My Imaginary Wife Sent Me Millions

To save myself a lot of trouble, I always made up a wife.

One afternoon, while out shopping with a coworker, I spotted a jacket I absolutely fell in love with.

The only problem was the price tagit was a bit steep.

As the sales clerk kept up her relentless pitch, I casually brushed her off. Ah, never mind. My wife would kill me. Even if I bought it, shed just make me return it.

I didn't think much of it. But the very next day, a package arrived at the office.

I ripped it open, and there it wasthe exact jacket!

My coworkers eyes went wide. He grabbed the card tucked inside and read it aloud:

"To my wonderful husband: If you love it, you should have it. You deserve the best of everything.

SignedYour loving wife!"

I froze.

My wife was completely made up.

I had never even been in a relationship. Where the hell did a wife come from?

I figured Brandon was just playing a joke on me, making up the words as he read. I snatched the card from his hand.

But the elegant, flowing script on the card was undeniable. There it was, written in black and white.

"Damn, Zach. And here I thought you were just complaining all this time," Brandon teased, nudging me. "Saying your wife doesn't let you do this, doesn't let you do that. Turns out shes incredibly generous. Five grand, just like that!"

A few other coworkers started crowding around my desk.

"I had no idea your wife was so loaded, Zach!"

I forced a tight, artificial smile, my throat completely dry. I couldn't squeeze out a single word.

Id been at the firm for three months, and my status as a happily married man was rock-solid. Whenever there was a task I didn't want to do or an after-work gathering I wanted to skip, Id blame it on my "wife." Oh, shes cooking tonight. Oh, she prefers I stay in.

It was the perfect shield.

But the truth was, I was single. I had been single my entire life. Id never even held a girls hand.

So where did this wife come from?

I snuck a glance at the label. Even the size was a perfect fit.

Who sent this?

For a brief, vain moment, I wondered if I had a secret admirer.

But I had only seen the jacket when I was shopping with Brandon. He was the only one who knew about it.

I quietly watched Brandons face.

Nothing. He looked genuinely amused, completely devoid of guilt.

I spent the rest of the day in a daze, unable to focus.

Once I got home, I immediately called the stores customer service. It was a high-ticket item, so they had to have some record of the buyer.

But after a few seconds of keyboard clattering, the representative said, "Im sorry, sir. This order was placed anonymously. The customer requested full privacy protection, so we don't have access to their billing details."

Anonymous?

Why so mysterious?

I stared at the jacket for a long time before shoving it into the deepest, darkest corner of my closet.

The next morning, Brandon stopped by my desk. "Hey, Zach, why aren't you wearing the new threads? I was dying to see what a five-thousand-dollar jacket looks like on a regular Tuesday!"

I laughed it off. "Wearing something that expensive to sit in a cubicle? Feels like a waste."

In truth, I was terrified to wear something when I didn't know where it came from.

Brandon dropped it, but before I could ease into my workflow, the receptionist paged me.

"Zach, theres a package for you at the front desk."

My stomach did a cold flip. I had a terrible feeling about this.

Sure enough, I opened the box to find a luxury cologne set.

And tucked inside was that same card: Your loving wife.

Brandon, who had followed me, gasped. "Isn't this that new limited-edition release? We were just talking about this last week! You said you loved almost every scent in the collection."

He was right. And I vividly remembered saying:

"Id love to buy the whole set, but my wife would have a fit. She already thinks I have too many bottles cluttering the bathroom."

Brandon shook his head in mock jealousy.

"She wouldn't let you buy it, huh? So she just goes ahead and buys the whole collection for you instead. Man, Zach, what kind of angel did you marry?"

An angel. Right.

An angel so celestial she didn't even exist.

What was happening to me?

Was it really a secret admirer? If so, why not just ask me out? Why play this bizarre game, sending expensive gifts and calling herself my wife?

My mind was a chaotic mess as I stuffed the cologne set into my bottom drawer.

Brandon frowned, noticing my distress. "Hey, you okay? You don't look happy at all. Did you and the wife have a fight?"

I offered a weak, noncommittal smile.

Taking my silence as confirmation, Brandon sighed. "Ah, that explains the gifts. Well, don't stay mad at her too long. A wife that generous deserves a quick apology."

I said nothing.

Instead, I copied the tracking number from the shipping label, found the online merchant, and messaged their support team.

The response was exactly the same:

Hi there! This order was processed anonymously under our high-profile privacy tier. We cannot disclose customer information.

Can you even do that with standard online shopping?

As I sat there, trying to make sense of it all, the receptionists voice cut through the office intercom again.

"Zach, youve got a delivery. And... youre going to need help carrying this."

Flowers?

I stood up, numb, and walked toward the lobby. A local courier was standing there, holding an enormous, breathtaking arrangement of deep red roses and orchids. It must have taken up half the counter.

"Zachary?" the courier asked. "Your wife sent these."

I stood frozen. By the time I snapped out of it, the courier was already halfway out the door.

I ran after him, catching him near the elevators.

"Wait! Excuse me. Can you tell me who placed this order?"

The courier gave me a strange look. "Your wife."

I shook my head, my chest tightening. "No, I mean, can I see the account name on the order? On your app?"

The guy looked confused but shrugged and pulled out his phone, scrolling to his job history.

As expected, the sender's profile was completely blankno name, no picture, just a system-generated ID.

"Look, man, whoever she is, she paid three hundred bucks for the arrangement and left me a hundred-dollar tip," the courier said, his grin reaching his eyes. "Your wife is amazing. You're a lucky guy."

I handed his phone back, my fingers stiff. I managed to force a polite nod.

Back in the office, my coworkers immediately swarmed my desk.

"Are those roses? That looks like a fortune!"

"Thats nothing. His wife didn't even blink at a five-thousand-dollar jacket yesterday!"

"Look, there's a card. What does it say?"

My eyes fell on the small envelope nestled among the petals. I slid the card out.

Sweetheart, please don't be mad at me anymore.

My hand shook so violently I almost dropped the card.

"Seriously, Zach, how could you ever stay mad at her?" one of the account executives joked.

"I'm literally crying. Why can't I find someone like that?"

"Just forgive her already!"

Their teasing voices faded into a dull hum. I kept my eyes fixed on Brandon.

The jacket. The cologne. Only Brandon knew about those conversations.

And now, right after I let him believe my "wife" and I were in a fight, a massive bouquet of apology flowers shows up.

Was this some elaborate prank? Had he figured out that I was lying about being married, and decided to spend a fortune to mess with me?

But Brandon was a junior designer. He didn't have thousands of dollars to throw away on a joke.

Nothing made sense.

With my head spinning, I decided I needed some grounding. After work, I drove over to my Nana's place.

Nanas small, cozy apartment always smelled of vanilla and baked chicken. She had prepared a massive feast for me, and as we sat down, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, letting the warmth of her home wash over me.

But then I noticed her ears.

"Nana, where is your hearing aid?"

Nana, whose hearing had been failing for years, squinted at me. It took her a moment to register my words.

"Oh, that silly thing!" she chuckled, waving her hand dismissively. "It fell right into the pond yesterday while I was out by the park. Don't worry about it, sweetheart. I can hear you just fine!"

How could it not matter?

I immediately pulled out my phone and started researching the best medical-grade hearing aids on the market.

"Just get me a cheap one from the drugstore, Zach. Don't go wasting your hard-earned money," Nana insisted, patting my knee.

I stayed the night on her pull-out sofa.

The next morning, a sharp knock on the front door woke me.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stumbled into the hallway. Nana had already opened the door. A delivery driver stood on the porch.

"Delivery for Zachary," the driver said.

Nana stared at the small package, her face lighting up. "Oh, Zach! When did you order this? That was incredibly fast!"

I froze, the sleep instantly draining from my brain. I rushed to the door.

The package in the driver's hand was from a premium audiology brand.

But I hadn't placed the order yet. I had only put it in my online cart the night before.

A cold shiver ran down my spine, raising the hairs on my arms.

"Sir? Need a signature here," the delivery driver prompted.

Nana reached out to take the stylus, but I quickly stepped in.

"Actually, I think there's been a mistake. I ordered the wrong model. I need to reject the delivery, please."

This was for my grandmother. I couldn't risk her using something from a stranger. Who knew what was actually in that box?

As the driver took the package back, my eyes caught a small, familiar card taped to the side.

Only the best for Nana. Your loving wife.

My hand trembled so hard I had to shove it into my pocket.

After sending the driver away, I called into work to take the morning off. I drove Nana to a local clinic, got her fitted for a proper hearing aid, and paid for it myself.

Before I left, I held her hands tightly.

"Nana, if you get any packages over the next few weeks, do not open them. Call me immediately. Promise me."

Though confused, Nana nodded and promised she would.

When I finally got to the office that afternoon, I was a nervous wreck.

Who was this person? How did they know my grandmother's address?

And more importantly... I had only searched for those hearing aids on my phone the night before. I hadn't spoken a word about it to anyone else.

How could a package arrive first thing in the morning?

There was only one logical explanation.

I stared down at the screen of my phone.

Someone had hacked my device. They were monitoring my searches, my location, my life.

It had to be.

Determined to reclaim my sanity, I went straight to an electronics store after work. I bought a brand-new phone, factory-reset my old one, and sold it to a trade-in kiosk.

It was a massive hit to my savings, but as the days passed and no new packages arrived, I finally felt like I could breathe again.

My relief lasted for about a week.

Then, on a rainy Thursday night, I had a dream.

In the dream, a woman I had never seen before stood in front of me. Her eyes were filled with a profound, aching sadness.

"Sweetheart," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You won't wear the jacket. You won't use the cologne. You even sent back the hearing aid I got for Nana.

"Do you hate me now? Or do you just not want my gifts?

"It's your birthday. Let me just give you money instead. That way, you can buy whatever you want."

I bolted upright in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs, drenched in cold sweat.

I checked my phone. It was past midnight.

Today was, indeed, my birthday.

But what a bizarre, deeply unsettling nightmare.

When my alarm finally went off, I shook my head, trying to banish the memory of her sad eyes, and got ready for work.

At my desk, I was nursing a coffee and chewing on a bagel, trying to focus on a design pitch, when my phone buzzed.

It was a notification from my banking app.

I tapped it open. My jaw dropped.

One... ten... a hundred... a thousand... ten thousand... a hundred thousand...

One million dollars.

A cool million had just been deposited into my checking account.

I thought it was a glitch, some cruel banking error, but when I refreshed the page, the balance remained the same.

And there was a transaction memo:

Happy birthday, sweetheart.

The room seemed to tilt.

Let me just give you money instead. That way, you can buy whatever you want.

The words from my dream echoed in my ears.

I sat frozen in my chair, my entire understanding of reality crumbling.

"Zach? You okay?"

Brandon tapped my shoulder, noticing my blank stare.

I quickly flipped my phone face down. "Yeah. Yeah, Im fine."

Dear God, what was happening to me?

Where did a million dollars come from? Was it possible that I actually had a wife, and I had somehow... forgotten her?

"Hey, I saw your calendar," Brandon said, leaning against my cubicle wall. "Its your birthday today. What are the plans?"

I slowly picked up my phone and stared at the balance again.

I had never used any of the physical gifts.

But was this real?

Could I actually spend this money?

I took a deep breath.

"Hey, everyone," I called out to the office. "Its my birthday. Dinner and drinks are on me tonight."

The office erupted into cheers.

"Wait, Zach," one of the designers asked. "Aren't you celebrating with your wife?"

"Shes... out of town on business," I lied smoothly.

I sent a group text with the address of a high-end steakhouse downtown.

Brandons eyes went wide when he saw the venue. "Whoa, Zach. We're going there? Are you sure you can afford that place?"

I smiled, keeping my terror hidden. "Don't worry about it."

But as we left, a cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach.

What if the card got declined?

It didn't.

My worries were entirely unfounded.

When the bill cametotaling over fifteen thousand dollars after bottles of high-end wineI slid my card over without a flinch. The transaction went through instantly.

My coworkers stared at me in absolute shock.

"Zach, what does your wife actually do for a living?"

"Seriously, man, you've been holding out on us. We had no idea you were loaded."

"Alright, alright, let's let the birthday boy make a wish!"

Brandon had ordered a chocolate cake, and someone placed a paper crown on my head.

As the candles flickered, I closed my eyes.

Given the sheer absurdity of the past few weeks, a wild, ridiculous thought popped into my head.

What if I had somehow developed a superpower? What if whatever I wished for simply materialized?

Let's test the limits, I thought.

I breathed in and made a silent wish:

I want to be rich. Unbelievably, ridiculously rich.

I opened my eyes and blew out the candles.

Later that night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone vibrated with a text alert.

I sat up, my heart hammering, and opened the message.

It was another bank notification. The number was so long I had to count the digits twice.

One hundred million dollars.

My breathing turned shallow. I got out of bed and started pacing the room, convinced I was losing my mind.

Did I really have a wish-granting superpower?

But that defied every law of physics and science.

And as the initial rush of adrenaline faded, panic took its place.

A sudden influx of a hundred million dollars would undoubtedly trigger red flags with the IRS, the FBI, or homeland security.

And if it wasn't the government, what if some dangerous criminal syndicate was using my account to launder money?

As much as I loved the idea of being wealthy, this money felt like a gilded ticking time bomb.

I decided right then: tomorrow morning, I was going to the police.

If they could trace the source of the funds, great. If not, at least Id have a paper trail showing I tried to report it.

Yes. That was the smart thing to do.

I took a few deep breaths to calm my nerves and crawled back into bed. I grabbed my phone to set my alarm, but my finger slipped, opening my photo gallery.

I froze.

There, at the very top of my camera roll, were several photos I had never seen before.

They were pictures of me... standing next to a woman.

She was smiling warmly, her arm wrapped around my waist.

And her face was identical to the woman from my dream.

Terrified, I scrambled out of bed and flipped on the lights.

My apartment felt suddenly cold, haunted.

I had absolutely no memory of these photos. I had never met this woman in my life.

Could they be AI-generated? But I had just bought this phone. How could anyone have put them there?

I didn't sleep a wink that night. I kept every light in the apartment burning until dawn, and the second the sun broke over the horizon, I hailed a cab straight to the police station.

"Morning. Can I help you with something?"

The desk sergeant looked at me with immediate concern. I must have looked like a ghost, pale and disheveled. He poured me a cup of water.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"Officer... someone is putting photos of a strange woman on my phone. And... I keep receiving massive sums of money from an untraceable source."

The officer frowned. "How massive?"

"A million dollars yesterday. And last night... one hundred million."

"One hundred million?!"

He practically choked on his coffee, his voice echoing in the quiet lobby.

"Officer Nightingale, what's all the shouting about?" another detective called out from across the room.

But I didn't hear him.

Officer Nightingale.

Nightingale.

That surname...

I slowly raised my head and stared at her face, her badge.

Suddenly, a violent spark flared in my brain.

I remembered.

I knew exactly what was happening.

Along with the realization came a blinding, agonizing headache. My vision blurred, the room began to spin, and before I could say another word, the world went completely black.