“And every time, you roll your eyes.”
“Because I am a grown woman.”
He smiled, kissed my forehead, and pulled the door shut behind him.
I watched his car disappear down the street.
Then the house became silent.
For the first two days, everything felt normal.
I worked from home, made simple dinners, watched television in the evenings, and talked to Carter every night before bed.
On Wednesday morning, the doorbell rang.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.
When I opened the door, a florist stood on the porch holding a large bouquet of red roses.
“Olivia Carter?”
“Yes.”
“These are for you.”
I looked at the card.
There was no message.
Only a number.
15.
I stared at it.
Fifteen roses.
Exactly fifteen.
I carried them inside and placed them on the kitchen table.
Fifteen years.
That’s how long Carter and I had been married.
I told myself it was a coincidence.
Maybe Carter had arranged them before leaving.
Except when I called him, he sounded genuinely confused.
“Roses?”
“Fifteen of them.”
There was a pause.
“I didn’t send those.”
I laughed nervously. “Then somebody has a strange sense of humor.”
“Olivia, throw them away.”
His voice had changed.
“What?”
“Just… don’t keep them.”
Before I could ask why, he said he had to go and ended the call.
That was the first moment I felt afraid.
The next morning, another bouquet arrived.
Again, fifteen red roses.
Again, no message.
Only a number.
14.
My hands went cold.
I counted them twice.
Fourteen.
The following morning, another bouquet.
13.
Then twelve.
Then eleven.
Every morning, the same roses.
The same florist.
The same blank card.
Only the number changed.
By Saturday, I had stopped sleeping.
I searched the house for anything that might explain it.
Old photographs.
Wedding albums.
Carter’s desk.
Boxes in the attic.
I found nothing.
Then, on Sunday morning, I received bouquet number ten.
But this time, the card wasn’t blank.
There were four words written beneath the number.
“You should ask Carter.”
I dropped the flowers.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I called Carter immediately.
He didn’t answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
Three years earlier, while cleaning out the attic, I had found an old photograph of Carter standing beside another woman.
He had told me she was a former colleague.
I had believed him.
Now I went back upstairs.
I pulled the boxes from the closet and searched until I found the photograph.
On the back was a date.
June 17.
And underneath it, written in Carter’s handwriting:
“Fifteen years ago. The night everything changed.”
I stared at those words until they blurred.
Our wedding anniversary was June 17.
But there was something else.
A name.
Written faintly beneath the photograph.
Emily.
I had never heard Carter mention an Emily.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered without speaking.
A woman’s voice whispered,
“Olivia, you need to listen carefully.”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Emily.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Why are you sending me roses?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
Silence.
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
“Someone wants you to find the truth before bouquet number one arrives.”
I looked at the roses on the kitchen table.
Ten flowers.
Ten days left.
“What happens at number one?”
Emily breathed shakily.
“You find out what your husband did fifteen years ago.”
The call ended.
I stood completely still.
Then my eyes fell on the photograph again.
Carter wasn’t standing beside Emily.
He was holding a baby.
A tiny newborn wrapped in a white blanket.
And on the back of the photograph, beneath Emily’s name, was one final sentence:
“His daughter is still alive.”
For fifteen years, I had believed Carter and I had built our life from the beginning.
But suddenly, I realized something terrifying.
Maybe I hadn’t been there at the beginning at all.
Maybe I had been brought into a story that had started long before I ever met him.
And somewhere, someone was counting down the days until I discovered exactly what Carter had tried to bury.
