I still remember the first time I saw Dave.
I was twenty-three—an eager, awkward newcomer in the newsroom, desperate to prove myself. My producer handed me an assignment that made my heart race: “Interview Dave Morales. The country’s youngest coffee-chain mogul.”
Back then, Dave was already a mystery. Every journalist wanted him, and every one of them failed. He never liked the spotlight—hated interviews, dodged cameras, and ignored press invitations. But I didn’t want to be like everyone else. I wanted that story.
So I found a way. I applied for a job in one of his cafés. As a barista.
Yes, I lied. I told myself it was just part of the job—a harmless disguise, a shortcut to an exclusive interview. But looking back now, I wonder if it all began there… that pattern of lies, small ones that slowly built the world I’m trapped in now.
For weeks, I worked behind the counter, pretending to memorize coffee blends while secretly studying him. He would visit often—tall, quiet, always with a book in one hand and a cup of espresso in the other. He barely spoke to anyone except the manager. But once, our eyes met when I accidentally spilled coffee on my apron.
He smiled a little, just a polite curve of his lips. “You’re new,” he said. His voice was smooth, deep, and disarmingly calm.
“I am,” I replied, forcing a nervous laugh.
That was all. But from then on, I started following him—quietly, from a distance. Watching which cafés he visited, which beans he liked, how he always added a single cube of sugar to his drink.
Until one day, he turned around and caught me.
“I know you’re stalking me,” he said, not even angry—just mildly amused. “But the answer is still no.”
I froze, face burning. “No…?”
“To your interview,” he said. “You’re not the first reporter who tried.”
He walked away that day, but something in his tone—half-challenge, half-curiosity—kept me from giving up. I tried again. And again. Until eventually, he gave in.
What started as an interview became conversations. Coffee turned into late dinners. Laughter became routine. And before I even realized it, I was falling for him.
It wasn’t just admiration anymore—it was love.
And when he asked me to be his, I thought it was a miracle. Me—a girl from a small, nameless town, who grew up hiding the truth about her family, finally loved by a man like him.
But not everyone was happy.
Sandra Morales—Dave’s mother—made sure I knew my place. “You’re not right for him,” she told me once, her tone wrapped in polite venom. “You don’t belong in this world.”
She even tried to pay me off. But I refused. I couldn’t let her take him from me. So I did the one thing I’ve always regretted. I lied.
I hired two people to pretend as my parents. Paid them enough to play the part during dinners and gatherings. Told Dave’s family I came from a stable background, that I grew up abroad. I thought if I could just hold that lie long enough, they’d accept me.
And they did. Or so I thought.
Now I know the truth. They knew from the start. They used that lie to control me.
Because of that secret, I stayed quiet. Because of that secret, Dave married me—and because of that secret, he could easily say he owned me.
I pressed a hand against my chest, trying to calm the ache rising in my throat. Everything felt so false now. Every laugh, every kiss, every “I love you” we ever shared.
The sound of the front door opening snapped me back.
Dave’s voice followed—warm, casual, familiar. “Elisa?”
I turned from the window as he stepped inside, holding a bouquet of roses and a small, velvet box.
He looked tired but smiling, like the man I used to love. “Happy anniversary,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I missed dinner. Franco needed me. But I made sure to make it up to you.”
I stared at the flowers, then at him, unsure if I wanted to cry or laugh.
He walked closer and opened the box, revealing a delicate diamond necklace. “Here. I picked it myself.”
“Dave…” I whispered, my voice shaking.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. “You were going to say something earlier, right? You said you had a surprise for me.”
I tried to speak, but my throat tightened. A thousand words crowded my mind, none of them safe to say.
Before I could answer, his phone rang.
I didn’t need to look to know who it was. The name flashed across the screen: Liana.
His hand hesitated for a second, then he sighed. “I have to take this.”
My pulse quickened. “Now?”
“It’s important. Business-related.”
I forced a smile. “Can’t it wait?”
“Elisa,” he said softly, “you know how it is. This deal means a lot. And you—” He touched my cheek lightly. “You need rest. Tomorrow’s your big day, right? You’ll be anchoring that special report about our partnership announcement. I’m rooting for you.”
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
The sound of the door closing felt louder than any argument.
I stood there in silence, staring at the necklace he left behind. A perfect gift for a perfect lie.
But sleep never came that night. The words I’d overheard at the hospital kept replaying in my head. The laughter. The deception.
I needed to know. So when the clock struck midnight, I slipped out of bed, grabbed my keys, and followed him.
I parked a few blocks from the hotel I saw his car pull into. My heart pounded as I crept toward the lobby, keeping my cap low, my face half-hidden.
Then I saw them.
Dave—and Liana. They were talking near the entrance, her hand brushing his arm like they’d done it a hundred times. I wanted to believe it was business, just another meeting, but then—someone else appeared.
A woman.
She looked… like Liana. But same hair, same build, even the same shade of lipstick I always wore on TV that Dave always wanted me to.
I froze, unable to breathe as she leaned in—and kissed Dave.
