The roses arrived on a Tuesday morning, a burst of crimson against the dull beige of my office desk. Everyone in the office smiled knowingly, teasing me about what a romantic husband I had. “Ten years and he still sends you flowers? You’re lucky,” my coworker gushed. I smiled, warmth flooding my chest as I reached for the envelope tucked into the bouquet. But when I opened it, the words inside didn’t match the roses. “Yours forever, Claire.”
Not my name. Not my forever.
The room spun. My smile froze on my face as my coworkers continued chatting around me, unaware of the earthquake that had just shattered my world.
Backtrack.
Daniel had always been good with gestures. On anniversaries, birthdays, even random Wednesdays, he’d surprise me with little notes, flowers, chocolates. It was one of the things that made me fall for him—the way he remembered small things, the way he made me feel seen. So when the bouquet showed up at my office, it felt like just another reminder that he cared. Until it wasn’t.
My hands shook as I read the card again, hoping I’d misread it. But no. The handwriting was his. The ink smudged slightly at the “yours,” just the way it always did when he wrote too fast. Only this time, the name wasn’t mine. It was hers.
Claire.
I didn’t know who she was, but in that moment, she became the woman who had stolen the words I thought belonged only to me.
I slipped the card back into the envelope, forcing a tight smile as my coworkers teased me about how lucky I was. Lucky. If only they knew.
That evening, I waited for him. The roses sat in a vase on the counter, mocking me, their perfume heavy in the air. When Daniel walked in, humming, tossing his keys on the table, his eyes landed on them. His smile faltered for just a second.
“They’re beautiful,” I said, my voice calm, too calm. “Want to read the card with me?”
His face drained of color. “I… you weren’t supposed to—”
“Weren’t supposed to what?” I snapped, slamming the envelope against his chest. “Find out? Read the words you wrote for her?”
He stammered, searching for words. “It’s not what you think.”
I laughed, bitter and sharp. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare tell me I’m imagining this. You signed your love to Claire and had the flowers delivered to me. Was that a mistake too?”
His eyes dropped, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean for you to see.”
That was all I needed to hear. Because what he didn’t mean was for me to know.
The fight that followed was brutal—tears, shouting, accusations. He admitted there was someone else. Someone he promised things to. Someone he gave pieces of himself to while coming home to me.
In the weeks that followed, the image of those roses haunted me. I couldn’t escape the scent, the sight of them blooming bright and false in my kitchen. They weren’t a gift. They were evidence.
Now, whenever I see roses, I don’t think of love. I think of lies. Of words meant for someone else, shoved into my hands as though I wouldn’t notice.
Final Thought
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come in screams or slammed doors. Sometimes it arrives in a vase, wrapped in ribbon, with a note that whispers the truth louder than any confession ever could.
