When the bouquet of roses arrived at my office, I felt my coworkers’ eyes on me, their smiles teasing. A dozen red roses, perfect and fragrant, tied with a velvet ribbon. For a moment, I felt special, loved, envied. Until I opened the little white card—and saw another woman’s name signed at the bottom.
The delivery man wheeled the arrangement in around noon, the scent filling the entire office. “Lucky girl,” one coworker whispered, nudging me as the vase was set on my desk. My cheeks warmed, my heart fluttered. My husband, Daniel, wasn’t the most romantic, but maybe this was his way of surprising me. I plucked the card from the bouquet, my hands trembling with excitement.
“To the love of my life. I can’t stop thinking about you. —Emily”
My smile faltered. Heat rushed to my face. My coworkers leaned closer. “What does it say?” one of them teased. I quickly shoved the card back into the envelope, my pulse racing. “Just… a sweet note,” I lied, forcing a shaky laugh. But inside, my heart was shattering.
The rest of the day blurred. I stared at the roses, at the mocking perfection of their petals, the sweetness of their scent turned sour. I wanted to throw them out, but I couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop replaying the name—Emily. Who was she? Why would Daniel send flowers with her signature?
When I got home, the roses felt like fire in my arms. Daniel was in the kitchen, pouring wine, smiling casually. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, as if nothing were wrong. My voice trembled. “Why did you send me roses signed with her name?” His smile faltered, his face paling. “What?”
I tossed the card onto the counter. His hands froze on the stem of the glass. His eyes darted to the note, then back to me, guilt flickering like lightning across his face. “It’s… it’s not what it looks like,” he stammered. My laugh was bitter, broken. “Then explain it. Why is another woman claiming to be the love of your life in my bouquet?”
Silence. His jaw tightened. He reached for me, but I stepped back. “Don’t touch me,” I whispered, my throat burning. “Who is she?” Finally, his shoulders sagged. “Emily. From work. It started months ago. I didn’t mean for it to get this far.”
The room spun. I gripped the counter for support, my knees weak. “You sent our money, our love notes, our flowers—to her?” My voice cracked with fury. His face crumbled. “I made a mistake.” But a mistake doesn’t sign another woman’s name on a card. A mistake doesn’t put betrayal in a vase and deliver it to my desk.
I left that night, roses still on the counter, their petals already beginning to wilt. The scent of them lingered in my hair, in my clothes, in my chest, where it would take months to fade.
Final Thought
Roses are supposed to symbolize love, but mine came with a card that revealed betrayal. One signature was all it took to unravel the illusion I had been living in. Flowers can be thrown away. Trust, once broken, can’t be replanted.
