Eliza Moran

Cars passed, noise muffled. People hurried, faces blurred. Time warped around me. I stood on the corner, phone still tight in my hand. The cold truth of Ava's words paralyzed me.

Spousal sponsorship. Kenzie was his legal spouse for immigration.

The phrase repeated like a nightmare. Then another piece clicked: the DMV clerk's words—a fraud alert on my record.

It wasn't just that my marriage was ignored. Their immigration partnership was real. Kenzie and Cohen were legally bound for residency. My visa, my dependent status, a cruel joke. He'd sponsored Kenzie while planting a fraud flag in my file—a permanent bar that would follow me forever unless he helped undo it. His "process" was a smokescreen. The truth opened a black hole beneath me.

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped. Everything made sense. The puzzle pieces snapped into a grotesque portrait of betrayal.

I replayed three years: small red flags I'd ignored. Cohen's weekend "work trips" that kept him away for nights. He returned tired, with new clothes I hadn't seen. When asked, he brushed it off: "Conference. Late lab nights." Vague, dismissive. I never pressed. I trusted him.

I remembered the papers he'd asked me to sign six months ago. "Just a routine extension form," he'd said, sliding them across the kitchen table. "Sign here and here. I'll handle the rest." I'd signed without reading. I always signed without reading. He was my husband. He was supposed to protect me. That document—whatever it contained—was now a weapon in my immigration file, branding me a fraud.

I remembered a foreign silk scarf in the laundry—not mine. He said a lab volunteer left it. I believed him. I wanted to. I pushed down unease, ignored the warnings. I'd participated in my own deception.

I shook myself. The past was done. I had to act. I hailed a taxi, giving the address of a major travel agency. I had to leave.

The agency was busy. I waited in line, mind drifting to my Boston arrival three years earlier, excited and hopeful. Cohen met me, beaming. He took my hand, grip firm and reassuring.

"Welcome home, Eliza," he said softly, gazing into my eyes. I felt love and belonging. This was our future.

Then she appeared: Kenzie O'Brien. She walked up, overly bright smile.

"Professor Shepherd! What a coincidence! I just arrived too! My flight was delayed." She giggled. Her calculating eyes flicked to me, then back to Cohen.

Cohen introduced her, arm still around me. "Eliza, this is Kenzie O'Brien, my research assistant. Kenzie, my wife, Eliza."

Kenzie shook my hand, grip surprisingly firm. "Lovely to meet you! Professor Shepherd has told me so much about you!" Sweet voice, eyes holding something I couldn't name.

Cohen, ever academic, immediately explained: "Kenzie's incredibly talented. She moved across the country, left her family. Big sacrifice. We have to support her."

Kenzie looked down, demure and grateful. "It's a leap of faith, but it'll be worth it. Professor Shepherd is inspiring." She glanced at Cohen, shy admiration.

I forced a smile, a strained "Welcome to Boston." A flicker of unease hit me—but I dismissed it. Just an assistant. Young, ambitious. Cohen was being kind.

I watched them interact: Cohen's full attention shifted to Kenzie. He listened intently to her logistics, apartment, settling-in. His sharp eyes softened. He nodded, offered suggestions, posture open and engaged. He seemed captivated, almost deferential.

A sour taste filled my mouth. A sharp, unexpected twist in my chest. His focus, his energy—given to her. He'd given Kenzie a piece of himself I thought was mine alone.

I told myself it was good: good for Cohen, good for the project, good for his career. My self-deception was a painful comfort.