‘Congratulations,’ he muttered, and then he froze when he saw my new husband standing next to me.
“I had just given birth when I ran into my ex-husband in the hospital corridor. “Congratulations,” he said, and then he turned pale when he saw my new husband standing next to me. A few moments later, my phone flashed with a message from him: ‘Dump him. You have no idea who that man really is…’
The smell of antiseptic still lingered on my hospital gown as I stepped out into the corridor, tired but glowing. My newborn daughter slept peacefully in her cot next to my bed, and my new husband, Ethan, had gone to get coffee. I hadn’t expected to see him — the man I had once promised to love forever.
‘Congratulations,’ David said, his voice both painfully familiar and strangely distant. He looked older—tired eyes, a few grey strands in his beard—but his calm confidence hadn’t faded.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, my heart beating faster. For a moment, time seemed to fold in on itself. The divorce, the arguments, the emptiness of those years—it all came back like a cold draught.
Then Ethan appeared at the corner of the corridor with two steaming cups in his hands. His smile froze as soon as he saw David. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I lied easily. ‘Just… someone I used to know.’
David’s gaze shifted from one to the other, then stopped. His hand tightened on the strap of his bag. ‘Your husband?’ he asked, incomprehensibly.
‘Yes,’ I said confidently.
Something changed in his eyes—surprise, then a shadow of something darker. Without saying a word, he nodded briefly and walked away down the sterile corridor.
I tried not to think about it, but ten minutes later, my phone flashed again. A message from David.
David: ‘Dump him. You don’t know who this man really is.’
My stomach twisted. I stared at the screen, rereading the words until they blurred. Ethan returned and put the coffee on the table. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes,’ I said again, forcing a smile onto my face, but not into my eyes.
But I couldn’t help glancing at the door. And I couldn’t understand what David meant.
The next day, I was discharged from the hospital. Ethan drove calmly, glancing in the mirror from time to time while I rocked our daughter, Emma. I tried to focus on the delicate curves of her little fingers rather than David’s message.
Ethan was everything I thought I would never find again — reliable, gentle, endlessly patient. He came into my life when I was recovering from my divorce, and with him, I finally felt safe.
But David’s words kept spinning around in my head.
After lunch, I couldn’t take it anymore — I sent him a message.
Me: ‘What are you talking about?’
David: ‘Not here. Can we talk? Please.’
I hesitated, then agreed to meet at a nearby café. I told Ethan I was going to see a colleague. He kissed me on the forehead without asking any questions.
David was already seated when I arrived. His coffee remained untouched. ‘Did you marry Ethan Collins?’ he began without preamble.
‘Yes,’ I replied cautiously. ‘Why?’
David rubbed his temples. “He wasn’t always Ethan Collins. I believe his real name is Ethan Drake. He changed it five years ago after an investigation into fraud in Denver. My company lost half a million because of him.”
I blinked. ‘That’s absurd.’
‘I have proof,’ he said, handing me a folded sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of a court case — Ethan Drake v. State of Colorado (case dismissed for lack of evidence).
My throat went dry. ‘It could be anyone.’
David leaned in. ‘He used the same address where you lived two years ago, before you met him.’
The blow was palpable. How could he know my old address?
I left the café shaken, the paper almost burning my bag. At home, Ethan was in Emma’s room, humming quietly as he changed her nappy. He looked up and smiled, completely calm.
‘Your friend?’ he asked.
‘It’s okay,’ I whispered, my lips pressed together.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I searched for his name — both of them. Ethan Collins gave nothing suspicious. Ethan Drake, on the other hand… there were traces. A few mentions on old professional forums, a long-deleted LinkedIn account, a photo that looked strangely familiar.
The next morning, I decided to find out.
He didn’t deny it.
Ethan sat down slowly, his arms open. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I used to be Ethan Drake. But it’s not what you think.’
‘Then explain,’ I breathed, my heart pounding.
He took a deep breath. “Five years ago, I was a financial analyst at a start-up. My boss, Martin Klein, was laundering money through fictitious contracts. When I found out, I tried to report it, but they pinned everything on me. The investigation failed, and my reputation was ruined. I changed my name to start over.”
I looked at him, searching his face for the truth. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’
‘Because every time I tried to build something, my past destroyed it. I didn’t want to lose you too.’
His voice broke at the end, and for a moment the sincerity in his eyes disarmed me. But my doubts remained. ‘Then how did David find out?’
He frowned. ‘David?’
‘My ex-husband. He said he knew about it.’
Ethan’s expression hardened. ‘What’s your ex’s surname?’
‘Bennett.’
He cursed under his breath. ‘Martin Klein’s partner was Derek Bennett. He handled the contracts.’
The revelation hit me like a thunderbolt.
I staggered. ‘So David knew everything because…’
‘Because his family was involved,’ Ethan finished. ‘They were nearly ruined after the investigation. If he’s warning you today, it means he wants revenge.’
In the days that followed, everything began to fall into place. David appeared everywhere I went — at the shop, in the park, even at the hospital when Emma was being examined. One evening, Ethan noticed a car parked outside the house and called the police.
After the restraining order was issued, the visits stopped, but the anxiety remained. I let my doubts turn against Ethan, even though he was only trying to protect us.
A few weeks later, watching him gently rock our daughter in the light of the nightlight, I realised how fragile trust is.
The past doesn’t always stay buried — but sometimes the truth hurts less than the shadow of doubt.
