Two Floral Arrangements And One King Suite Secret

I was using my husband’s phone to reconcile our shared spending accounts when I accidentally tapped on the Yearly Spend Review in his primary banking app. I smiled at the first few pages, filled with slightly playful, personalized stats, until two lines of text slammed into me: [Your most frequent special instruction is: ‘Extra spicy and please include the free side of pickled chillies. [Your longest special instruction was: ‘I’ve ordered two separate floral arrangements. Boss, please match the addresses carefully and ensure there is absolutely no mix-up.’] Neither of us eats anything spicy, and we actively avoid anything with pickled chillies. And every time, I only received one bouquet of flowers. The next page was even clearer: “Total spending on Valentine’s Day (February 14th) was $3,400. The most expensive single charge was $1,980 for a King Suite at The Sterling Hotel.” I remembered that day with absolute clarity. I was traveling for work. We had video-chatted for an hour before bed, lamenting that this was the first time we couldn’t be together for Valentine’s. He was lying in our bed at home. I tried to open his transaction history to find the corresponding charges, but the trail was completely wiped. I didn’t find any suspicious contacts in his phone, either. He walked past the kitchen then, and the screen flashed back to the main summary page. He chuckled. “Find anything interesting? Did you discover you married the perfect man?” I nodded, playing the part. “Absolutely perfect.” I immediately used his phone to text his best friends’ group chat: “Guess who I’m with tonight?”

1 I sent the message right in front of Hudson’s face. He shot me a look of mild annoyance—a warning, but nothing more—and didn’t seem concerned. The replies flew in almost instantly: “Who else, you old ball and chain!?” “Seriously, man? Another show of affection? You’re killing the vibe! How are we supposed to hang out in peace?” “I swear, you need an intervention. Just you and your wife. Enough!” “Kick him out of the group. I can’t handle this. Bring him back when I get a ring on someone.” Hudson (or ‘Hud’ as his friends called him) had a soft, indulgent smile. “Satisfied now? They’re going to give me hell for this again. They already call me ‘Wife Guy’ constantly.” He likely didn’t notice that my hand was shaking. The knowledge that Hudson Clarke might be cheating hit me with a physical force that left me winded. We had always shared everything—all accounts, all passwords. There had never been a need for secrets. I had always assumed that a shift in a relationship would have a preamble, a process of decay. Not this sudden, brutal awakening, like a punch in the face. The fact that he handed me the phone so readily proved how utterly confident he was in his cover-up. Pushing him now would only expose my hand. I passed the phone back, feigning an air of easy indifference. “Congratulations. You passed the test. For now.” He puffed out his chest a little, a genuinely satisfied look on his face. “Yes, ma’am! I’ll keep up the exemplary performance. Our beautiful life together? Mission accomplished.” His expression was so natural, his performance so effortless. If I hadn’t seen the annual report with my own eyes just moments ago, I would never have suspected him. Never. 2 The next day, Hudson left for the office at his usual, slightly-too-early time. Six months ago, a minor incident—a fender-bender that made him late for a key meeting—cost him a promotion. Ever since, he had gotten into the habit of leaving thirty minutes early, just in case of an unexpected delay. It was a perfectly logical and professional habit, but now, the extra half-hour felt sinister. Hudson was a dedicated night owl, someone who prized his sleep. Would he really sacrifice thirty minutes of slumber every day just for a single past mistake? Maybe others would, but not someone as self-assured and driven as Hudson. The lost promotion had been quickly replaced by one that had put him in an even higher position than his initial goal. Just as he reached the garage door, I called out from behind him. I smiled. “Forgot to gas up the SUV yesterday. You can drop me off today, right?” A momentary blankness flashed across his face, but he recovered instantly. “Sure thing.” Just before getting in, I held out my hand. “Hand me your phone. I need to order a milk shake on the app—mine’s buried in my work bag. Pull over right outside the office park, okay?” This time, his hesitation was obvious. I blinked innocently. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want one? I’ll just get one for myself.” “No, no,” he said quickly. “I actually just ordered. They had a special—two for one—so I grabbed two Americanos. Why don’t you see if you want one of mine?” His ‘Awaiting Pickup’ screen showed two ready Americanos. I quickly swiped through his other recent orders. He had already cleared everything else. A man focused on an affair is more meticulous than any professional. I’m a game designer; I don’t make useless moves. This small order proved, at minimum, that two people needed to meet—either in the car or right outside the office. Otherwise, the thirty-minute time cushion and the extra coffee were illogical. I had him stop midway for a quick errand to buy a croissant. The entire drive, I scrolled through social media on his phone. Hudson grew visibly more anxious. And I? I was simply waiting for the inevitable phone call. 3 Predictably, with three minutes left until 8:30 AM, Hudson’s phone buzzed. I felt his entire body twitch slightly. The second he connected the call, he spoke quickly: “Hey, Skylar, what’s up so early? I’m driving my wife to work.” I gave him a look—half smile, half accusation—and then heard a voice on the other end: “Oh, no problem, Mr. Clarke. I won’t bother you and your wife. I’ll just ask you when you get into the office.” I spoke up directly. “Please don’t worry about us. If it’s work-related, just say it. Don’t delay your day.” The person on the other end was clearly not ready with an excuse. She stammered for a moment, then said: “It’s better if you see the data first, Mr. Clarke. It’s hard to explain over the phone right now.” He hung up, then immediately complained: “These young assistants are so scatterbrained. She knows she can’t explain it over the phone, yet she calls me first thing in the morning. You have no idea how stressful it is to work with these people every day.” As we approached the next intersection, I reminded him: “Turn left here. Go to your office first. You’re cutting it close, and I can just grab a cab from there.” He was clearly reluctant. “Don’t be silly. I rarely get to drive you. It’s only a few more blocks. I’ll take you the rest of the way—it’s hell trying to find a cab during rush hour.” “No, thanks. Remember when being late cost you that promotion? I don’t want to be a speed bump on your road to success.” Seeing the icy lack of warmth in my expression, he didn’t argue further, signaled, and drove toward his company’s parking garage. Once we pulled in, I reached for the door handle. A moment later, I let out a small gasp as my lipstick slipped out of my hand and rolled under the passenger seat. I bent down, searching for it, but couldn’t quite reach it. Just then, the passenger door was yanked open, and a clear, bright voice rang out: “Mr. Clarke, you didn’t have time to grab my coffee today, did you? I brought my own. Why didn’t you text or call? I waited so long for you!” 4 The words died in her throat as she saw me crouched on the floor, hunting for the lipstick. She froze. Hudson, in the driver’s seat, also went rigid. I straightened up, tucked my hair behind my ear, and slipped the lipstick into my bag. Then, I held up a small, silver item I’d retrieved from the floor mat. “Someone left this earring in your car, Hudson. Remember to give it back.” It was a simple crescent moon stud. Nothing special. The only coincidence was that the young woman who had just opened the door was wearing a matching set, clearly the same style. I gave the girl a polite, distant smile, indicating for her to move so I could exit the vehicle. She took a hesitant step back. Hudson was already scrambling out of his side. The girl looked at him nervously. Hudson didn’t spare her a glance, marching straight toward me. She managed to get out a single syllable: “Mr.—” Without looking back, Hudson cut her off sharply: “Go back up to the office, Skylar. We’ll talk later.” The girl—Skylar—walked backward toward the elevator, craning her neck to look at us until the last possible moment. Hudson tried to take my hand. I pulled away. He sighed, sounding exasperated. “You’re not going to get the wrong idea, are you, Cami?” I couldn’t help but laugh, a hollow, bitter sound. “A two-for-one coffee special?” “No advance warning and not answering her call?” “Didn’t meet up, but she rushed down to the garage anyway to intercept you?” “Hudson, I trusted you. Did you really think I was an idiot?” He didn’t answer, but stubbornly tried to take my hand again. It was our old ritual, the one we used after every argument over the past eight years. Taking hands, drawing close, sharing warmth and energy to neutralize the anger. It was how we had solved countless problems and extinguished endless little flames. But we both knew this time was different. 5 He refused to admit it. He scrambled for an explanation: “She’s a new hire at the company. She rents a place nearby. Sometimes, if we have an early meeting, I offer her a ride. We spoke about it last night.” “She often brings me coffee, so when I ordered this morning, I got her one as a thank-you, to return the favor.” “The reason I didn’t tell you was precisely because I was afraid you’d misunderstand! I drove the whole way scared to death, thinking about how I could explain this without you getting the wrong idea.” I cut him off. “If you weren’t guilty, why would you be ‘scared to death’ of my ‘misunderstanding’? Do you think I’m that petty and insecure?” He immediately shifted to appeasement. “Of course not! My wife is the most generous person I know. It was my paranoia. I promise I’ll tell you everything next time. This will never happen again.” He finally managed to grab my hand, then kissed it. “Please don’t be angry, babe. Today was a total accident. Tomorrow, I’m going to order a custom Camille Rhodes Only seat cover for this side of the car, and I’ll never let anyone else sit there again.” “Tonight, I’m taking you to get that designer bag you’ve been looking at. No waiting for a sale, no looking for a private seller. We’ll buy it straight from the boutique. Okay? Let me make it up to you. Please.” Hudson was a man who knew how to swallow his pride, especially with me. But the sheer calculation and deceit revealed in the annual report made my heart ache. I held up his phone, shaking it slightly. “How about this? I’ll play a game with you. If you pass this test unscathed, I’ll forgive you everything.” 6 His first instinct was to refuse. I was a game designer. He knew I understood every facet of strategy and risk. He didn’t want to play a game where I had the advantage. “Don’t worry. It’s like last night. Send a message to your friends. If you pass the test, I’ll believe everything you just told me.” He visibly relaxed. “The same group chat as yesterday?” Hudson had a wide social circle, but only a handful of truly close friends. After yesterday, I was fairly certain they were all in on his lies. But that made them the perfect targets for the truth. I shook my head. “No, no group message this time. I’ll use my phone to message them individually. You clock in on your app first, then put your phone on silent.” He didn’t understand, but he obeyed. He carefully placed his phone in my hand, then begged, “Once I’ve done this, can you please stop being angry? I can’t stand you shutting me out.” I looked at his desperate, pleading expression and felt a wave of infinite mockery wash over me. How can someone appear to love you so much, yet betray you so effortlessly? Was loyalty just a meaningless buzzword? Or was the consequence of betrayal so laughably minor that no one took it seriously anymore? I looked at Hudson and texted his absolute closest friend, Jesse Miller, from my own phone: “I’m at the hospital. Hud left this morning saying he was meeting you. Why isn’t he answering? It’s an emergency. Tell him to call me back.” Hudson’s face changed instantly. A brief flash of barely perceptible terror flickered across his eyes. He’d lost his composure briefly when Skylar showed up, but he’d found his footing quickly. This time, it was complete disorientation. Jesse, his closest ally, responded quickly. And his answer did not disappoint. 7 “Yeah, he’s with me! He was just here a minute ago. Went to the restroom, I think. Wait, I’ll find him and tell him to call you. Are you at the hospital alone? Are you okay?” I ignored his question and replied: “Just tell him to call me back fast. If I can’t find him during a crisis, what’s the point of this life we built?” The second I sent that text, Hudson’s phone (on silent in my hand) started to vibrate wildly. It was Jesse. He called two or three times, and I simply hit ‘ignore.’ Jesse then sent a stream of frantic texts to Hudson: “Dude, what the hell is going on? Answer your phone! Your wife is at the hospital!” “Your wife’s mood is bad. I’ve never heard her talk like that. Did you get caught?” He followed it up with a screenshot of my earlier text to him. Jesse continued to panic: “How am I supposed to answer that? How? You are totally screwed this time.” “Where the hell are you? You couldn’t coordinate a cover story with me? If you blow this, don’t blame me.” “I swear, man, I don’t get it. You don’t get enough of her in the office? The pictures look so average; she’s nowhere near Cami. How are you so obsessed? Didn’t you guys always just use your lunch break before?” I handed the phone back to Hudson, watching his expression morph from slight panic to utter disbelief, culminating in a cold, white shock.