She Bought Flowers for My Fiancé

"Will he like these?"

The woman reached for the champagne roses, brushing the ribbon I'd just tied.

"He will."

She smiled and lifted her phone.

"Michael, I was so busy helping you lock down that project today, I forgot to order your custom flower box. So I grabbed this bouquet instead. Is the contract ready?"

His soft voice came through the screen.

"It's ready. The flowers don't matter. If they're from you, I'd love a blade of grass."

"A blade of grass?"

"Seriously, Christy. If it's from you, I'll treasure it."

I looked down and smoothed the wrapping paper.

The edge scraped my fingertip, leaving a pale line but no blood.

I'd asked him that once.

Back then, before he joined his current company, I bought some daisies at a flea market and made him a bouquet.

He took one look, set it on the entryway table, and said, "Eunice, flowers for a guy are kinda weird. Don't waste your money next time."

I still made him one for every anniversary.

He still dumped them wherever.

One time, they wilted and the water started to stink.

He frowned. "You made this mess. Clean it up."

Christy handed me her card.

"Go ahead."

I took it. "Want a message on the card?"

"Yes."

She thought for a second, then asked Michael, "What should I write?"

He laughed.

"'Congrats to Mr. Lynham on his promotion.'"

Christy scoffed. "That sounds way too formal."

"Then write, 'Wishing my Michael even more success.'"

He paused.

"But don't make it too cheesy, babe. My coworkers might see."

"What are you scared of?"

"I'm not." His voice softened. "I just want you all to myself. I don't want people talking about you."

I slid the card into the bouquet, my fingers freezing over two words.

[My Michael.]

In five years, I'd never once stepped inside his office.

He said he was still new. Still trying to prove himself.

If people knew he had a fiancée, they'd think he wasn't hungry enough.

He promised he'd go public after the promotion.

He even told me not to wear my ring to work because his female coworkers loved to gossip.

And I believed him.

Every single word.

Christy glanced at me.

"Can you hurry? He's waiting."

I handed her the bouquet.

"All set."

She hugged it to her chest and turned to the camera.

"Does it look good?"

"It does when you're holding it."

My fingers brushed the scissors on the counter.

The cold metal sent a chill through my hand.

Satisfied, Christy headed for the door.

Then she glanced back. "Do you deliver? I don't feel like driving over next time."

"We do."

"Cool. Let me add you."

I slid my business card across the counter.

She scanned the code.

Her profile pic was a pink limited-edition Squishmallow.

The exact same one Michael had given me.

He said he'd waited in line for two hours.

Said I was the only one who had it.

I'd hung mine beside the register.

That day, he ruffled my hair and smiled.

"Eunice, we're gonna have a good life someday."

As Christy walked out with the bouquet, Michael said, "Text me when you get downstairs. I'll come get you."

The second the call ended, his voice message and an urgent document popped up.

"Eunice, I'm slammed today. Draft this contract for me, like last time."

Whenever he said he was busy, I felt bad.

I thought he was working this hard for us.

No matter how late I stayed at the shop, I always finished his contracts.

Not this time.

I opened my order instead.

The Rolex still said In Transit.

I stared at the price.

That watch had cost every cent I'd saved over six months.

Late nights. Extra orders. Skipped meals. Total burnout.

All because he once said a businessman needed a nice watch to look the part.

Turns out, someone else was already helping him fake it.

I tapped [Request Return & Refund.]