She pushes back her shoulders and digs into her floral book bag.
“Did you sign paperwork?”
I rub my palms together. “Yeah, a financial contract where he pays my rent and I’ll be his fake wife in return.”
She wrinkles her nose. “So you didn’t sign a marriage license?”
I shake my head. “I think I would’ve known if I signed a marriage license.”
Her mouth curls into a sneer, and she stiffens as she frowns. She hands me a thick piece of paper.
“Welp, he either forged your signature or you signed it and didn’t know.”
I snatch the thick paper from her hand, and my eyes scan it.
In the state of New York and in the city of North Haven, Lilac Lauren and Irvin Ashford in holy matrimony. The date, January 15, 2025, and time, 3:54 p.m.
Both of our signatures are in black ink, along with the pastor and his lawyer listed as witnesses.
My heart pounds like a drum. My breath catches.
He forged my signature! When? How? Why? He trapped me! I can’t believe this!
I step back. Again. Again. And again. I dig my nails into the strap of my book bag.
I need to confront him—and get an explanation.
I stomp across campus to Perkins Hall. I pull the door open and sit on the wooden bench across from his classroom. I sit. Pace. Sit. Pace again. Yank my hair until my scalp stings. The door opens, and students trail out of the classroom. Then I spot him. I grind my teeth. Dig my nails into his hard forearm, drag him outside of the building.
He leans down, attempts to kiss me, but I turn my head to the side. Tears sting my eyes. I clench my fists, keeping them by my sides. My vision blurs.
I want to get away from him.
“When were you going to tell me?!” I shriek.
He eyes me cautiously. “Tell you what, princess?”
I slap the marriage license on his chest. “You forged my signature.”
He straightens his spine and shrugs, but his sage eyes soften.
“I didn’t forge anything. You signed it when you signed the financial contract.”
My mind races through every piece of paperwork I signed. Some of it I scanned through, though I didn’t bother reading some of it.
I want to slap him again. I want to hurt him. The tears don’t stop flowing down my cheeks.
“You made me believe it was my choice. You made me believe you were helping me out—but you weren’t.” I place my face in my palms. “You made me believe I was signing a contract—and you—you tricked me.”
My chest burns like bad heartburn.
We’re quiet as we walk to his white Mustang, and he opens the passenger side door.
I don’t want to be around him. I thought he cared about me, but he was using me for his personal gain.
“I’d rather walk home,” I snap.
“Get in the car, Lilac.” His tone is determined.
