If I'm being honest, the whole thing started as a joke.
About a year ago, my parents had reached a level of nagging that could probably be weaponized. Every phone call turned into a reminder that I was twenty-six, unmarried, and apparently already on the verge of being written off as a tragic spinster.
My mom would sigh dramatically, my dad would grunt in agreement, and I—like the career-focused, mildly rebellious daughter I was—finally snapped.
So one night, while scrolling through Instagram in bed with a half-empty bag of chips, I typed out the most ridiculous thing I could think of: "Looking for a husband. Applications open in the comments. Must be alive. Breathing preferred."
I expected a handful of laughing emojis from my bestie and maybe a sarcastic "pick me" from a bored colleague. What I did not expect was for one of the guys to DM me, dead serious, and say, "Sure. Let's do it."
Long story short: within weeks, I found myself at city hall, signing marriage papers with a man I barely knew. His name was Adrian Blake, and he looked far too put-together to be someone who'd agree to such nonsense. But he signed, I signed, and just like that—I was technically married.
The truth? It worked out brilliantly.
Over the next year, we saw each other exactly twice: the day of the paperwork, and the awkward little dinner we had with two reluctant witnesses. After that, we stayed in our separate orbits. No shared apartment, no merged finances, not even the occasional "how are you" text. It was as if I'd outsourced "being married" while keeping all the independence I craved.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
At least until my parents decided that a husband wasn't enough.
"Emily, sweetheart," my mom cooed one Saturday morning, her voice sugary-sweet in the way only mothers who are about to emotionally blackmail you can manage. "It's for your own good. You're young. If you have a baby now, your body will bounce back faster. And don't worry—Mommy can help raise the child."
I put her on speakerphone and kept brushing my teeth, toothpaste foaming like I was auditioning for a rabid-dog commercial.
"Mom, I really don't want kids right now. I still want to work, save money, maybe travel—plus, have you seen how expensive kids are? I can barely afford to raise myself!"
There was a pause, and then my dad's voice boomed from the background like some sort of tag-team wrestler joining the fight.
"Don't you still have a husband? You two can't afford just one child?"
The toothbrush froze halfway to my molars. Right. Husband. Funny how I kept forgetting about that minor detail.
"But—"
"No buts," Dad cut me off, authoritative as ever. "Bring your husband home for dinner this week. That's final. Married over a year and you've never brought him back once. You're not busy, you're avoiding us. No more excuses."
The line went dead, and I stared at my foamy reflection in the bathroom mirror. For the first time since signing those city hall papers, I actually had to think about Adrian Blake as a real person—and, worse, as my actual husband.
And that's when the plan hit me.
Divorce.
Quick, clean, painless.
"Bestie, I need a good lawyer," I whispered later that day over coffee with Mandy, my ride-or-die since college.
She raised a perfectly sculpted brow. "You need a lawyer, or you need therapy? Because those are two very different price ranges."
I explained the situation in hushed tones, trying not to choke on my latte. By the time I finished, she was wheezing with laughter.
"You're insane, Emily," she finally gasped, wiping her eyes. "But fine, I know a guy. Adrian Blake. He's supposedly the best divorce lawyer in town. Never lost a case."
Perfect. I could hire him, end this shame of a marriage, and finally be free of both my parents' expectations and my ghost-husband.
I texted the number Mandy gave me.
"Mr. Blake, do you have time to consult on a case?"
He replied instantly.
"Tomorrow afternoon. I'll send the details."
Fast. Efficient. Professional. Exactly what I needed.
The next day, I sat in a café for what felt like an eternity. The place smelled of burnt espresso beans and desperation—mine, mostly. I'd been there for over an hour, anxiously refreshing my phone, doodling on a napkin, and imagining what my freedom papers might look like.
Just as I was about to storm out, the door chimed.
He walked in.
Tall, tailored gray suit, gold-rimmed glasses catching the light like he'd stepped straight out of a legal drama. Everything about him screamed expensive and untouchable.
And annoyingly, something about his face tugged at my memory.
"Sorry," he said smoothly, voice warm but rushed. "Got tied up with another case. My apologies."
I blinked. My pulse did something strange. Had I… seen him before?
The man looked calm up close, like he had seen whole marriages fall apart before lunch and still made it to a 2:00 p.m. mediation with perfect posture. He put down his briefcase, sat down in the chair across from me, and folded his hands.
"Ms. Carter," he said, his voice smooth. "Why don't you take me through your situation?"
Yes. The state of things. I straightened my blazer, tried to match his professional energy, and pulled out a thin folder from my tote like a student showing off extra credit.
"I wrote a first draft of the agreement," I said. "Nothing big. There is no property to split. No children. I don't have any pets, but I do have a dying succulent that I'm willing to give up for peace.
His mouth twitched at the corner. "Noted." And your... husband? Is he likely to fight?
I thought about it. "He's very busy."
"Busy With?"
I said, "Being a ghost." "We signed at city hall and then, like a polite magic trick, we disappeared from each other's calendars. We didn't see each other very often after that.
He looked at the papers and then back at me. Something in his eyes got sharper—maybe interest. Or doubt.
"Why now?" he asked. "You've been married for more than a year."
"My parents," I said, letting out a big sigh. "They want a baby." They believe that wombs have expiration dates, just like yogurt. I used logic. I tried to make a budget. I tried to scream and point to my empty savings account. They told me to bring my husband home for dinner.
"And you'd rather not."
"I'd rather eat a cactus."
That made me smile—a quick, bright smile.Down, heart.We are here to break things down, not build them up.
He pushed the contract back to me and tapped the top page. "Let's see what we can do."
I leaned forward, my elbows on the table, and heard only the sound of music and the coffee machine. He read for a few minutes. He knitted his brows. Unknit. I waited, trying to look like a woman with adult-level patience and not like a woman who was writing a breakup speech for her parents in her head.
Finally, he put the papers down very carefully, as if they were going to blow up.
"You want a divorce," he said in a voice that sounded calm, "because your husband isn't... good enough?"
"Good enough at what?" I asked. "Showing up? Being a person? Yes.
His face got a little cooler. "Emily Carter, do you really not know who I am?"
The world turned. I looked. The gray outfit. The frames in gold. The lines on his face that are clean and annoyingly familiar. A reel of memories played in my head: the courthouse counter, the fluorescent lights, the neat signature on a form, the way the clerk had said, "Congratulations," and how I wanted to say, "We just met." A man next to me, still as a lighthouse, smelled like cedar and something expensive.
No. No, no, no.
I looked at the signature on my draft. It said Adrian Blake. The same beautiful handwriting I had seen on a marriage license a long time ago.
The heat came on so quickly that I was afraid I would steam my face.I very calmly started to slide the divorce agreement back across the table and into my tote, like a raccoon politely dragging away a trash bag.
"So," I said, "funny story." Words are just made-up things.
He didn't move his eyes. He agreed with a straight face, "Hilarious."
"I didn't know," I said. "Instagram changes how people look?"
"What way," he asked, "would Instagram make me look like I'm not your husband?"
"Filters," I said."Angles.The algorithm."I made a desperate little gesture that included all of my bad life choices and all of my modern technology.
There was a lot of silence between us.The espresso machine hissed, making people annoyed.
I leaned back in my chair, put my hands flat on the table, and finally told the truth: "I forgot."
He let out a long breath and then did something surprising: he laughed. Not very loud. Not mean. Just a quiet, rich sound with hints of disbelief.
He said, "You forgot you had a husband."
I weakly said, "In my defense, we were both very committed to the bit."
His eyes got warm, but not too much. "Emily."
The way he said my name—low, clear, and like he knew where each syllable went—made me shiver in a silly way. I straightened up, hoping that my posture would make me less attractive.
"Look," I said. "My parents are getting ready for a full-blown baby campaign." I freaked out. It seemed easier to get a divorce than to deal with any of this.
He corrected, "Confronting me."
"Facing the whole idea of marriage," I said. "The dinners." The questions. The hopes. And you. I stopped. "Especially you."
He stopped. A long time went by.
Finally, he said, "This can be saved."
"Excuse me?"