I Exposed My Fiancé's Soulmate Novel by Anonymous _ Novel




I Exposed My Fiancé's Soulmate Chapter 01

I was a world-class criminal profiler for the FBI, loaned out to a local precinct.
Then I asked for a transfer to become a janitor. The entire precinct went into an uproar.
Some people clapped right there.
Even my boyfriend, Detective Derek from Homicide, said in front of everyone:
"That useless piece of trash is finally gone."
Only one person ran after me. Eve.
The woman who claims she can talk to the dead. My fiancé's "soul mate."
She chased me all the way to the parking lot. Crying. Begging me to come back.
In my past life, I was the star of this department.
But after Eve showed up, she always said my profiling conclusions before I could.
She claimed to have "psychic powers." The media called her "The Psychic Detective."
When I confronted her with a thirty-page report, she stood in the hallway and said,
“Talent… isn’t something you can learn.”
Derek took off our engagement ring in front of the whole squad.
“I don't need a woman who only cares about taking credit. I'm going to marry Eve.”
Then I got cyberbullied by the entire internet. I jumped off the precinct roof.
When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting in the briefing room. My coffee was still warm.
I had been reborn.
Back to the morning Eve first claimed she could “talk to the dead.”
…
“…Captain, we’ve compiled the suspect’s preliminary information.”
My colleague Matt Garcia’s voice pulled me back to the present.
I looked down at my hand.
I was gripping a marker so tightly my knuckles had turned white.
“Good. Call Eve over.”
Someone saw me staring at the blank whiteboard and snorted.
“Still drawing that ‘psychological portrait’ in your head?”
“I’ve got witness statements and scene reports right here. Want to take a look?”
He slapped a thick stack of files onto the table in front of me.
A few people around us laughed.
Criminal profiling is an art and a science.
You take scene traces, physical evidence, and witness testimony to infer a killer’s behavioral patterns, psychological traits, and living habits, until finally, you can practically sketch his face.
But ever since Eve arrived, everyone in this room had decided all of that was just a pile of useless paper.
And I was the joke who refused to let it go.
Because Eve Ross said she could “talk to spirits.”
All she needed was one look at a photo of the body, and she’d have the killer’s name.
At first, no one believed her.
But after three major cases, she solved every one before I could even submit my report.
Victims’ families lined up at the precinct entrance to give her flowers.
The media called her the Psychic Detective.
And I, a top profiler from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit with an Ivy League doctorate, became a stepping stone on her path to sainthood.
My knuckles cracked as the memory of my past life flooded back.
There was still time.
I spun around and rushed out of the briefing room, ran back to my office, and pulled the portrait I’d just finished—along with the thirty-page profile—from the bottom of a stack of case files.
Then I carried it all straight to Drake’s office and pushed the door open.
“The suspect is male, twenty-five to twenty-seven, between five-foot-eight and five-foot-nine. Right-handed.”
I slapped the portrait down on his desk.
“He prefers to commit his crimes between two and four in the morning. Due to long-term social dysfunction and issues with his own facial features, he has an intense hatred of women. He targets women who live and travel alone. His vehicle is an old, dark-colored pickup truck.”
“Enough.”
Drake didn’t even look up.
He just turned his phone screen toward me.
On it was a text message.
Sender: Eve.
The content was identical to every word I had just said.
Beneath it was a photo of the suspect.
“She sent it to me two minutes ago.”
Drake pushed my report aside, stood, and walked around me toward the door.
“Next time, save yourself the effort.”
At the doorway, he paused and glanced back at me.
“Can you stop trying to compete over everything?”
Eve was standing in the hallway. She smiled at me and stuck out her tongue in a playful, childish gesture.
“Sorry, Julian. I beat you to it again.”
Drake walked over and slung his arm around her shoulders.
“You don’t need to apologize. She’s just too competitive.”
He started deploying officers over his radio, ordering a citywide manhunt.
Eve stood beside him, the two of them looking like a perfect team.
I leaned against the doorframe, the edges of my vision swimming with darkness.
What was going on?
I’d brought my report out early.
How did she know?
I forced myself to take a deep, steadying breath.
Calm down.
This time, I was going to peel back every single one of her lies.

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