The Woman in the Dream
My late grandma came to me in a dream the night before my wedding and told me to cancel everything, drive to my future mother-in-law’s house at dawn, and “you’ll see who he really is.”
When I walked in and saw a secret file of “single property owners” on her table and wedding photos of my fiancé with another woman, I realized I wasn’t his bride.
I was his next mark.
Twenty-one days before my wedding, my life looked perfect on paper.
The dress—ivory silk with delicate lace sleeves—hung on my closet door like a promise. Venue deposit paid: $8,000, non-refundable. Seating chart taped to the fridge with little magnetic letters spelling out table numbers and names I’d agonized over for weeks. I was a thirty-year-old accountant from outside Chicago, finally “doing the normal thing” everyone kept saying I should do.
My fiancé, Robert Miller, was exactly the kind of man people told me I was lucky to find at thirty.
Thirty-seven years old. Tall—six-two, with broad shoulders that filled out his suits in that way that makes other women look twice. Steady voice, never raised, always measured. Nice watch—TAG Heuer, the kind that says “I’ve made it but I’m not showy about it.” He owned a “small logistics company that’s really taking off,” something about supply chain management and distribution networks that sounded impressive when he explained it at dinner parties.
We’d met six months earlier at a bank appointment. I was the senior accountant they’d assigned to help him with some business documents—loan applications, tax structures, the kind of thing small business owners fumble through. He’d walked in wearing a charcoal suit and carrying a leather portfolio, apologizing for being slightly late, smelling like expensive cologne and confidence.
He flirted, but not in that boyish, clumsy way. He was direct. Protective. He’d asked me to dinner before the appointment even ended.
“You seem like someone who knows what she wants,” he’d said, holding the door for me. “I appreciate that.”
Three weeks later, we were dating. Two months after that, he was talking about forever. Four months in, he proposed.
He made a big show of it—a steakhouse downtown, the kind with dim lighting and leather booths and a pianist in the corner playing standards. Ring in a wineglass. Strangers clapping. The waitstaff bringing complimentary champagne.
I said yes before my brain caught up to my mouth.
Because at thirty, when you’ve spent most of your twenties building a career and watching friends get married and your mother keeps asking when you’re going to “settle down,” a man like Robert feels like winning.
The only person who seemed… off… was his mother.
Theresa Miller lived in a modest ranch house in Schaumburg, the kind of suburb where everyone has the same mailbox and the lawns are maintained with military precision. When Robert first took me to meet her, two months into our relationship, I’d been nervous in that standard “meeting the parents” way—worried about my outfit, my handshake, whether I should bring wine or flowers or both.
She opened the door in a spotless white apron and a bun pulled so tight it looked painful. Everything about her was controlled—her posture, her smile, the way she gestured us inside without actually touching either of us.
“So you’re Mary,” she said, not quite warmly. “Robert’s told me about you.”
She poured coffee without asking if I wanted any, setting the cup in front of me with a precision that suggested she’d measured exactly where it should go. The house was immaculate—no clutter, no personality, just furniture that looked expensive but unlived-in.
“And you live alone?” she asked, sitting across from me with her own cup, hands folded around it like she was praying.
“Yes. I inherited my parents’ condo when they passed away three years ago.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” It came out automatic, rehearsed. “In what area?”
“Highview. Near the lake.”
Her eyes flicked up, sharp and assessing. “Nice neighborhood. Property values there have really held up. Do you own it outright?”
The question felt invasive, but Robert had warned me his mother was “practical” and “direct,” so I answered. “Yes. No mortgage.”
“Smart. And you’re an accountant?”
“Senior accountant at Morrison & Associates.”
“Good firm. What’s your salary, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I did mind, but I was trying to make a good impression. “Around $95,000, plus bonuses.”
She nodded like I’d passed some kind of test. “Savings?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have a good savings cushion? Debts?”
“Mom,” Robert cut in, laughing uncomfortably, “Mary’s not applying for a loan.”
“I’m just being practical, darling. Financial compatibility is important.” She smiled at me—thin, calculated. “No offense intended.”
“None taken,” I lied.
When I tried to ask questions about Robert’s past—where he’d lived before Chicago, what he was like as a child, whether he’d been married before—she smiled and changed the subject with the skill of a professional deflector.
“He’s very good at business,” she said. “He just needs a stable woman like you. Someone grounded. Someone who won’t distract him from his goals.”
That night I went home and marked “meeting with Theresa – banquet details” on my calendar for three weeks later, when we were supposed to finalize catering numbers.
I told myself the interrogation was just maternal protectiveness. That some mothers are just like that—practical, cautious, wanting to make sure their sons marry well.
I ignored the small voice in my head that said it felt more like an interview than a family dinner.
Then came the dream.
It happened on a Tuesday night, three weeks before the wedding, after a long day of finalizing vendor payments and arguing with the florist about centerpiece heights. I’d gone to bed exhausted, my brain still spinning with details and checklists and the low-grade anxiety that had become my constant companion since saying yes to Robert.
In the dream, I was back in my grandmother’s house—the one she’d lived in until she died four years ago, the one we’d had to sell to pay for her medical bills and funeral. Everything was exactly as I remembered it: the worn floral couch, the coffee table with the chipped corner, the smell of her lavender sachets and old books.
And there she was.
My grandma, Eleanor Reese, sitting in her old dining room chair like she’d never left. Same blue terry cloth robe. Same soft pink slippers. Same hands folded in her lap, wedding ring still on her finger even though Grandpa had been gone for twenty years.
But her eyes were different. They were blazing—fierce and urgent in a way I’d never seen when she was alive.
“Cammie,” she said, using the nickname only she ever used, the one from childhood when I couldn’t pronounce Camilla properly. “Listen to me very carefully.”
In the dream, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only listen.
“Do not marry him. Robert is not who he says he is. He is not what he seems. Tomorrow morning—not tomorrow afternoon, not next week—tomorrow morning, you go to his mother’s house. Go alone. Don’t tell him you’re going. You’ll see everything you need to see.”
She leaned forward, and somehow her hands were gripping mine even though we were feet apart.
“This is not love, sweetheart. It’s a trap. You are not the first. You will not be the last unless you wake up. Right now. Wake up.”
Her voice got louder, more urgent.
“WAKE UP, CAMMIE. WAKE UP.”
I jolted awake at 4:46 a.m., gasping like I’d been drowning, heart racing so fast I could feel it in my throat. My apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic on Lake Shore Drive.
The wedding dress stared at me from the closet, a pale ghost in the pre-dawn darkness.
I sat there for twenty minutes, trying to convince myself it was just anxiety. Just wedding stress. Just my subconscious working through my nerves about getting married, about committing to someone I’d only known six months, about becoming Mrs. Robert Miller.
But I couldn’t shake it.
The dream felt different. Not like the usual anxiety nightmares where you show up to your wedding naked or forget your vows or your teeth fall out. This felt real. Urgent. Like Grandma had actually been there, had actually gripped my hands, had actually been trying to save me from something.
By 7 a.m., I was dressed—jeans, a simple blouse, boots, my hair pulled back in a ponytail. I left a note for my roommate (I was supposed to have moved in with Robert after the wedding, but I’d kept my lease “just in case”): Had to run some errands. Back later.
I drove across a gray January morning with my stomach in my throat, hands shaking on the steering wheel, second-guessing myself with every mile. This was crazy. I was crazy. I was about to show up at my future mother-in-law’s house at 7:30 in the morning based on a dream.
But I kept driving.
I parked three houses down from Theresa’s place—a gray sedan that blended in with the suburban landscape—and sat there for five minutes, watching. The neighborhood was quiet. A few people leaving for work. A jogger with a golden retriever.
Finally, I got out and walked up the driveway, my breath fogging in the cold, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I rang the bell.
No answer.
I rang again, pressing longer this time.
That’s when I saw her.
A woman—blonde, maybe forty, wearing a red wool jacket—slipping out the back door. She moved fast, purposeful, head down, getting into a silver Honda parked in the alley behind the house. She didn’t look back, didn’t pause, just got in and drove away like she’d been escaping something.
Three seconds later, the front door opened.
Theresa stood there in yoga pants and a cardigan, perfectly composed despite the early hour, her expression startled but quickly smoothing into something pleasant.
“Mary. What a surprise. I thought you were coming this afternoon with Robert to discuss the final headcount.”
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
She hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then stepped back. “Of course. Come in. I’ll make tea.”
She led me to the dining room. The house smelled like stale coffee and something floral—air freshener trying too hard. On the dining room table, there was a manila folder, open, papers spread out.
“I’m just reviewing the event hall paperwork,” Theresa chirped, already walking toward the kitchen. “Making sure everything’s in order for the big day. Chamomile tea okay?”
“Sure,” I said, but I wasn’t looking at her.
I was looking at the papers on the table.
As soon as she disappeared into the kitchen—I could hear her filling the kettle, opening cabinets—I stepped closer.
The folder wasn’t event hall paperwork.
It was a list.
Hand-written in neat blue ink, the title at the top: SINGLE PROPERTY OWNERS
Beneath it, a spreadsheet. Columns labeled: Name, Age, Address, Marital Status, Property Status, Estimated Home Value, Income (if known), Employment, Notes.
All women.
At least fifteen names.
Some had checkmarks. Some had X’s. Some had question marks.
My name was on there. Third from the bottom.
Mary Reese, 30, 847 Lakeview Condo Unit 4B, Single, Owns Outright, Est. $425K, $95K + bonuses, Morrison & Associates, No family, Deceased parents, PERFECT MATCH
My hands started shaking.
I flipped through the other papers. Bank statements—not mine, but printed from somewhere. Credit reports. Property records pulled from county websites. A timeline written in Theresa’s handwriting: First date Sept 12, Proposal Jan 3, Wedding Feb 18, Refinance/Transfer March
By the time Theresa came back with tea and those dry butter cookies she always served, my heart was hammering so loud I could barely hear her talking about napkin colors and whether we should do a sit-down dinner or buffet.
I played along for five minutes. Ten. Nodding. Smiling. Sipping tea that tasted like ashes.
Then I said, voice calm despite the chaos in my chest, “Does that woman who just snuck out the back door think Robert has a big heart too?”
Theresa’s smile cracked like porcelain.
Silence.
Then she stood, walked to a cabinet in the corner, and pulled out a photo album. She dropped it in front of me with a soft thud.
“You should know what you’re getting into,” she said quietly.
I opened the album with shaking hands.
The first pages were normal—Robert as a child, gap-toothed and grinning. Robert as a teenager, sullen and awkward. Robert in his twenties, starting to look like the man I knew.
Then the pages changed.
Robert with a brunette woman, his arm around her waist, both of them laughing at what looked like a beach. Date in the corner: 2019.
Robert with a different woman—auburn hair, shy smile—standing in front of a house I’d never seen. 2020.
Robert with the blonde from this morning. Multiple photos. Birthday cakes. Christmas trees. Weekend trips.
Then, three pages from the end, a photo that made my stomach drop.
Robert in a suit. The blonde in a white dress. A small backyard wedding, maybe twenty people. String lights. A cake. A kiss.
Date stamped in the corner: June, last year.
Eight months ago.
Two months before I met him.
“What is this?” I whispered.
Theresa sat down across from me, her face unreadable. “A phase that has passed. Lissa was… problematic. She asked too many questions. Started getting suspicious. It ended badly.”
“Ended how?”
“She left.”
“Left, or was left?”
Theresa didn’t answer.
I stared at the photo—at Robert’s smile, so familiar, so practiced. The same smile he’d given me when he proposed. The same one he gave me every morning when he kissed me goodbye.
“How many?” I asked. “How many women?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Theresa sighed. “You’re not the first. You won’t be the last. Robert is very good at what he does. And you’re exactly his type—successful, independent, property owner, no family to ask questions.” She almost sounded proud. “You should feel flattered.”
I stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “You help him do this.”
“I help my son survive. The world is cruel to people like us. We do what we have to do.”
“People like you are why women end up dead.”
I grabbed the folder, the album, and walked out before she could stop me.
By that night, I was sitting in my apartment with a bottle of wine I didn’t drink and a phone full of calls I needed to make but couldn’t bring myself to dial.
Instead, I did what accountants do: I investigated.
I started with Lissa.
It took me two hours to find her—LinkedIn, Facebook, a phone number from a mutual connection who owed me a favor. I called at 9 p.m., half-expecting voicemail.
She answered on the second ring.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Mary Reese. I’m engaged to Robert Miller. Or I was, until this morning. I think you know him too.”
Silence. Then, quietly: “Where did you get my number?”
“It doesn’t matter. I need to know what happened to you.”
Another silence, longer this time. Then: “Are you somewhere safe?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t know where you are?”
“He thinks I’m at work.”
“Good. Keep it that way. I’ll send you everything I have. Check your email in ten minutes. And Mary? Get out now. Don’t wait. Don’t think you can outsmart him. Just leave.”
She hung up.
Ten minutes later, my inbox chimed.
What I saw made my blood run cold.
Screenshots of text messages. Bank transfer records. Photos of documents. A timeline written in desperate, frantic handwriting.
Met Robert April 2022. Engaged October 2022. Married June 2023. By August, he’d convinced me to refinance my house to “invest in his business.” By September, he was gone. $340,000. My entire inheritance from my grandmother. The police said it was a civil matter. I lost everything.
More messages from other women Lissa had found after the fact:
He took $180,000 from me. Said it was for a business opportunity. Never saw him again.
I almost married him. He disappeared two weeks before the wedding with my savings.
There’s another woman. She doesn’t know yet. Someone needs to warn her.
And then, at the bottom, a police report from 2018. A woman named Jennifer Holbrook, reported missing by her sister. Last seen with a man matching Robert’s description. Case still open. No body ever found.
I sat there staring at my laptop screen until the words blurred.
Then I did what I should have done weeks ago.
I hired a private investigator.
His name was Marcus Webb, a retired Chicago PD detective who now ran a small firm specializing in background checks and fraud cases. He came to my apartment three days later with a black leather folder and the kind of tired eyes that said he’d seen everything.
“Robert Miller doesn’t exist,” he said, setting the folder on my coffee table. “Not legally. The man you know as Robert Miller is actually Robert Michael Brennan. Before that, he was Michael Robert Clark. Before that, Ryan Mitchell. He’s been running this scam for at least seven years, possibly longer.”
He opened the folder.
Photos. Documents. A timeline that made my head spin.
“He targets single women with property and assets. Usually between twenty-eight and forty. Usually without close family. He uses his mother as a scout—she works part-time at a real estate office, has access to property records, looks for vulnerable targets.”
“How many women?”
“That I can confirm? Nine. But I suspect there are more.”
“And Jennifer Holbrook?”
Marcus’s expression darkened. “Still missing. Her sister hired me two years ago. I’ve been tracking him ever since, but he’s good. He moves, changes names, changes stories. By the time anyone realizes what’s happened, he’s gone.”
“What about Lissa? She said she lost everything.”
“He convinced her to refinance her house and put him on the deed. Then he took out a home equity loan without her knowledge, drained the account, and disappeared. By the time she realized, he’d already transferred the title to a shell company and sold it. She’s still in legal battles trying to recover anything.”
I felt sick. “And he was going to do the same to me.”
“Yes. You own your condo outright. You have savings. You’re perfect for him.” He paused. “But there’s something else. There’s already another woman after you.”
He slid a photo across the table.
A redhead, maybe thirty-five, smiling at the camera. Pretty. Professional.
“Her name is Katherine Ellis. She owns a townhouse in Evanston. Works in marketing. No kids, no spouse. I’ve been watching her for three weeks. He’s already started the approach—ran into her at a coffee shop, struck up a conversation, got her number.”
My hands were shaking. “He’s already moving on? We’re still engaged.”
“He doesn’t love you, Mary. You’re a transaction. And he’s lining up the next one while he closes this deal.”
That night, I canceled the florist. The cake. The photographer.
I called the venue and lost my $8,000 deposit but didn’t care.
I called my few remaining wedding guests—friends from work, distant cousins—and told them the wedding was off. “Personal reasons. I’ll explain later.”
Then I set up hidden cameras in my apartment—tiny ones Marcus had given me, the kind that look like smoke detectors and phone chargers. I placed the black folder Marcus had left me on my coffee table, right in the center where Robert couldn’t miss it.
And I texted him:
Can you come over tomorrow night around 8? I just want to talk about some wedding details. Feeling overwhelmed.
He responded immediately:
Of course, babe. I’ll bring dinner. Thai okay? Love you.
Love you too, I lied.
When he knocked on my door the next night at exactly 8 p.m., he was smiling. Carrying takeout from my favorite restaurant. A bottle of my favorite wine. Wearing the cologne I’d once told him I liked.
He looked perfect. Concerned. Loving.
He looked like exactly what he was: a predator so practiced at pretending to be human that even I had almost believed it.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said, leaning in to kiss me.
I let him. I smiled. I took the food and wine and gestured him inside like nothing was wrong.
“Long day?” he asked, setting everything on the kitchen counter.
“You could say that.”
He started unpacking containers—pad thai, spring rolls, mango sticky rice. “What did you want to talk about? Everything okay with the venue?”
“Actually, I canceled the venue.”
His hands stopped moving. “What?”
“I canceled everything. The venue, the flowers, the cake, the photographer. The wedding’s off.”
He turned slowly, his expression shifting—confusion, concern, just the right amount of hurt. “Mary, what are you talking about? What happened? Did I do something?”
“You could say that.”
I walked to the coffee table and picked up the black folder, then set it on the counter between us.
“Robert Miller doesn’t exist. Or maybe he does, but you’re not him. You’re Robert Michael Brennan. Before that, Michael Robert Clark. Before that, Ryan Mitchell. You’ve been running this scam for years—finding women with assets, getting engaged, convincing them to refinance or transfer property, then disappearing with everything.”
The concern on his face evaporated. Just… gone. Like a mask had been ripped off.
What replaced it was cold. Calculating. Empty.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I have photos. Bank records. Police reports. Testimony from nine different women you’ve scammed. And I know about Katherine Ellis.”
His jaw tightened. “Who told you this?”
“Does it matter?”
“Some private investigator?” He laughed, but it was harsh now, nothing like the warm sound I’d fallen for. “You hired someone to dig into my past? What kind of person does that?”
“The kind who doesn’t want to end up dead like Jennifer Holbrook.”
His expression went completely blank. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Missing since 2018. Last seen with you. Or whatever name you were using then.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he smiled—and this smile was different. Real. Ugly.
“You think you’re so smart. Figured it all out. Good for you, Mary. But here’s the thing—you can’t prove any of this. Everything I’ve done is legal. Refinancing isn’t a crime. Loans aren’t a crime. If women want to trust me with their assets, that’s their choice.”
“Fraud is a crime.”
“Prove it.” He stepped closer. “You think the police will care? You think anyone will believe you? I’m a successful businessman. You’re a paranoid woman who got cold feet before her wedding. Who do you think they’ll side with?”
“I have nine other women who will testify.”
“And I have a mother who’ll swear I’m innocent. A business that looks completely legitimate on paper. A clean record.” He was close now, too close, his voice dropping low. “You should have just married me, Mary. Would have been easier. Now you’re going to look crazy.”
That’s when I heard it—the soft click of my apartment door opening.
Robert spun around.
Marcus Webb stepped inside, followed by two uniformed police officers.
“Robert Michael Brennan,” Marcus said calmly, “you’re under arrest for fraud, identity theft, and suspicion of involvement in the disappearance of Jennifer Holbrook.”
I watched the color drain from Robert’s face.
“You were recording?” he whispered, looking at me.
I pointed to the smoke detector, the phone charger, the clock on the wall. “Everything.”
“You set me up.”
“You set yourself up. I just gave you the rope.”
The trial took eight months.
Nine women testified—Lissa, and eight others Marcus had tracked down. We told our stories. Showed the bank records, the forged signatures, the timeline of his movements from city to city, name to name, victim to victim.
Theresa was arrested as an accomplice. She tried to play the protective mother, claimed she didn’t know what Robert was doing. But the prosecution had her handwriting all over those property owner lists, her signature on documents that set up shell companies, her voice on recorded calls where she coached Robert on which women to target.
Jennifer Holbrook’s sister testified, showed emails, described how Jennifer had been planning to leave Robert after discovering he’d forged her name on a loan. How she’d disappeared the next day.
They never found her body.
But they found enough to convict him on fourteen counts of fraud, three counts of identity theft, and enough circumstantial evidence to keep him under investigation for Jennifer’s disappearance.
Theresa got six years. Robert got twenty-five.
Katherine Ellis—the redhead from Evanston—sent me flowers with a note: Thank you for saving my life.
Two years later, I’m still in Chicago. Still an accountant. Still living in my parents’ condo that I almost lost to a man who saw me as nothing more than a transaction.
I cut my hair short. Got a dog—a rescue named Charlie who barks at strangers and sleeps at the foot of my bed. I go to therapy every Tuesday. I’m dating again, slowly, carefully, with the kind of caution that comes from learning the hard way that love can be a weapon.
And sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep, I think about that dream.
About Grandma Eleanor sitting in her chair, gripping my hands, her eyes blazing with an urgency that felt like prophecy.
Was it really her? Or was it just my subconscious, noticing things my conscious mind had tried to ignore—the invasive questions, the rushed timeline, the mother who interviewed me like a job applicant instead of welcoming me like family?
I don’t know.
But I know this: whatever sent me to that house that January morning saved my life.
And whenever I need courage, I remember what Grandma said.
Wake up.
So I did.
And I’ll never fall asleep again.
THE END
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
At TheArchivists, Ethan specializes in uncovering compelling stories that reflect a wide range of human experiences. His work is celebrated for its authenticity, creativity, and ability to spark meaningful conversations, earning him recognition among peers and readers alike.
Passionate about the art of storytelling, Ethan enjoys exploring themes of culture, history, and personal growth, aiming to inspire and inform with every piece he creates. Dedicated to making a lasting impact, Ethan continues to push boundaries in the ever-evolving world of digital content.