Page 57 of Silken Chains
He lays the file down in front of me. “The man you believed is your husband is just a fiction; his real name is Dave Jankowski.”
“Th-that’s not true,” I stutter; everything in me feels like it’s crashing down. “Stop… stop… lying.”
“No, Laura, your marriage to David is a lie.”
I let out a nervous laugh, shaking my head in denial. “No… you don’t know… you don’t know what you are talking about.” I search his face for clues, clues that all of this is just a fucking joke.
He leans closer, and the scent of cedarwood from him envelops me. It’s a weird thing to notice when my entire life is unraveling.
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.”
My stomach twists into knots.
Stop. Please.
“David Gardner is dead.”
“What the hell are you saying?” Anger flares, but it’s drowned out by confusion and fear.
I knew David cheated and scammed all my money… But dead?
I’m biting my lips. Hard. Trying to process everything. But I can’t; nothing seems to make sense anymore.
“The real David died five years ago,” he continues, his voice deep and sure. “You, Laura Anne Thompson, are a victim of marriage fraud.”
It’s like my brain refuses to process his words.
Victor flicks open the folder, presenting it to me as if unveiling a verdict.
I reach out, hand shaking as I sift through the documents—the irrefutable proof in photos, reports, and a death certificate.
I stare at it.
My eyes keep darting back to the name printed so clearly on the paper: David Gardner. Born in 1966, fifty-eight years old at the time of his death. Cause of death: A DUI accident.
I’m gripping the death certificate, my fingers nearly crumpling the paper.
Everything in the room seems to tilt as I flip through the police reports. Each one is a stark reality check, outlining frauds and scams, all tied back to the man I called my husband.
“This can’t be right…” My voice is a faint whisper. I can’t tear my gaze away from the photos that follow. There he is, “David,” or whoever he really is, with dyed hair, a cap pulled low. He’s trying not to be recognized, but it’s clearly him. And there’s Polly, always a shadow in the background.
My hands shake as I sift through more photos—motel entries, dark alley dealings. It’s like peering into a parallel universe where my husband is a ghost, a phantom I never really knew.
“Laura,” I hear Victor say my name. “I’m the only way out for you now.”
Victor nonchalantly pulls out his phone and commands, “Come in.”
Seconds later, the door opens, and two men in suits stride in.
“Wha-what’s going on?” My voice is shaky.
The first man, exuding an air of strict professionalism, extends a hand toward me. “Ms. Thompson, I’m Andrew Taylor, legal counsel for Morozov Corporation. I’m here to discuss your marriage contract with Mr. Morozov.”
My head spins. “Marriage contract?” Without fully realizing why, my hand moves on its own to meet Andrew’s in a handshake.
Andrew offers a thin smile. “Yes, given the circumstances, it is necessary. You’ll find everything in order.” He hands me a thick document.
I glance over at Victor, who remains silent, his gaze fixed on me.
