Roses are liars
1276 Words
The evening went surprisingly well—if we exclude the number of times Wilbet made a fool of himself.
And as for Malcolm... well, if not for the people who saw us dance, I would’ve been sure I made the whole thing up.
He didn’t say a word to me for the rest of the evening.
Hopefully, he’ll let me go now.
It was one thing dealing with silent abuse, but dabbling in infidelity wasn’t my forte, per se.
The evening ended with Wilbet in high spirits, babbling away.
I blame the never-ending flow of sparkling champagne.
Not only could my husband not maintain a proper conversation, but he also had a pitiful alcohol tolerance.
I ended up heaving the buffoon to bed—but that was fine with me.
As long as he wasn’t going to touch me, I could live with it.
I woke up to an empty bed the next morning.
Wilbet’s side was very cold—an indication he had left a long time ago.
Where to, you might ask?
But honestly, I could care less.
Sarah came into the room with a breakfast tray.
“Good morning, miss.”
“Good morning, Sarah. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she said, pulling the drapes further apart.
“Your sister is downstairs. She wanted to come up, but I told her you had a long night. Would you like me to send her away?”
And with those words, my perfect morning was ruined.
I had no idea why Cassandra was here.
We had a nonexistent sisterly bond—unless she was here to do some spying for my mother.
Sending her away sounded very appealing, but I wouldn’t.
“Tell her I’ll be down in a minute,” I instructed Sarah, who nodded and went out.
As I prepared myself mentally, I should’ve known something was off the moment Cassandra said she was coming over.
She never just visited.
Not out of love. Not out of concern.
Cassandra came like a storm dressed in Chanel—polished, poised, and with a smile that could cut glass.
Sarah had just finished arranging the tray full of scones and sweets when she announced, “Madam, your sister is here.”
Cassandra looked like she was arriving for a press conference—perfect posture, lips painted in that expensive nude shade she favored, diamond studs peeking beneath her sleek hair.
“You look... radiant,” she said, air-kissing both my cheeks.
“Not a bruise in sight. Raya’s a magician.”
I offered a tired smile. “That’s what I pay her for.”
She settled into the seat across from me, crossing her legs with elegance so practiced it made me tired.
“So,” she said, voice sugary sweet. “How’s married life treating you?”
There it was.
The reason she came.
Not to visit.
Not to catch up.
She came to inspect the merchandise.
“Fine,” I said.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m not here to perform happiness, Cass.”
She arched a brow. “You’ve always been dramatic.”
Before I could answer, Sarah returned—this time holding a large bouquet.
“These just arrived, Madam.”
Roses.
Deep crimson.
Lush. Elegant.
Malcolm.
It had to be.
He wasn’t subtle.
A stunning gift—horrible timing.
I reached for the card tucked between the thorns before Sarah could hand it to Cassandra.
No note.
Just like him.
Silent declarations and loud gestures.
Cassandra leaned forward, eyeing the bouquet.
“Oh, that’s new. Wilbet only ever buys you ugly tulips. These are…”
She plucked a rose, pressing her nose against it.
“... expensive.”
“Must be from the club committee,” I said quickly.
“We’re hosting a fundraiser next week.”
Cass gave a low, amused laugh.
“Club committee? You sure it’s not someone who’s actually seen you smile?”
I shot her a look.
“Oh, don’t play coy or dumb with me, Aziza.
You and I both know these aren’t from Wilbet.
These are from someone.
Dare I say... special?
You have an admirer, don’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied.
She held up her hands, smirking.
“Don’t worry. I’m not a snitch… yet.”
“I don’t know why you’re here, but it seems you have nothing important to discuss. I’d like you to leave.
I don’t know if Sarah informed you, but I had a long night and I’d like to get some rest.”
“You’re sending me out?” she gasped, like it was news to her.
“Yes, Cassandra, I’m sending you out.
I appreciate you coming this far to see me, but maybe I’ll make it up to you.
How does dinner at Nobu sound?”
I said it while snatching the rose from her hand—perhaps a little too roughly.
A thorn pricked my thumb.
I hissed softly, watching a drop of blood well up.
“Careful,” Cassandra said, still smiling.
“Roses are liars.
Beautiful outside.
Painful inside.
Kind of like marriage, don’t you think?”
I didn’t reply.
What was the point?
By the time she left, the house felt colder.
Emptier.
I couldn’t shake the look she gave me before walking out—
like she knew.
Like she saw right through me.
Later that evening, Wilbet came home in a mood.
His shoes echoed like threats on the marble floor.
“Who sent the f*****g flowers?” he barked.
I froze, my hand mid-way through folding a shawl.
“I don’t know,” I said calmly.
“Don’t lie to me, Aziza.
You think I’m stupid?”
“I told you—I don’t know who sent them.”
He stormed across the room, grabbing the vase and hurling it against the wall.
The crash rang like a gunshot.
Shards flew.
Water splashed across the marble.
I backed away.
He followed.
“You’re embarrassing me,” he hissed.
“You think I don’t know? That you haven’t been whoring yourself out?”
The first slap came so fast I barely registered it.
Then another.
His grip closed around my arm, tight enough to bruise.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
I just... shut down.
He finally left me crumpled near the wall, his parting words echoing like filth:
“If I hear of this again, you won’t have a face left for Raya to fix.”
When the door slammed shut, I just sat there.
Breathing.
Slowly.
Trying not to break apart.
And I didn’t even bother questioning who he "heard" it from.
~~~~~~
I didn’t sleep.
I couldn’t.
My body still ached from the fight—from bruises that hadn’t even fully formed yet.
But I stayed awake, staring at the wall, my mind a mess of sharp thoughts.
Sarah found me sometime later.
I was in the bathroom, staring at the medicine cabinet.
A pair of scissors lay beside the sink.
I didn’t even remember putting them there.
She stood frozen in the doorway, her voice trembling.
“Madam… please don’t.”
I looked at her.
At my reflection.
At the small, red slice already bleeding across my wrist—shallow, barely there.
But it was there.
A quiet sob broke from her lips.
“You’re not alone,” she whispered.
And in that moment, I hated how kind she was.
Hated that she saw me at my weakest.
Hated that I felt something at all.
But I put the scissors down.
Not because I wanted to.
Because she asked me to.
- Writer
