The doorbell startled him the next morning. A courier handed him a bouquet wrapped in brown paper, addressed to Clara in tidy script. He stared at the flowers, confusion twisting quickly into suspicion. Why would someone send her a bouquet? It wasn’t her birthday or their anniversary.
He tore open the card, heart pounding. It held nothing but a short, handwritten note —warm, affectionate, unsigned. His mind raced. Was this from a friend? A secret admirer? Was she meeting someone behind his back? The timing felt impossibly pointed.