My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from an unknown number:
Hey, sorry about the mess. I think you should see this.
I opened the attachment. A photo of a hotel suite, the bed neatly made, a bottle of the same expensive perfume that had filled the bedroom that morning perched on the nightstand. On the pillow, a handwritten note:
For you, Caroline.
My breath caught. I turned, heart pounding, and saw a small envelope tucked under the bathroom sink. I pulled it out, my fingers trembling, and unfolded the paper inside.
It was a receipt from a boutique boutique perfume shop, dated two days ago, for a bottle of “Eau de Lune”—the same scent he had sprayed that morning. The total was $250, paid with his credit card.
My mind raced. The message from Caroline, the perfume, the secret meeting—all of it snapped into a new shape. He hadn’t just been meeting a secretary; he had been seeing someone who knew his preferences intimately, someone who could order the exact fragrance he loved.
