I turned back to the kitchen, the kettle hissing softly. My right hand hovered over a tiny bottle of laxative, its label a faded blue that I had bought weeks ago, the night after the text came in.
It wasn’t a spur‑of‑the‑moment thing. The text had been a single line, crisp and cold:
I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. Don’t forget the scent I love.
Signed: Caroline.
Caroline, the new secretary at his firm, a name that sounded like it belonged on a designer perfume bottle. I had seen her in the hallway, her hair always perfectly pinned, a smile that seemed rehearsed. That night, the call had ended the second I entered the room, his voice low, “Everything’s fine, love.” “Important meetings” that somehow appeared every Friday night, and the silence that grew thicker with each unanswered question.
My breath came out slow, steady. I poured the coffee into his favorite mug, the one with the chipped rim that only I ever noticed. The aroma of roasted beans mixed with the lingering perfume, a strange combination that made my stomach knot.
He stepped into the kitchen doorway, tightening his belt with a vigor I hadn’t seen in months. “Is that coffee for me?” he asked, his voice a little too bright.
I handed him the mug, my smile practiced, calm, a mask I barely recognized. “A little surprise,” I said, watching his hands wrap around the warm ceramic.
