The Roses
1496 Words
Monday morning hits me like a brick wall. Three days since that dinner with Damian at Chez Laurent. Three nights of his texts lighting up my phone at stupid hours, his words keeping me awake long after Adrian’s soft snoring beside me. Three days of pretending things are fine, when my marriage feels like a cracked vase, still standing, but barely holding together.
Adrian left before sunrise, some investors breakfast. I think Sophia’s father was on the guest list. He muttered something that might’ve been “goodbye” without looking up from his phone. I was wearing the black dress he hates. The one Damian somehow knew about.
The silence in the penthouse was a blessing. No clipped conversations, no strained smiles across the table. Just me, my coffee, and the sharp edge of guilt cutting through every sip. At least the foundation office gives me an excuse to keep busy. Work feels like the only place where I can pretend my life hasn’t spun completely out of my control.
The drive to Tribeca drags. Every red light feels like the universe trying to corner me into thinking about things I shouldn’t, Damian’s hand on mine, the way his voice wrapped around my name like a promise, the heat in his eyes when he said, This isn’t over.
At one light, my phone buzzes. Maya: How was the weekend? You’ve been radio silent.
I type back: Fine. Just tired.
She replies almost instantly: Bullshit. Spill.
I stare at the screen, type: Nothing to spill. Talk later.
But there’s everything to spill, and she knows it. She’ll get it out of me sooner or later. Maya always does.
The Henderson Foundation offices look like someone designed them to make rich people feel hip and generous at the same time, exposed brick, Edison bulbs, polished concrete. Every inch screams, “Your money looks good here.”
Jennifer, the receptionist, beams when I step inside. “Good morning, Mrs. Moretti! You have flowers waiting in your office. They came about an hour ago.”
Flowers? Adrian hasn’t sent me flowers in… I can’t even remember. Our anniversary two years ago, maybe? And that was after he forgot dinner reservations.
“From my husband?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Jennifer shakes her head, eyes bright with curiosity. “No card. But they’re beautiful.”
My stomach tightens as I walk toward my office. If they aren’t from Adrian…
I stop cold in the doorway.
Two dozen red roses. Full, lush, impossible not to notice. They eat up the whole room, their scent sweet and heavy, like something dangerous. The vase is crystal—expensive, deliberate.
There’s a card tucked against it. My hand trembles as I pick it up.
For a woman who deserves to be worshipped, not ignored. – D
I actually have to sit down. Nobody’s ever said that to me. Not Adrian. Not anyone.
“Mrs. Moretti?” Jennifer’s voice pulls me back. She’s peeking in, her eyes darting from me to the roses. “Secret admirer?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, slipping the card into my purse before she can read it.
By lunch, half the staff has “found excuses” to stop by my office. Everyone’s whispering, pretending not to stare. Margaret from accounting pokes her head in with that fake-sweet voice of hers.
“Special occasion?” she asks, eyes sharp.
“Just someone being thoughtful,” I say, trying for casual.
By the time I sit down for the board meeting, I feel like I’m glowing with neon letters above my head: Mysterious Roses.
Halfway through the meeting, Mrs. Henderson brings up the Morrison Gala and casually drops Damian’s name. “Elena, you’ve been coordinating with Blackwood Industries, correct?”
Every head swivels toward me.
“Yes,” I manage. “Everything’s arranged.”
“Wonderful. Such a generous man.” She smiles. “Single, handsome… if I were thirty years younger.”
A ripple of laughter. My face burns. Do they suspect something? Or am I just paranoid?
I keep my head down until it’s over, then escape back to my office. The roses loom from the corner, smug and beautiful, reminding me of everything I shouldn’t want but do.
The phone on my desk rings. Adrian.
“Elena,” his voice, brisk. “Cancel whatever plans you have tonight. The Yamamoto dinner is at eight. Le Bernardin.”
My stomach drops. “Tonight? Adrian, I already,”
“Cancel it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Elena, this is fifty million on the line. Whatever ladies’ lunch or charity dinner you’ve penciled in can wait.”
Something in me snaps. Ladies’ lunch. He says it like my entire life is fluff, filler, background noise to his career.
“Actually,” I say, careful but firm, “it’s a business dinner. With Damian Blackwood. About the gala.”
Dead silence.
“You’re having dinner with Blackwood?”
“Yes.”
“Cancel it.”
“Adrian,”
“I said cancel it. I don’t want you anywhere near that man.”
“Why not? He’s an important donor. You said yourself,”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because he has a reputation,” Adrian says tightly. “The kind that involves married women.”
The words hit me square in the chest. He knows. Or at least, he suspects.
“Nothing inappropriate is happening,” I lie.
“Good. Keep it that way. Cancel dinner and meet me at Le Bernardin at eight.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we’ll have a problem.”
It’s not loud, but it’s a threat. Adrian’s drawing a line.
Three months ago, I would’ve caved instantly. But three months ago, no one was sending me roses. No one was reminding me I deserved more.
“I’ll meet you at nine-thirty,” I say. “After my meeting.”
“Elena,”
“It’s business, Adrian. Just like yours.”
And then I hang up before my courage breaks. My hand shakes against the receiver. For the first time in years, I’ve just told my husband no.
The rest of the day crawls. Every knock on my door makes me jump, half expecting Adrian to appear. Instead, at five, Jennifer pokes in again.
“Mrs. Moretti? A man’s here to see you. Says he’s from Blackwood Industries.”
My pulse leaps. But it’s not Damian. It’s Marcus. Perfect suit, impassive expression.
He hands me an envelope. “From Mr. Blackwood.”
Inside: an address I don’t recognize. 8 PM. A note:
Somewhere private. No cameras. No gossip. Just honesty. If you’re brave enough. – D
Brave enough. My hands shake as I fold it back.
By seven-thirty, I’m in a cab heading downtown. My phone buzzes—Maya again. Dinner tomorrow? You’re being weird.
Can’t. Wednesday maybe?
What’s going on? You’re not yourself.
I’ll explain soon.
Her reply comes fast: Are you having an affair?
The word freezes me. Affair. Technically no. But emotionally? God, I’ve been unfaithful for weeks.
The cab drops me in SoHo outside a nondescript building. Just a dark door and a buzzer.
I press it.
“Elena?” Damian’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“Yes.”
The lock clicks. Upstairs, the loft is all exposed brick, big windows, moody lighting. And him, standing in the middle of it—jeans, white shirt, like he just stepped out of a magazine.
“You came.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“What changed your mind?”
I think of Adrian’s voice dismissing me, his careless words. I think of roses, and of being wanted.
“Everything.”
Damian’s smile is slow, dangerous. He steps closer, and I smell sandalwood.
“I know you’re married,” he says softly. “But tell me, when was the last time he sent you flowers?”
I can’t answer. I honestly don’t remember.
“That’s what I thought.” He lifts a hand, cups my cheek. My whole body leans into it without permission.
“You deserve more than being invisible, Elena.”
“What if ‘more’ isn’t real? What if this is just life?”
“Then why are you here?” His eyes burn into mine. “Why defy him if all you want is to play it safe?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t need to know. You just need to feel.”
And God, do I feel. My chest aches with it.
“What do you want, Elena?” His voice is low, insistent. “Not what you should want. What you want.”
The truth rips out of me, barely more than a whisper. “You. I want you.”
His smile is triumphant. Possessive. And terrifyingly right.
“Then you have me.”
And for the first time in years, I believe I might deserve it.
- Writer
