Ghosting My Killer At The Altar
Language: en
I was Harper’s oldest habit. When I left for my doctoral program in London, she found a stand-in—a man who looked enough like me to fool a casual observer, but with none of the history. Three years later, I came back. Harper kept her boy-toy on the side, tucked away in a downtown loft, while she walked down the aisle with me. But secrets in New York high society are like oil spills; they eventually blacken everything they touch. I found out. Of course I found out. I cried. I screamed. I begged, using the title of husband like a shield, hoping it would protect me from the truth. Harper just…