Ethan doesn't have a scar.
I know every inch of his face. I've traced it with my fingers a thousand times. There is no scar.
He kissed me before I could react. The crowd cheered. My mind screamed.
Who did I just marry?
The reception was a blur. Photos, champagne, congratulations. I smiled until my face hurt. He held my hand the entire time, thumb stroking my palm like Ethan always did.
But he wasn't Ethan.
I needed proof. Something concrete before I accused my husband of being an impostor at our own wedding.
I excused myself to the bathroom and called Ethan's phone.