The smile slipped from Samantha's lips.
"Chris. I am tired. I am not interested in playing any game."
She stepped around him, reaching for the door.
His gaze hardened. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist.
"Do you want me to call the corps?" he said, yanking the key out of her hands. "How the hell did you get my house key?"
"...Chris?" Samantha pulled her hand free. "I am your wife…this isn't funny anymore."
"Fine, I will call the cops."
Samantha let out a small, disbelieving laugh.
"You're going to call the cops on your wife?"
"Stop calling yourself my wife!"
"I AM your wife," she said, forcing the words out, her voice steady despite the fear creeping in.
He scoffed. A sharp, cutting sound.
"My wife?"
His eyes dragged over her slowly.
Judging. Dismissing. Cold.
"I have standards," he said flatly. "My father once tried to set me up with the Jones' family's only daughter."
Samantha went still.
"I refused."
He studied her, his gaze completely devoid of the warmth from earlier.
"What makes you think," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "I would marry someone like you?"
"Chris, why… would you say something like that?" Her voice broke.
"Don't call me that." His tone dropped, "I said. Don't."
He stepped closer, pointing at his chest. "I am Dave. Not Chris… Dave!"
Samantha took a cautious step back.
He suddenly jerked his head slightly, like something clicked.
His voice lowered.
"Did you meet him?"
"Meet…who?" she stammered.
He shook his head dismissively. "Doesn't matter. Get the hell out of my house."
He grabbed her and started dragging her towards the door.
"Chris! What the hell is wrong with you?" she cried.
He ignored. She struggled, trying to pry his fingers off, but his grip didn't loosen.
He shoved her outside and dusted his hands.
"This is a new one," he said with a cold smile. "I am almost impressed."
He tilted his head.
"I've had women lie before," he said coldly. "Pregnancies. Lying that they are my long-lost siblings."
His gaze hardened.
"But this?… Calling yourself my wife?" He scoffed. "That's new."
"Enough." Her voice shook, but she didn't step back. "This isn't funny anymore."
"Was I laughing?" he sneered. "I'm impressed. Your acting…" He gave a mocking nod. "Chef's kiss."
"What is wrong with you?" she said, her eyes watering as she lifted her hand to his face.
He stepped back, avoiding her touch.
Then slammed the door in her face.
Samantha stared at the door. Her mouth slightly open.
What the hell is going on? Why was he acting like he didn't know her? Chris had always been rude, but never like this. Never to her.
A cold thought crept in.
What if something was wrong with him? A stroke? She had read somewhere that personality changes could be a sign—
She grabbed the doorknob. Locked.
Her hand trembled. Then she knocked.
Once, twice. Harder.
"Chris, open this door!"
Her jaw tightened. She knocked again — louder this time.
"Chris!"
Still no answer.
Something snapped. She started banging on the door, each hit harder than the last.
"Open the damn door!"
Her foot slammed against it. Once. Twice-
The door flew open.
She gulped and staggered back. He stood there. Eyes darkened, jaw tight, glaring at her. Breathing uneven. His rage barely contained. He pointed behind him.
"Bitch-"
"Stop calling me that!" she snapped. "I am your wife--"
"What the hell is that?" he cut in sharply.
She frowned. "What are you--"
He grabbed her arm and yanked her forward.
"Look."
Her eyes followed his finger. He was pointing at their wedding picture. Right there in the middle of the room.
She crossed her arms slowly, lifting her chin.
"What does it look like to you?" she said coldly.
He didn't answer. His hand went to his hair. Gripping and pulling. He froze. His breathing changed. His hands slid down the sides of his face in horror.
"No…" he muttered. His eyes darted between the picture… and her. "No, that's not possible."
His eyes trembled with something close to fear. His breathing hitched.
"You… are married to me?"
She scoffed. Not answering.
He pulled out his phone, tapping the screen. Then-
He stumbled back. His phone slipped from his hand, hitting the floor.
"It's… it's September," he said, his voice unsteady with disbelief.
She frowned. "Of course, it is."
He lunged forward suddenly, grabbing her shoulder.
"How is it September?" he demanded, shaking her.
His voice cracked. "It's supposed to be June."
His grip tightened. "We're supposed to be in June."
Samantha went still. Cold dread spread through her chest.
"What… are you talking about?" she whispered.
He let go abruptly. Staggered back. Laughing. But it wasn't funny. It sounded wrong.
"This is wrong," he muttered. "This…this can't be happening."
He stumbled into the house.
She followed cautiously, hands slightly raised to catch him in case he fell.
"What do you mean?" she asked carefully. "Chris... what are you saying?"
He stopped, turned, and looked at her again. Really looked, from head to toe.
Something like pity flickered in his eyes.
"You have been catfished," he said quietly.
A beat.
A hollow chuckle.
"And I'm screwed."