Counting My Husband's Lies

I have an Instagram accounta small, curated corner of the internet dedicated to my life with my husband, Jackson.

Today is our third wedding anniversary, and true to form, he had ninety-nine roses delivered to our door. Its our thing. A little extravagant, a little over the top. Its him.

I snapped a quick photo and posted it, the crimson petals filling the frame.

Usually, my comments section is a quiet affair, a dozen or so messages from close friends. But today, it exploded.

Am I counting wrong, or are there only 98 roses here? Knew this girl was faking it. Finally caught her in a lie.

The comment was from a troll whod developed a bizarre fixation on me, someone who always got a rise out of my followers. But this time, the replies underneath were all in agreement.

Shes not wrong. I counted. Its 98.

Whoa, I just went back and looked at her posts from the last two anniversaries. They were all 98 roses, too!

I stared at the flurry of comments, my phone feeling heavy in my hand. A cold knot formed in my stomach. Refusing to believe it, I counted them myself. Twice. They were right. One was missing.

I pushed the roses aside and sank onto the sofa, where I sat for the rest of the day, the silence of the apartment pressing in on me.

It was long after dark when the front door finally opened, and Jackson walked in. He brought a gust of cold night air with him, and something else: the pure, unfamiliar scent of flowers.

1

The apartment was dark. Eleanor? Jackson called out, his voice echoing slightly as he fumbled for the switch.

The light flooded the room.

He saw me on the sofa and frowned. Nora, why are you sitting in the dark?

Before I could answer, his eyes landed on the scattered roses on the floor. His expression shifted to surprise. What happened? Why did you take them apart?

I stood up and took his coat from him. Its nothing, I said, my voice steady. I just wanted to count them.

Jackson froze for a second.

I continued, Its strange, though. There were only ninety-eight. One was missing.

He looked down, busying himself with the cufflinks on his shirt. I couldnt see his face.

After a few seconds, he looked up, his expression casual. The florist must have made a mistake. Ill have them send another one over tomorrow to make up for it.

He leaned in and kissed my forehead, then turned and headed for the bathroom to shower.

I stood there, motionless. The scent that clung to him wasn't cologne. It was the pure, unadulterated fragrance of a hundred different blossoms mixed together.

A moment later, I pulled Jacksons phone from his coat pocket.

In five years of marriage, I had never once looked through his phone. This was a first.

The passcode was my birthday. It had always been my birthday.

I opened his Instagram. It didnt take long to find the account he used to order the flowers. The owner was a woman. Her handle was Sophie. Her profile picture was a simple, hand-drawn sunflower.

I opened their DMs.

The conversation was cleanjust a series of orders and confirmations. No flirting, nothing overtly inappropriate.

But as I scrolled up, my thumb stopped.

He had been ordering from her for the last three years. Jackson was a creature of habit; once he found something he liked, he stuck with it. That wasn't the strange part.

The strange part was that he had kept three full years of their chat history.

Jackson had a quirk. He compulsively cleared his chat logs. No conversation ever lasted more than a week.

I was the only exception. From our first date to our wedding day, Jackson had saved every single message wed ever exchanged. He was meticulous about backing them up whenever he got a new phone.

And now, there was a second exception.

Taking a deep breath, I navigated to Sophies profile. Amidst a sea of floral arrangements and shop promotions, one post stood out.

It was a photo of a delicate hand holding a single red rose. The caption read: Even a single petal of your truth is more than enough.

It was posted today.

Jackson hadnt commented. But he had liked it.

In that instant, I felt the floor drop out from under me.

I dont know how long I stood there before the bathroom door opened. Jackson walked out, toweling his hair. He saw me with his phone and paused, but then a teasing smile played on his lips. Eleanor, finally decided to see what Im hiding?

I turned to face him. There wasnt a trace of guilt on his face, only the familiar, gentle mockery.

I forced my own expression to remain neutral and held up the phone, showing him Sophies post.

One rose was missing from my bouquet, I said, my voice flat. And this was posted on our anniversary.

Jackson, I need an explanation.

He actually looked surprised. Its just a coincidence, Nora.

I held his gaze. You liked her post. And you saved three years of your messages.

The smile vanished from his face. Silence stretched between us.

Finally, he sat down next to me on the sofa, took my hand, and sighed.

Eleanor, its not what you think.

I saved the chat history to keep track of the orders, he said. They messed up an order once and refused to admit it, so I started keeping the logs as proof.

As for the like? It was just a mindless tap. Thats it.

I said nothing.

At first blush, the excuse sounded reasonable. But I knew Jackson better than that. He had an almost pathological intolerance for incompetence. His last executive assistant, a woman who had been with him for years, was transferred after making a single, minor error.

For Jackson to break his own rule for this florist meant she was special.

Seeing my silence, his brow furrowed. Eleanor? You dont trust me?

I looked at him, my voice quiet but firm. If thats the case, then you can delete her contact and we can find a new florist. Right?

His face hardened. You really dont believe me!

I didnt answer, just kept my eyes locked on his.

His expression shifted, a flicker of anger passing through his eyes. He stood up abruptly, his voice cold, as if he were daring me.

Fine. Do whatever you want.

I nodded slowly. Then, right there in front of him, I deleted Sophie from his contacts.

Are you satisfied now? he snapped.

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response.

He snatched the phone back from my hand, turned on his heel, and stalked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with a resounding crack.

The force of it seemed to travel through the floorboards and up my spine. I collapsed back onto the sofa, the strength draining out of me. Only then did I notice that my hands were trembling violently.

2

The days that followed were cold and silent.

Jackson and I were locked in a stalemate. He didnt make his usual move to apologize and smooth things over, and I didnt press the issue of "Sophie" any further.

But I knew. Even if nothing physical had happened, the balance of a normal relationship between a man and a womana married man and another womanhad been broken.

On the tenth day of the cold war, I came home from work to find Jackson in the kitchen, wearing an apron.

Hearing the door, he turned and gave me a small smile, as if the frost of the past week and a half had never existed.

Go wash up. Dinners almost ready.

I hesitated for a moment before heading to the bathroom. As I passed the dining table, I stopped.

There was a bouquet of flowers in a vase. The branded card of a well-known downtown florist dangled conspicuously from a ribbon, placed as if to ensure I would see it.

It wasn't from Sophies shop.

I understood immediately. This was Jacksons peace offering. This was his way of bending.

I stood there for a long moment before walking over and adjusting the flowers in the vase.

When I came out of the bathroom, dinner was on the table. The sight made me feel a little dizzy, like I was looking back in time.

The last time Jackson had cooked was years ago.

It was back when he was first launching his company. Every penny we had was tied up in the business. There was a stretch of time where we were so broke, we couldnt even afford two packs of ramen. Wed make one and supplement it with cheap spaghetti noodles.

Jackson would always pick the ramen out and put it in my bowl, leaving himself with a soggy pile of overcooked pasta.

Then his company took off. He started taking me to the finest restaurants, buying me anything I wanted. We never had to huddle over a tiny kitchen table, our foreheads nearly touching as we shared a bowl of noodles again.

But sometimes, I missed it. I missed the people we used to be, the ones who were fiercely, desperately in love. Not the people we had becometwo successful individuals shining in our own orbits, with less and less to say to each other every day.

The cold war between us ended with that meal, an unspoken truce.

But that didnt mean I had forgiven him.

If I were twenty, I would have slapped him across the face and walked out.

But Im twenty-nine. The law firm I co-founded with my partner is just getting off the ground. Our most significant retainer is with Jacksons company. Keeping that connection is critical for our growth.

So, I made a choice. I would turn a blind eye.

As long as Jackson didnt cross my ultimate line, I wouldnt burn everything to the ground.

3

Two weeks later, I was in a conference room, walking a client through the details of their case, when a wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to excuse myself. I rushed to the restroom and spent the next five minutes dry-heaving over the toilet.

A terrible premonition washed over me.

A trip to the doctor confirmed it. I was a little over two months pregnant. The doctor said the baby was perfectly healthy.

But he had come at the worst possible time.

After a long moment, I crumpled the ultrasound report in my fist and took a deep, shuddering breath. This wasn't a decision I could make alone. Jackson was the father. He had a right to know, a right to have a say.

A small, foolish part of me wondered if this was the universe giving us a chance to repair things.

I drove to his office building. The young woman at the reception desk recognized me instantly, offering a bright smile. Good afternoon, Mrs. Pierce.

I nodded back. As I did, my gaze fell on a long table against the wall, and I froze.

On the table sat a large cardboard box filled with individually wrapped single roses.

The receptionist, ever observant, noticed my stare. Oh, that? she explained cheerfully. Valentines Day is tomorrow, so Mr. Pierce ordered a flower for every woman in the company. Just grab one on your way out.

I didnt respond. My eyes were glued to the familiar sunflower logo printed on the side of the box.

After what felt like an eternity, I managed to pull my gaze away, my voice raspy. Does he do this every year?

She thought for a moment. I think he started about three years ago.

It felt like a physical blow to my chest. I forced a smile that felt like cracking glass and made my way to the elevators.

Outside Jacksons office, I raised my hand to knock, but the door was pulled open from the inside.

A pretty young woman stepped out, her face lit with a smile that instantly vanished the moment she saw me.

We stared at each other. Neither of us spoke.

Jackson emerged right behind her. The color drained from his face when he saw me, and he instinctively moved to stand slightly in front of Sophie.

Eleanor. Its not what you think.

His words came out in a rush. She was just dropping off the flowers. The Valentines Day order was placed months ago, it was too late to cancel

I held up a hand, cutting him off.

Jackson, stop trying to explain. It just makes you sound ridiculous.

His face darkened, but before he could speak, Sophie stepped forward, her chin lifted defiantly.

Mrs. Pierce, thats a horrible thing to say. Its not like that between Mr. Pierce and me. Our relationship isn't sordid like youre implying!

She bit her lip, then turned to look at Jackson with an expression of pure, doe-eyed devotion.

Im the one who has feelings for him, but hes never once reciprocated. His heart belongs completely to you! she declared, her voice ringing with sincerity. Hes a wonderful man, Mrs. Pierce. You should cherish him.

I looked at her, my own expression calm.

Do you know what I do for a living?

Sophie blinked, confused.

I continued, my voice level and cold. Im a lawyer. Ive seen more criminals put on a show in a courtroom than you can imagine. Weeping, sobbing, performances that could move an entire jury. Your little damsel-in-distress act? Its amateur hour. Only the most desperate kind of fool would fall for it.

Sophies face flushed a deep crimson, and tears welled in her eyes.

Jackson saw her wounded expression, and his own face contorted with anger and embarrassment.

Eleanor, thats enough, he said, his voice low and dangerous.

I let out a small, humorless laugh. Oh, is this too much for you?

Jackson, Im a litigator. I have a vocabulary of much sharper, much crueler words I havent even used yet. Would you like a sample?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his patience clearly gone. Eleanor, what do you want?

My hand instinctively went to my stomach. A hot sting filled my eyes.

I fought to keep my voice from trembling. Jackson, Im giving you one choice. Either she disappears from my life forever, or I do.

You choose.

He frowned, letting out a long, heavy sigh. Eleanor, can you please stop being so dramatic?

And just like that, the frantic, emotional haze that had clouded my mind evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hard clarity.

It was foolish of me to hold out hope for a man whose heart had already strayed.

I took a deep breath and pulled my lips into a semblance of a smile.

Fine, I said. I understand.

Jackson, I want a divorce.

First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "282775" to read the entire book.