Desmond's Claim (Claiming His Wife Series Book 1)

Chapter 2: Marital Proof

Dasha’s heart jumped when the hot stranger smirked. She was done calling the police and had to wait for about ten to fifteen minutes. She kept her distance from him, but he seemed to gravitate toward her.

“Huh! So you’re holed up in this little town, while I searched for you for two years?” His eyes darted on the shop behind her, and his eyes swept to the stretch of small establishments next to it. There was a flower shop, a food chain in the next block and a coffee shop. Across the not-so-busy street, since it was not the main road, was a computer shop, a small laundry shop, a pawnshop and a local roast chicken franchise. Its delicious and mouth-watering smell was blown in their direction, along with its thin smoke.

Dasha’s stomach growled, thanking the jeepney that passed by. He must not have heard it. She forgot to bring or buy herself some snacks in the afternoon, she got busy at work, and now, her stomach protested.

She averted her eyes and tried to ignore him, wondering why this person still waited for the police. He should be scared and run away. Although she did want to call the police in this kind of situation, he seemed to push her to do it in the end.

Her mind was in a riot at the moment. Calling her Dasha and claiming her as his wife was something she had never imagined someone would do. Unconsciously, she turned the two rings on her finger round and round. She felt agitated and worried.

What if he’s telling me the truth? Why can’t I even have a streak of memory—

Her deep musing was interrupted when, finally, the police in their white van arrived. She was relieved to see it, with its blue and red LED strobe flasher lights blinking.

“Miss Hernandez?” The policeman, wearing blue polo jack and pants, in his mid-thirties, queried. He was not handsome but looked neat. He was dark-skinned with short black hair and was muscled.

His partner, about the same age and height, was beside him. He was, on the other hand, lean and good-looking in a crew cut. Two more patrol officers on their motorcycles arrived. One got off, while the other screened the street, just in case the foreigner would try to escape. All the officers had their guns holstered on their waist and wore their caps.

“Yes, sir. I called because of this man,” she answered, pointing at the foreigner.

Although the police already towered her average height, the foreigner was still taller than them. He did not look bothered with their presence at all.

“Thank you for coming, Officers,” the man addressed the police instead, with a tight smile. “My wife and I want to settle something.”

“Miss Hernandez is your wife?” the first policeman’s eyebrows rose.

“That’s what he claims. But you see, sir, I don’t even remember seeing him in my entire life!” she told them.

“Are you seriously keeping this up, wifey?” the stranger mocked.

She refused to look at him, gulping her spittle. “I don’t know him,” she denied to the police.

“Well, sir? I think you need to come with us in the precinct. We’ll settle everything there instead of here,” the second police officer, a moreno guy, suggested.

“I don’t mind proving that I’m her husband. Just let me get the proof in my car,” the Caucasian man said with confidence.

“My partner will drive it to the precinct, sir. Miss Hernandez and you have to come with me in the van,” the first policeman said.

Dasha felt suddenly uncomfortable. Calling the police was one thing, and riding in the police van like she was some kind of a criminal was another.

“I’m the victim here. Maybe I can just ride in my car, sir?” she told the police.

The two police officers exchanged glances and nodded. “All right, ma’am. Just follow us,” the moreno one decided.

“And I’m not a criminal here either,” the stranger butted in, flashing Dasha a sharp look. “I’m just here to collect my long-lost wife!”

“That, sir, will be settled in the precinct. You’re coming with my partner. Let’s go,” the second officer said.

Dasha gave the stranger a look of triumph, even though something poked her heart.

***

A little over fifteen minutes later, they were in the precinct, seated in front of the desk officer. He had a logbook on the desk with a black pen in his hand, logging the report as he questioned them.

“Name and ID please?” the desk officer with a beer belly requested.

Both Dasha and the foreigner procured their IDs. The police officer copied their names, glancing at their faces now and then.

After asking the basics, they were asked what their issue was, so Dasha recounted what happened.

“To the best of my knowledge, I don’t have a husband! As you can see, sir, even if you check it with the National Statistics Office, with my authorization, you can find there that I’m single and I’ve never been married!”

“Well, that needs to wait in the morning when the NSO Office is open. It’s past office hours,” the police pointed out. He then looked at the foreigner. “And you, sir? What evidence can you provide that this is indeed your wife? As the lady said, you might have just mistaken her for another woman.”

Without even saying a word, the man produced a set of papers. To Dasha’s horror, she found herself and the foreigner in their wedding outfits when he showed them a couple of wedding pictures.

“Tell me if it is not her. Besides, she’s wearing the same rings I gave her more than a couple years ago. Those diamond rings.” He pointed at the next picture, where there was a close-up picture of his hand and hers to show their wedding rings, with her engagement one, too. “I can also show you a video of the wedding from the ceremony up to the reception, if you want,” he added, producing a small black flash drive.

Dasha’s mouth was ajar, confused. Her heart was beating so fast as she took a picture and looked at the woman who looked exactly like her. Only that her hair was now longer than the one in the picture. It was merely past the shoulders and curled at the end, and now, it was up to her waist, which she caught in a high ponytail.

Meanwhile, the police officers that responded to her call were dumbstruck by this turn of events. The skinhead police officer took one of the papers, the marriage certificate, leaving the copies of her NSO birth certificate, certificate of no marriage and others.

“Her ID shows Nicole Hernandez, but it’s different from the marriage certificate. It’s Dasha Gonzales,” he muttered.

Dasha’s eyes became misty. She slowly raised her head to look at the man sitting opposite her. His peepers never left her face.

“I know…” She gulped. “I know I have total retrograde amnesia. But why must I have forgotten you?” Her voice cracked as she whispered it.