The bouquet arrived at my office just before lunch—a massive arrangement of deep red roses, their scent filling the room so strongly my coworkers stopped to admire them. My cheeks flushed as I read the little card tucked between the stems. I expected it to say something sweet, something romantic, something only a husband would write to his wife.
But the signature froze me.
“Love always, Bunny.”
My stomach dropped. Bunny wasn’t my nickname. It was my best friend’s.
For years, I had teased her about it, the silly pet name her high school boyfriend once gave her that stuck around in our circle. No one else ever called her that—except now, apparently, my husband.
I reread the card a dozen times, praying it was some bizarre coincidence, some florist’s mistake. But no matter how I turned it, the truth glared back at me. The roses weren’t meant for me. They were meant for her.
When I got home that night, I set the bouquet on the counter. “So,” I said, forcing calm into my voice, “since when do you call me Bunny?”
He froze mid-step, his briefcase dangling from his hand. His face went pale. “What?”
I held up the card. “This came with the flowers you sent me. Signed with her nickname.”
His lips parted, but no sound came out. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but mine. “That was a mistake,” he finally muttered. “I was… distracted when I ordered them.”
“A mistake?” My voice cracked. “You ‘accidentally’ called your wife by her best friend’s nickname while buying roses?”
He stepped closer, desperation written all over him. “It doesn’t mean anything. I just—slipped.”
But slips don’t come in ink. Slips don’t spell out betrayal in careful handwriting on florist cards.
My phone buzzed then. A text from my best friend: Thanks for the flowers. They’re beautiful.
The room spun. My husband’s face drained completely when he saw the message on the screen. And in that moment, I didn’t need any more explanations. The roses were never mine to begin with.
Final Thought
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t shout—it blooms. He thought roses would hide the truth, but their thorns tore through everything I believed in. One misplaced nickname was enough to unravel years of trust. Flowers are supposed to say love, but his said something else entirely: she was the one on his mind, not me.
