My Roommate Stole My Photos and Catfished a Wealthy Senior Chapter 09
The day we filed was overcast.
Gray clouds hung low as we left the county clerk’s office.
Humid summer air pressed down, like a storm was coming but holding back.
Lucas smiled nonstop from the second we stepped out.
Not his usual polite, sunny smile for everyone.
A giddy, unstoppable grin that refused to fade.
He held the marriage license in one hand and my hand in the other, walking light as if on springs, like he
might bounce into the air.
I let him pull me along, laughing at how ridiculous he looked.
“Lucas,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Watch where you’re going.”
“I am,” he said, but his eyes stayed glued to the license, like he’d stick his whole face to it.
Passersby probably thought the hot guy was crazy.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, lifted the license, flipped it open, closed it, flipped it again,
checking over and over.
Then he looked at me, eyes sparkling.
“Beatrice,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“You’re my wife now.”
“…Yeah.”
“Wife.”
“Yeah.”
“Wife, wife, wife.”
“Lucas, stop.”
He laughed loud and bright, like he was making up for every time he’d held back.
His little fang still glinted even in the gray light.
He carefully tucked the license into his suit jacket-right over his heart.
He patted it, reverent, like he’d stored a treasure.
“From now on, if anyone calls you Ms. Bliss, I’ll correct them.
Not Ms. Bliss. Mrs. Gray,” he said.
I watched him preen like a proud peacock and said dryly:
“I didn’t change my last name.
He thought for a second, then grinned even wider.
“I’ll change mine to Lucas Bliss. How’s that?”
“Stop being silly,” I said, laughing and tapping his arm.
“Let’s go home.”
Back home, Lucas said he was tired and went to the bedroom.
I stayed in the living room, organizing papers from the clerk’s office.
About ten minutes later, he walked out with a weirdly satisfied look-like a dog that just buried its favorite
bone, steps light and pleased.
“What are you doing?” I looked up from the papers.
“Nothin’,” he said.
He walked over and hugged me from behind, chin on my head, voice lazy.
“Just… took a photo of the marriage license.’
“Yeah, save a digital copy. The paper one might get lost-”
“It won’t get lost. I’m putting it in a safe.”
I fell silent, looking at him, helplessly amused.
He saw I wasn’t really mad and smiled, kissing the top of my head.
“You look so pretty today, wife.”
“You’ve been saying that since morning.”
“Because it’s true.”
His voice turned deep, heavy with feeling.
“Beatrice, you’re my wife.”
He said “wife” like it was something he’d practiced for years, finally said right.
Every syllable felt final, real.
I didn’t say anything. I just placed my hand over his arm around my waist and patted it gently.
He squeezed me tighter.
He called me “wife” so many times that day.
Once during lunch, once when he handed me water, once when he passed by while I read,
and over and over in my ear while I napped.
Quiet, like talking to himself, stubbornly confirming.
Every time, he looked at me afterward, making sure I was still there, hadn’t vanished, didn’t regret it.
I thought, half-asleep, he was like a newly adopted puppy.
Nuzzling your hand, checking again and again you’re his, he’s yours.
Annoying.
But I didn’t say it.
Because I loved hearing it.
The idea for rings hit me three days after we got married.
Simple reason: I was drying dishes in the kitchen, Lucas washing next to me.
When he reached for soap, his fingers were empty.
Nothing on his ring finger. Mine too.
We’d had a small ceremony at the clerk’s office.
No rings, no flowers, no family, just two young faces and two certificates.
He didn’t seem to care. He was already dizzy with happiness just from the license.
But I cared.
I never cared about rituals.
I didn’t celebrate birthdays or holidays.
Even New Year’s was quiet with Grandma.
But “no ring after marriage” felt like a tiny splinter, stuck somewhere I couldn’t see.
Maybe because no one had ever given me something meaningful.
Maybe because I loved him.
Maybe just because his pretty hands would look perfect with a ring.
That night, while he worked overtime (even on Saturdays, poor guy),
I opened my laptop and used my illustration earnings to visit a handmade jewelry site.
I looked for ages.
Not that I couldn’t find pretty ones-there were too many.
I finally gave up scrolling and opened a custom silver ring shop.
Simple silver bands, not gold, not diamond. Subtle.
I thought gold would be too much for Lucas.
He already stood out enough. He didn’t need a ring to draw attention.
Silver was perfect.
Like moonlight, quiet and bright, not blinding.
I typed in the engraving, deleted, retyped, deleted again.
I breathed deep and finally entered:
Inside his band: Beatrice
Inside mine: Lucas
One word was enough.
No room for more on the thin band.
And our bond never needed more.
From six to twenty-four, eighteen years-one word held it all: you in me, me in you.
My fingers trembled when I paid.
Not because of money.
Because this was the bravest thing I’d ever done.
Buying rings, giving them first, taking a step forward in us.
The old Beatrice never would have.
She’d stay quiet in the corner, wait for someone to come, wait for fate.
But fate already came.
In the lavender field at six, in the classroom at fifteen, at the party at twenty-two, at the clerk’s office at
twenty-four.
Now it was my turn.
The package arrived three days later-one day early, while Lucas was still at work.
My heart jumped when the doorbell rang.
I felt guilty, like I was hiding something wrong, just for buying rings.
I signed quickly and hid the small box deep in my bedroom drawer, under two folded sweaters, closed the
drawer, and set a book on top.
Then I walked back to the living room and drew like nothing happened.
But my heart wouldn’t calm down. My brush slipped, making a bad line.
I sighed, flipped the paper, and laid down a fresh sheet.
Calm down, Beatrice.
You’re just giving your husband rings. Not committing a crime.
Quiet.
Lucas came home right on time for dinner.
He always brought home a “finally relaxed” vibe.
Tie loose, top two shirt buttons undone, sleeves rolled up, showing his defined forearms.
He dropped his briefcase by the door, changed shoes, and leaned to look at my dinner spread.
“You cooked grilled ribs? What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. Just felt like it.”
I carried the last bowl of soup out of the kitchen.
He sat down, stabbed a rib with a fork, bit in, and immediately looked satisfied, eyes squinted like a spoiled
cat.
“So good.”
I sat across from him and ate quietly.
Halfway through, he suddenly put down his fork, leaned across the table, and wiped sauce off my lip with his
thumb.
“You got sauce on you,” he said.
He licked the sauce off his thumb naturally.
It was so casual I almost missed my heart skipping.
I looked down, put down my chopsticks.
“Lucas,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Give me your hand.”
He froze, then held out his hand, palm up, on the table.
Long, defined fingers, neat nails, empty ring finger.
I pulled the small navy velvet box from my pocket and set it in his palm.
His face shifted: confused → blank → shocked red-eyed, just like I’d seen so many times.
All in under three seconds. My whole body remembered it like slow motion.
He stared at the box in his hand, not opening it, for a long time.
I thought he didn’t recognize what it was.
“…Open it,” I said.
His fingers trembled.
The box clicked softly open.
Two simple silver bands rested inside, side by side, like two people lying together watching stars.
Matte finish, subtle, glowing softly in the warm dining light.
He reverently lifted both rings, held them up to the light, and looked inside.
His pupils blew wide.
Wide until his eyes were just black, wet black, like soaked earth after autumn rain.
He saw the engravings: his had Beatrice, mine had Lucas.
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Then tears fell.
This time was different.
Before, he cried like something broken, trying to glue himself back together.
This time, he cried quiet, open, almost beautiful.
Teats poured down his face. He didn’t wipe them, didn’t look away.
Just stared at me, crying and smiling, fang glistening in tears.
“When did you get these?” he said, voice rough.
“A few days ago,” I said.
“Bought them with my illustration money. They’re just silver, not expensive-”
“You bought me rings?”
“Yeah.”
“With your art money?”
“…Yeah.”
“How many drawings did you do?”
I thought for a second. “Maybe… five or six. Not a lot, don’t-”
He shot up from his chair so fast it scraped and banged the wall.
He strode around the table, pulled me up, and crushed me into his arms.
He still gripped the rings, pressing them into my back. It hurt a little, but I didn’t say anything.
He buried his face in my shoulder, voice muffled, thick with tears and snot.
“I bought some too,” he said.
“…What?”
“I bought rings too.”
He lifted his head, eyes red, tears still on his lashes, and pulled a bigger gray velvet box from his pants pocket-nicer, more expensive-looking.
He opened it. Two platinum rings inside.
Mine had a tiny circle of diamonds, glinting like stars.
His was plain, clean, engraved inside.
I leaned closer.
His band: Bliss
Mine: Gray
“I had ’em custom made,” he said, still crying.
“Four-prong setting. It means ‘waiting.’ I researched everything.
I was gonna propose properly-flowers, candles, on one knee.
But you…”
He couldn’t finish, burying his face again.
One arm trapped me, the other held his box.
I picked up my ring from his box.
Diamonds set neatly, “Gray” engraved perfectly like print.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
He pulled his face from my shoulder, red-eyed.
“These aren’t as nice as yours,” I said honestly-silver vs platinum diamond, no comparison.
“Keep yours, I’ll keep mine. Okay?”
“No,” he said, stubborn and childish.
“I wanna wear the one you got me.”
“What about yours?”
“I’ll wear both. All ten fingers if I have to.”
“Lucas, be normal.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
I laughed at his red, pouting face and wiped a tear from his cheek.
“You don’t like the one I got you?” I asked, soft and teasing.
He held his breath.
Then he kissed me.
Not his usual wet, hot, anxious kiss.
Slow, deep, tearful, like writing with his lips.
He kissed me so long my lips went numb, until the sky turned dark blue outside.
His lips stayed on mine, voice rough:
“I love it so much.”
“So, so much.”
His voice shook on the third “so,” but he smiled, eyes smiling, glowing happy from head to toe.
“Will you wear the one I got you?” I asked, copying his proposal tone.
He laughed, silly and happy, holding up both rings.
“Put ’em on me.”
I first took his platinum band engraved “Bliss,” slid it onto his left ring finger.
It fit him perfectly, like it was made for his hand.
He stared at his ring, then at my diamond ring, then carefully slid my silver band onto his right ring finger.
He held up both hands, grinning like he’d won the lottery.
“You’re wearing two,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Looks like a show-off.”
“I’m your husband,” he said, grinning, fang bright.
“A show-off husband is still your husband.”
I laughed hard, smiling at him for a long time.
He just watched me smile, eyes bright, like he was looking at something priceless.
“Beatrice,” he said suddenly.
“Yeah?”
“This is the happiest day of my life. Happier than our wedding day.”
“Why? The wedding was official.”
“Because that day I trapped you,” he said, softly touching the silver ring.
“But today you trapped me.”
He spoke so quietly I almost missed it.
I looked at his lowered lashes, red ear tip, stacked rings glowing softly.
My throat burned a little.
But I didn’t cry.
I just lifted my hand and laced our fingers together.
Two silver, two platinum rings clinked softly against each other.
Quiet, mixing with night bugs outside.
But we both heard it clear.
Lucas had a lot of work dinners.
It was the first thing I noticed after he started training at Gray Group.
At least two or three nights a week, he texted:
“Dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.”
He tried to sound professional, but I heard that kicked-puppy sadness under it.
I never waited up.
Not because I didn’t care.
I had a strict schedule-sleepy at 10 PM, asleep by 11 PM.
“Really? You won’t think I’m showing off?”
“It’s too late. They already saw your rings.”
He laughed, squeezed me tight, face buried in my neck, low and satisfied.
“Wife.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so happy today.”
“Because of dinner?”
“Because I get to tell everyone you’re mine.”
I looked down at him, eyes closed, smiling softly, like a tired but happy dog finally taken for a walk.
Cicadas hummed outside. Night wind blew through the screen, carrying jasmine scent everywhere.
I looked at his real face, no more acting, and felt my heart full to bursting.
He used to be so good at acting.
Sunny, perfect, unbothered.
But that wasn’t him.
He was the boy filling notebooks with “I love you” at fifteen.
The obsessive who put a tracker in my hair clip.
The man who hid his marriage license to keep me forever.
And the silly, lovestruck guy showing off two rings at dinner just to hear someone say his wife picked well.
His happiness was simple.
He just wanted the whole world to know Beatrice Bliss was his, and he was Beatrice Bliss’s.
And now I was ready to let everyone know.
I kissed his forehead softly.
He kept his eyes closed, but smiled.
“Goodnight, wife.”
“Goodnight.”
No moon tonight, but wind on the balcony, flowers in the air, eighteen years of us.
Two silver, two platinum rings glowed quietly on our intertwined hands.
Four tiny stars.
Lighting up the rest of our lives.
