Heights was so vivid: the air sharp with cold, my hands trembling as I slid the ring on her finger. The air smelled like wet leaves and woodsmoke—the kind of morning where you could hear the neighbor’s pickup backfiring down the block. There was no crowd, just us and the old oak tree. I’d promised her ten years, and a real ring when I returned.

She’d squeezed my hand so tight, smiling with that unwavering faith. I was a fool to think I could ever repay that kind of trust.

She’d kept the ring, even when the gold wore off.

Turning to Natalie, I muttered, "I want to go back. I love her. Every year, every day, I’ve missed her so much..."

My voice cracked. I didn’t care about the stares anymore. Natalie’s glare could freeze fire. I caught my own reflection in a silver tray behind her—a man torn in two.

Natalie’s hand clamped over mine, her voice low and sharp. "Get my pilot on the phone. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. No excuses."

She didn’t need to raise her voice. The authority in her words made the room go still. Guests exchanged nervous glances, a few muttering "Yes, ma’am" under their breath as they shrank away from her.

Natalie’s power stretched farther than anyone’s in that room. She had enough pull to get a senator on the phone in the middle of the night.

And my wife? She was just a small-town girl, waiting for me.

She never wanted more than a little house, a family, Sunday mornings at church, maybe a garden. She was the kind who’d bake cookies for the neighbors just because. How had I let it all go so wrong?

Derek recovered first. "You want to go back? I’ll call the family right now—tell them to hurry and save her, just say you’re coming back!"

He was already dialing, his voice hoarse, echoing off the marble floors as he barked into his phone. That was Derek—never hesitated when it mattered.

He made frantic calls, then looked at me, confused. "Why did you say she was dead?"

I wiped my face, the wine mixing with tears. "Eight years ago, her family told me she’d died. They sent me a death certificate from the county clerk’s office, said she and my parents died together in a fire. I remember staring at that piece of paper, trying to convince myself it was real—because the alternative hurt too much."

Derek gaped. "That’s crazy! They never died. Eight years ago, your mom was afraid of the cold and had your dad secretly mess with the electric blanket. It started a fire. She ignored everyone, rushed in to save your parents, almost died herself. Her brother had just joined the community board—he forged the death certificate to deceive you."

His disbelief echoed my own. I gripped the back of a chair, my knuckles white. Derek’s guilt and regret were written all over his face. The truth twisted inside me like a blade.

My breathing sped up. Fury boiled in my chest.

The memory of those papers, the cold street where I collapsed, the city outside my window that night—every detail flooded back. I’d been alone, cut off, convinced there was nothing left for me at home.

In the surveillance video, my wife faced the fire, unbroken. Her family shouted, "Are you crazy? You’re going to die for a man who betrayed you, giving up all comfort and security?"

The backyard was as I remembered—scraggly grass, old wood, the neighbor’s rusty pickup idling nearby. My wife stood straight, eyes blazing. She looked both fragile and invincible—a woman pushed too far but refusing to break.

Derek’s voice softened. "After news of your wedding spread, her family felt disgraced and forced her to marry a rich old widower in town. To avoid ruining your name, today she’s holding a coffin wedding—a ritual to marry the dead—and asked me to do one thing."

I barely managed to ask, "What?"

He swallowed. "You two once exchanged vows under the old oak tree. She hopes I can bury her ashes in your family’s plot, so she can wait for you there."

His words landed like a final verdict. I saw it—a lonely grave, my wife waiting even in death. My heart shattered.

I collapsed, sobbing, every ounce of pain pouring out. Someone pressed a napkin into my hand, but I barely noticed. The crowd faded; there was only Derek, the phone, and the weight of my regret.

I used to think: ten years separated by life and death, a grave a thousand miles away, nowhere to pour out my grief. But she was alive. Still waiting. And I’d hurt her more than anyone.

The realization nearly destroyed me. I clutched the ring, the photo—anything to anchor myself.

Clutching my chest, I watched her on the screen. The pain was unbearable... my heart ached so much...

She just cried, holding our wedding photo. There were no words—just her sobs and the love I’d failed to protect.

I remembered that photo. Ten years ago, we could barely afford groceries. I wanted to borrow money to go abroad illegally, but worried for my parents. In my darkest hour, she stood with me under the old oak, giving me the courage I needed.

Maple Heights was a place where everyone knew your story. She was my lifeline. Our vow was simple, but it meant the world.

She told me a real man should make his way in the world. Before I left, she gripped my hand, voice trembling: “Promise me you’ll come back.” That photo was all we had.

The photo studio off Main Street offered wedding photos for a dollar, but only gave one print. The owner’s wife called us freeloaders when we refused extras. But my wife just hugged the photo and laughed, saying this one was more precious than any we’d take in the future.

I can still see her—eyes sparkling, making me feel rich even when we had nothing.