[FULL] My fiancé said, “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

My Fiancé Said, “I’ve Never Loved Anyone The Way I Love You” — Then I Found The Other Women

Chapter One: Baby Girl 2

I was at my fiancé Simon’s apartment, his MacBook open in front of me, scrolling through flower arrangements for our engagement party — the one supposed to happen in two weeks. Then a notification popped up in the corner of the screen. The message preview said it was from someone saved as baby girl 2, and the text read: When are you coming over tonight? I miss you.

I just stared at it. My brain didn’t want to process what I was seeing, because there had to be some explanation, right? Maybe a wrong number, a joke, something that made sense in a way I just wasn’t getting yet. But my hand was already moving toward the trackpad. Before I could talk myself out of it, I clicked.

The thread opened up, and I saw months of conversations. Months. Photos of Simon with another woman, smiling the same smile he gave me, holding her the same way he held me. And the words — God, the words were the same. You’re my forever. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I can’t wait to build a life with you. Every single thing he’d whispered to me in the dark. Every promise he made about our future was right there on the screen, copy and pasted to someone else.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely scroll, but I kept going. Kept reading. Kept finding message after message that proved everything I believed was a lie.

He called her his angel. He called me his angel too. He told her she was the only one who really understood him. He’d said the exact same thing to me last week.

I felt like I was going to be sick, but I couldn’t stop. I went back to his message list and saw other threads. Other names. I clicked on another one. This woman was saved as my queen, and the conversation was just as long, just as detailed, just as full of the same promises and pet names and plans for a future he was apparently offering to everyone. She thought she was his only one. She was talking about meeting his family, about the apartment they were going to get together, about a ring — he’d shown her pictures of a ring.

I checked the dates. Some of these messages were from the same days he was texting me, telling me he loved me, asking about our wedding plans.

I found a third thread, this one labeled only with a heart emoji. Same sweet words. Same future promises. Same you’re the only one for me that I had believed with my whole heart.

Three women. Three separate lives he was living. And none of us knew about the others.

Chapter Two: The Evidence

I looked around his apartment, and suddenly everything felt different. The framed photo of us on his nightstand — the one where we’re laughing at the beach — wasn’t sweet anymore. It was evidence. The candles he said he bought because they reminded him of me — I bet he had the same ones wherever else he went. The drawer where I kept a few of my things — I wondered how many drawers like that existed across the city, each holding little pieces of a woman who thought she was special.

I felt so stupid. Were there signs I missed? I thought about all the times he was “working late” or “visiting his mom” or “at the gym for a few extra hours.” I just believed him. Why wouldn’t I? He’d had no reason to lie to me — except apparently he’d had every reason, because lying was simply what he did.

Part of me wanted to call him right then and scream until my voice gave out. Part of me wanted to throw the laptop against the wall. But another part of me — the part that had learned to think before acting — knew I needed more. I needed to understand how deep this went.

So I did the only thing that made sense. I took screenshots. Every message, every photo, every lying promise. I sent them all to my own phone, one after another, building a file of proof that he couldn’t deny or explain away. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears, but I made myself keep going until I had everything.

Then I cleared the search history, closed the tabs, and put the laptop back exactly where I found it — screen angled the same way, browser open to the same flower website. I stood up and looked around his apartment one more time — the place where I’d felt so safe, so loved, so sure of my future. Now it just felt like a trap I’d finally escaped.

I grabbed my purse and walked out, closing the door behind me like nothing had happened. He would come home later, text me goodnight, call me his angel — and I would have to pretend everything was fine. Because I wasn’t ready to confront him yet. I needed to find these other women. I needed to know if they knew about each other, about me, about any of it.

Simon was good at lying. He’d proven that. But I was about to get very good at finding the truth.

Chapter Three: Angelina

The first woman I reached out to was Angelina — baby girl 2. I made a fake social media account and matched her face to a public profile. I kept it simple: I had information about Simon she might want to know.

Her response came back fast. “Who is this? And why are you messaging me about my boyfriend?”

I told her my name was Muriel and that I was engaged to Simon. The three dots appeared and disappeared five times before her reply came through: “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but Simon would never cheat on me. We’ve been together over a year, and he just gave me a ring last month.” She sent a photo of her hand — a promise ring, not quite an engagement ring.

My chest tightened. I had a ring too. A bigger one.

“I’m not playing games,” I typed. “I have proof.”

“Proof of what? That you’re some crazy ex who can’t let go. Simon warned me about people like you.”

That stung — Simon had already planted seeds to make me look like the problem. But I wasn’t going to let her dismiss me. I started sending screenshots. A message he’d sent me the same day he apparently gave her that ring, calling me his whole world. A photo he’d sent me with the caption my angel. Another message using the exact words he’d used with her, word for word — a script, copy and pasted.

The typing dots came and went, came and went, for ten long minutes. Then: “I think we need to talk. In person. Can you meet tomorrow?”

I wasn’t alone in this anymore.

We agreed to meet at a coffee shop the next day. When Angelina walked in, holding a folder stuffed with papers against her chest like a shield, she looked smaller in person than her photos, more fragile, her eyes red from crying.

“I printed everything,” she said, her voice shaking. “Every message, every photo, every time he told me he loved me. I stayed up all night matching it to what you sent me.”

For the next three hours, we sat there comparing lies. He’d told her he wanted kids with her — he’d told me the same thing. His favorite memory was the first time they danced in her kitchen — his favorite memory was the first time we danced in my living room. Same story, different woman. He’d brought her sunflowers every Friday because she loved them; he brought me roses every Friday because he said they reminded him of me.

Some of his “business trips” had actually been trips to see her. Some of his “sick mom” emergencies had been excuses to spend weekends at her place — while I thought he was taking care of his mother, who I’d met, who was perfectly healthy and had no idea her son was living three different lives.

Then Angelina went quiet. “There’s something else,” she said. “A few months ago, his phone buzzed on the table. I saw the preview. It was from someone saved as my forever, and it said something like, ‘Can’t wait to see you tonight, baby.’ I asked him about it. He said it was a wrong number — some guy who kept texting the wrong person, that he hadn’t gotten around to blocking. He laughed about it. I believed him.”

A third woman.

“I want to help you,” Angelina said, gripping my hand across the table. “Whatever you’re planning, I want to be part of it. I want to help you destroy him.”

For the first time since I’d found those messages, I felt something like hope.

Chapter Four: The Nurse

Angelina and I started doing detective work — scrolling Simon’s social media likes and comments, matching faces to interactions. It took days, but eventually we found her: a woman who called him “work bestie” in a way that felt too familiar in the comments of a company photo.

We reached out. She was suspicious at first, just like Angelina had been. But something got through, and she agreed to meet us at the same coffee shop.

When the door opened and she walked in, I went still — because she was pregnant. Obviously, unmistakably pregnant, maybe five months along.

“Oh my god,” I whispered to Angelina, whose face went pale beside me.

The woman spotted us, walked over slowly, one hand resting protectively on her belly. She looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than sleep. “You’re Muriel?” she asked. “And you’re Angelina?” We nodded.

“How far along are you?” I finally asked.

“Five months,” she said, her voice cracking. “Simon and I are getting married next spring. Or — that’s what he told me. He said he wanted to wait until after the baby was born for a big wedding. Said it would be more special that way.”

I felt physically sick. Simon had gotten this woman pregnant, promised her a wedding and a future, all while engaged to me and dating Angelina.

I showed her the screenshots. Her face moved from confusion to hurt to devastation. “No,” she whispered. “This can’t be right. He said you were his crazy ex who wouldn’t let go. Stalking him.” She pointed at Angelina. “He said you were his unstable cousin. That your whole family knew you had issues.”

Angelina let out a bitter laugh. “His cousin?”

The tears started falling. “He told me he loved me. He said I was the only one. We were going to be a family.”

“He told us the same things,” Angelina said softly. “The exact same words. He has a script, and he just uses it.”

“But the baby,” the woman said. “He cried when I told him I was pregnant. He said it was the best news of his life.”

“He’s a good actor,” I said, the words tasting bitter. “That’s how he gets away with it.”

Chapter Five: The Money, and the Dead Family

After a while, she wiped her eyes. “There’s something else. About money.”

My stomach dropped, because I remembered Simon asking me for money months ago — a business opportunity he couldn’t pass up. I’d given him five thousand dollars without hesitation, because why wouldn’t I trust my fiancé?

“He asked me to invest in his company,” she said. “I gave him eight thousand from my savings.”

“He asked me for the same,” Angelina said, her face reddening. “I gave him six thousand.”

“Five thousand from me,” I said. “For the same fake business.”

Almost twenty thousand dollars, stolen from three women who trusted him, for a company that never existed. But even as I did the math, I realized the money wasn’t what hurt the most. It was the rings, the promises, the futures dangled in front of each of us. The baby growing inside this woman, conceived with a man who never intended to be a real father.

“Please don’t use my name,” she said. “Not yet. Can you just call me by what I do? I’m a nurse.”

“Whatever you need,” I said.

The nurse took another shaky breath. “There’s one more thing. Something that doesn’t make sense now.” She paused, collecting herself. “Simon told me his whole family was dead. His parents, his brother — all of them, in a car accident when he was twenty. That’s why he was so desperate to start a family of his own. He cried when he told me. I held him for hours while he talked about how alone he felt in the world.”

I stared at her, my mouth literally hanging open. “His family is alive,” I said. “His mother is coming to our engagement party. I’ve met her a dozen times. I’ve had dinner with his brother and his sister-in-law. They’re all very much alive.”

The nurse’s face cycled through confusion, disbelief, horror, rage, and finally something like complete emotional shutdown. “There was no accident,” Angelina said quietly. “His mom makes him pie every Sunday. I’ve seen the photos.”

The nurse put her head in her hands and stayed there, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Angelina and I shared a look that went beyond words. Simon wasn’t just a cheater. He wasn’t just a liar. He invented dead relatives and fake tragedies to manipulate women into feeling sorry for him — into trusting him more.

We stayed at that coffee shop for hours. By the time we left, something had changed. We weren’t three victims anymore. We were something else. Something united.

We made a group chat with an innocent name, in case anyone saw our phones. Nine days until the engagement party. That gave us time to get everything organized.

Chapter Six: The Pattern

Over the following days, we met regularly — sometimes the coffee shop, sometimes Angelina’s apartment, where Simon would never show up. The more we talked, the more we realized Simon had used the exact same playbook on each of us. It was like a manual for manipulation, followed step by step.

First, he made us feel special — like we were the only ones who truly understood him. Then he slowly pulled us away from our friends and family. Angelina told us how Simon convinced her to stop talking to her best friend, calling the friend “toxic” and jealous. The nurse said Simon did the same with her sister — controlling, trying to keep her from being happy. I remembered how he’d made me feel strange about spending time with my college friends, always needing me for something more important on the nights I had plans.

“He isolated us,” Angelina said, shaking her head. “He made sure we had nobody to talk to except him. That way, when things felt off, no one was there to tell us we weren’t crazy.”

It was so obvious now, laid out side by side. And for the first time since this nightmare started, I began feeling almost hopeful — like exposing him would free all of us, not just from Simon, but from the damage he’d done to our ability to trust ourselves.

I called my old friend Larry, one of the only people I trusted with the whole truth. “You’re planning to expose him at the party?” he said. “That’s bold. But you need every angle covered. He’s going to try to spin this.” We spent hours on the phone, tightening the plan.

Meanwhile, Simon kept texting me like nothing was wrong — wedding venues, honeymoon destinations. “What do you think about Italy?” he texted one night. I typed back, “Sounds perfect,” while looking at screenshots of him making the same plans with Angelina.

Chapter Seven: The Flowers

One night, my phone rang. It was the nurse, crying so hard she could barely speak. “He came to my apartment,” she managed. “Simon came to see me. He showed up with flowers and a framed ultrasound photo. He held my face and told me I was everything to him.”

My heart started pounding. “What did you say?”

“I almost believed him,” she cried. “I almost forgave everything. I forgot you two existed. I forgot the screenshots. I just saw the man I fell in love with, and I wanted so badly for it to be some terrible mistake.”

I was already grabbing my keys. “Stay where you are. Don’t answer the door if he comes back. I’m coming right now.”

Angelina and I broke several traffic laws getting there. When we arrived, the nurse buzzed us up, looking like she’d been through a war — swollen eyes, blotchy face, a bouquet of yellow roses in her hands like poison she couldn’t make herself throw away.

“He said they remind him of sunshine,” she said. “And I’m his sunshine.”

I set the flowers far away on the counter. Angelina guided her to the couch, and we sat on either side of her.

“He just showed up,” the nurse said. “No text first. He was standing there with flowers and the ultrasound and this look like he was about to cry. He said he couldn’t stop thinking about me and the baby, that we were the most important thing in his life.” She paused, wiping her eyes. “Then he held my face and said, ‘You’re my whole world. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.’ And I swear, in that moment, I forgot everything. I forgot you two existed.”

“What happened next?” Angelina asked.

“I almost let him in,” she whispered. “But then I looked down and saw our group chat on the table. Saw your names. It was like a bucket of cold water. I told him I needed time to think, and I closed the door. He stood out there knocking for twenty minutes before he left.”

We stayed with her until three in the morning, ordering pizza, watching bad movies, just being there. By sunrise, she wasn’t crying anymore. She was angry — that cold, determined anger I’d seen in Angelina’s eyes at the very beginning.

“I’m not letting him do this to me again,” she said, her hand on her belly. “I’m not letting him do this to my baby.”

I understood, now, why he’d gotten away with this for so long. Simon didn’t just lie. He made you want to believe the lie, because the alternative was accepting that someone you loved was a monster.

Chapter Eight: The Performer

I needed perspective from someone outside the mess, so I reached out to Barney, an older friend who’d seen me through bad relationships before. I told him everything, showed him the evidence.

“He’s not just lying to you,” Barney said, after listening carefully. “He’s studying each of you. Figuring out exactly what you need to hear, what wounds need filling, and then he becomes that person perfectly. He’s not improvising. He’s performing.”

That night, Simon texted that he couldn’t wait to start our life together. I typed back, “Me too,” with hands that no longer shook.

Two days before the party, I was at Simon’s apartment helping finalize the guest list when he said, without looking up from his phone, “Oh, I almost forgot — I might invite a friend from work. She’s been having a rough time. I think it’d cheer her up.”

I kept my face still, though my heart raced. “A friend from work?”

“Yeah, she’s a nurse near my office. Really sweet girl. Pregnant, actually, about five months along, and her boyfriend just left her.” He shook his head with practiced sympathy. “I just hate seeing people suffer.”

He was describing the nurse — the same woman carrying his baby, the same woman he’d promised to marry — and planning to bring her as some random coworker he felt bad for.

The moment I left his apartment, I texted the group chat: Emergency. Simon wants to invite the nurse to the party as a “work friend.” All three of us in the same room.

Angelina responded with a string of curse words. The nurse called directly, her voice tight with rage. “He’s going to introduce me as his coworker. While I’m carrying his baby. While he told me we’re getting married.”

In some ways, it made things easier — we no longer had to find a way to get her into the party. He was doing that work for us.

Chapter Nine: The Web Widens

The next day brought worse news. Angelina called, her voice shaking. “My cousin knows Simon’s family. Apparently he’s been telling everyone I’m stalking him. That I’m his ex who can’t accept he moved on, that I’ve been sending crazy messages and showing up at his apartment. He said he’s thought about a restraining order, but feels too bad for me because he knows I’m mentally ill.”

Simon had been building escape routes for months — planting seeds with everyone who mattered, ensuring that if any of us ever came forward, we’d already be dismissed.

Hours later, the nurse called, crying a different kind of cry — the kind that comes from betrayal by the people meant to protect you. “My mom called today. She asked if I was taking my medication. Simon reached out to her weeks ago, worried about me, told her I’d had delusions about being in a relationship with him. That I imagined I was pregnant with his baby. All of it. My mom has voicemails asking if I need to see a doctor, if I’ve been having episodes.”

Simon hadn’t just lied to us. He’d systematically destroyed our credibility with anyone who might believe us.

We called an emergency meeting. “He’s been preparing for this,” I said. “Maybe not for us specifically, but for any woman who might catch on. He has backup plans for his backup plans.”

“We have to be absolutely perfect,” the nurse said, hand on her belly. “Timestamps. Messages side by side. No holes he can squeeze through.”

“And no warning,” I added. “If he senses anything is off, he’ll control the narrative before we can say a word.”

We spent the rest of the night tightening every detail, building a presentation with screenshots, dates, times — messages to all three of us that matched word for word.

Chapter Ten: The Party

The engagement party arrived exactly as Simon had planned — white flowers on every table, soft music, fairy lights strung across the ceiling. Simon picked me up that morning in his best suit, looking at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I can’t believe I get to spend the rest of my life with you,” he said.

I smiled and said all the right things back, playing the happy bride-to-be, counting down the minutes until everything changed.

Guests arrived around six. Simon’s mother came early in a blue dress she’d bought specially, holding my hands with tears in her eyes. “He’s talked about you non-stop. I’ve never seen him like this with anyone. You’re special to him. I can tell.”

I thanked her and smiled, feeling nothing but cold determination underneath.

Simon worked the room the way he always did, his hand on my waist, introducing me as the love of his life — words I now knew he’d said to at least two other women. I scanned the crowd until I spotted Angelina near the back, in a catering uniform, her hair pulled up under a cap. Our eyes met. She gave the smallest nod. The nurse was waiting in a back room.

Halfway through the evening, I excused myself and made my way to the small stage where the DJ had set up a microphone and a screen — one we’d told Simon would show photos from our relationship. Simon saw me heading up there, his face lighting up, already composing his own speech in his head.

“Everyone, can I have your attention, please?” I said into the microphone. The room quieted. “I want to make a toast to my wonderful fiancé.” Glasses rose. “But first, I put together a little slideshow that I think everyone needs to see. It really shows who Simon is as a person.”

I pressed the remote. The screen came alive — not with photos of us at the beach, but with screenshots. A message Simon had sent me three months ago: You’re my whole world. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Right beside it, the exact same message, sent to Angelina on the same day. Another slide: him calling me his angel in one message, someone else his angel in another. Same day. Different women.

The room went completely silent. Simon’s mother stared at the screen, her champagne glass frozen halfway to her lips.

Chapter Eleven: The Reckoning

Simon stood frozen for three seconds before shifting into damage control. “That’s not real,” he said, his voice cracking. “Those are fake. She’s crazy. This is exactly what I was worried about.” He turned to his mother. “Mom, you know me. She made these up because she’s jealous and insecure.”

His mother said nothing. She kept staring at the screen, where more messages stacked one after another.

That’s when Angelina stepped out from the catering area, pulling off her cap, letting her hair fall. “Hi, Simon,” she said, her voice carrying across the room. “Remember me? Your girlfriend of over a year? The one you gave a ring to last month?”

Simon’s face went pale. “She’s my cousin,” he said quickly. “She has mental problems. She’s been stalking me.”

“I have screenshots too,” Angelina said, pulling out her phone. “Want me to show everyone? Same script, Simon. Word for word.”

Before he could respond, the back room door opened, and the nurse walked out — her simple dress showing her belly clearly, five months along with his child. Head held high, hands shaking at her sides.

“And remember me?” she said. “Your fiancée. The mother of your child. The woman you told your whole family was dead so you could pretend to be an orphan who needed saving.”

All the color drained from Simon’s face. His eyes darted for an exit, an ally, anything. There was none. Everyone was staring at him with horror and disgust.

I stepped forward. “These are the other women you promised forever to. The ones you called crazy exes and troubled cousins and imaginary relationships. They’re real, Simon. They’re right here. And we all have the proof.”

The room erupted into whispers. Phones came out. His friends started comparing timelines. His brother whispered something to his wife, both of them staring at Simon with unreadable expressions.

His mother stood. The room quieted again as she walked slowly toward her son, heels clicking against the floor. She stopped in front of him, looked at his face for a long moment — really looked, like she was seeing him clearly for the first time.

“Mom,” Simon said, his voice suddenly a scared little boy’s. “You have to believe me. This is a mistake.”

She looked at him and said, calm and sad, somehow worse than screaming: “I always knew something was wrong with you. I just didn’t want to believe it.”

Simon’s whole body seemed to shrink. His shoulders dropped. For the first time since I’d known him, he had absolutely nothing to say. No charm, no excuses, no perfectly crafted lie ready to make everything okay.

Chapter Twelve: What Was Left

I looked at Angelina and the nurse and felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks. Peace. Not happiness — this was still horrible, and none of us would get back the time and trust we’d wasted — but peace, knowing we’d cut through his lies and shown everyone exactly who he was.

His brother walked up to him. “I vouched for you. I told my wife you were a good guy. How could you do this?” Simon didn’t answer. One of his coworkers shook his head and walked out without a word. His mother sat back down heavily, as if her legs couldn’t hold her anymore.

“We did it,” the nurse said quietly. “It’s over.”

Angelina grabbed both our hands and squeezed. Three women who had been strangers before Simon brought us together through his lies, now connected by something stronger than anything he could have understood.

Simon finally found his voice, weak and broken. “Muriel, please. You don’t understand. I loved you. I love all of you. I just — I have so much love to give. I couldn’t choose.”

I laughed, and it wasn’t a kind laugh. “That’s not love, Simon. That’s greed. You didn’t love any of us. You loved what we gave you — the attention, the money, the feeling of being special. You never cared about us as people.”

His mother cut him off before he could say more. “Stop. Just stop talking. Every word out of your mouth is another lie, and I can’t listen to it anymore.” She walked toward the exit, pausing to look back one last time. “Don’t call me. Don’t come to the house. I need time to figure out if I even know who you are.”

She walked out. His brother followed. One by one, the guests left, most of them not even looking at Simon as they passed. A few came up to me and Angelina and the nurse — apologizing, saying they had no idea, asking if we were okay.

We said we would be. We weren’t okay yet. But we would be, now that Simon couldn’t lie to us anymore.

By the end of the night, Simon stood alone in the middle of the venue he’d rented for his own engagement party, surrounded by empty chairs and half-eaten food and fairy lights that suddenly seemed sad instead of romantic. He looked small — nothing like the charming man who had swept me off my feet two years ago.

I walked past him on my way out. He grabbed my arm — one last desperate attempt.

“Muriel, wait,” he said. “We can work this out. I’ll change. I promise I’ll be better.”

I pulled my arm away and looked him in the eyes one final time.

“You don’t even know what better means,” I said. “Goodbye, Simon.”

THE END