Rose Care Guide

I was using the new smart fridge my husband, Julian, had just installed, trying to put together a shopping list for the weekend. Suddenly, a shared family account he’d forgotten to log out of popped up on the screen. It only had one other user profile, one I didn’t recognize. I tapped on it. A list titled “Rose Care Guide” was staring back at me. *Rose is allergic to shellfish, avoid spicy food.* *Rose gets emotional, buy her favorite white chocolate to calm her down.* *Rose gets cold easily, keep the thermostat set to a constant 78 degrees.* I scrolled down with a cold smile, my eyes landing on the last item, a bolded calendar reminder: **“Next Wednesday, take Rose to pick out a wedding gown.”** My face was a mask of calm as I closed the list and picked up my phone to call him. “Darling,” I said, my voice sweet, “does your Rose prefer a classic or modern wedding dress? I’d love to help you pick one out.” … On the other end of the line, my husband Julian’s breath caught for a fraction of a second. “Ava, what kind of joke is this?” His voice, the same warm, magnetic tone I’d known for eight years, was perfectly steady. “What rose? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He let out a low chuckle, his words dripping with practiced affection. “The only rose I have is you, sweetheart.” I clutched the phone, my eyes scanning the dark night outside the window as a smirk played on my lips. “The one from your shared list. The rose who’s going to be trying on wedding gowns.” His voice immediately relaxed, a hint of manufactured realization in his tone. “Oh, *that*. That’s for Mark. He’s getting ready to propose to his girlfriend, and he asked me to help him plan the wedding details.” “You know how he is, a total mess with this stuff. I’ll have to chew him out later for syncing his lists to my account and making my Ava jealous.” It was the perfect excuse. Mark was his best friend from childhood, the best man at our wedding. He was certain I’d never doubt it. “That’s just Mark for you,” he continued smoothly. “Always dumping his problems on me. I’m sorry he made you worry, honey.” “Is that so?” I asked lightly. “You two must be close if he needs you to help him choose his fiancée’s wedding dress.” Julian went right along with it. “You know it. We’ve been brothers since we were kids. Honestly, the way he spoils his girlfriend, I’m almost jealous.” “Ava, don’t overthink this. You’re the only one for me. Is your dress for the gala tomorrow night ready? I can have the driver pick it up.” “No need,” I said. “I’ve already made my own arrangements.” I ended the call, tossed my apron aside, and took a complete screenshot of the list. The lock turned. Not even fifteen minutes had passed before Julian was home. He walked in and immediately wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin in the crook of my neck. He smelled of the cool night air. “Ava, I was still worried. I cancelled the rest of my meetings and came straight home.” He cupped my face, his deep eyes filled with sincerity and concern. “Have I been too busy lately? Have I been neglecting you, letting your mind run wild like this?” “Your voice on the phone… it didn’t sound right. My heart just sank. No business deal is more important than you.” “It’s all my fault. I haven’t been thinking about your feelings these past few weeks.” He took all the blame, shouldered all the responsibility, painting me as the hysterical, paranoid wife seeing ghosts. I stared at the face I had once been so completely lost in, a bitter taste rising in my throat. “No, it’s not you. I think I’m just tired lately.” He let out a quiet, audible sigh of relief. “You silly girl.” He brushed his fingertip against my nose. “Alright, stop worrying. I’ll go run you a bath.” He shrugged off his custom-tailored suit jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a chair. I watched him walk into the bathroom, then reached for the jacket to hang it in the closet. A thick, gold-embossed card fell out of the pocket. I picked it up. It was a collection voucher from a private couture atelier. The name of the custom gown was “Starry Night Rose.” The listed materials and labor hours indicated a price tag that was astronomical. At the bottom, in handwritten script, was the recipient’s information. It wasn’t me. And it wasn’t Mark’s fiancée. Clutching the thin card, I dialed my best friend, Zara. She was a shark—the top divorce lawyer in the city, with a network that was frankly terrifying. “Zara, I’m sending you a name and an address. Find out everything you can. I want to know her connection to Julian.” For the next few days, Julian was the picture of devotion. Kisses in the morning, embraces at night. He started driving me to and from work and even began looking up recipes, cooking elaborate meals for me. He was playing the part of the perfect husband, wracked with guilt over a near-misunderstanding and desperate to make amends. On Tuesday afternoon, Julian’s grandfather called. The old man asked about my health before changing the subject. “Ava, you and Julian have been married three years now. It’s time you started shifting your focus more toward the family.” “A man is in the prime of his career. He needs a supportive wife at home.” “Our Julian is a capable man, and he adores you. You need to make sure the home front is secure for him.” Every word was a nail wrapped in cotton candy. Not fatal, but it pierced deep. I gave a few noncommittal answers to get him off the phone. Julian walked in with a bowl of soup, sitting down next to me. “Grandpa giving you another lecture?” I nodded. He sighed, pulling me into his arms. “Don’t listen to him. He’s from a different era.” “You just do what makes you happy, Ava. I’ll support you no matter what.” He said all the right things. I nestled against his chest, inhaling the sour, rotten scent of fermented lies. On Thursday, Zara called. “I’ve got it all,” she said, her voice cold as ice. “The woman at that address is named Rose Miller. Twenty-three years old. She started at Croft Enterprises three months ago.” “She has that innocent, girl-next-door look. Calls him ‘Jules’ in front of everyone.” “And here’s the kicker. I had someone pull the security footage.” “The day before yesterday, Julian personally took her to the atelier. He was there for the entire fitting, helping her choose the style, watching them take her measurements.” An invisible hand squeezed my heart. Zara scoffed. “It gets worse.” “I got into her private cloud storage. The password was Julian’s birthday.” “It’s filled with photos of them together.” I hung up and opened the folder of photos Zara had sent me. Rose’s album was titled *My Knight*. The most recent picture was posted two days ago. *【J says this gown is all mine, just like he is.】* *【He’s going to give me the title I deserve at the family gala next week.】* The photo was of a breathtakingly beautiful gown, the exact same design as the one on the collection voucher. The fabric was a rare, one-of-a-kind silk that Julian had recently purchased at a high price from a master artisan—a bolt of fabric he told me was for my wedding anniversary gift. I scrolled down. *【On a night when I was falling apart, J drove across the entire city to be with me. He brought me my favorite white chocolate and held me all night.】* *【He said that from now on, he’ll never let me be hurt again.】* The photo was of Julian’s sleeping profile, his brow slightly furrowed, one of his hands tightly gripping Rose’s. The picture was taken in our bedroom. In our marital bed. The home I had poured my heart and soul into designing, a place filled with our memories. I scrolled again. *【My new car from J! He even had the interior customized in my favorite color! He said it’s my own private pumpkin carriage, and one day it will take me to a castle.】* The photo was a selfie of her in the driver’s seat, smiling at the luxury car logo on the steering wheel. It was the new car Julian had brought home last week. The phone slipped from my numb fingers, the screen shattering on the hardwood floor. I sank into the sofa, every ounce of strength draining from my body. Eight years. Eight years from high school sweethearts to husband and wife. All the promises he’d made, all the things he’d done for me, now felt like red-hot branding irons searing my heart over and over again. He said he loved me, yet he held another woman in our bed. He said he was in a late meeting, but he was comforting another woman’s fragile emotions. He said I was his only rose, but he had already prepared a wedding gown and a new title for someone else. A wave of nausea washed over me. I ran to the bathroom and threw up until I was dizzy. Why? What did I do wrong? Julian, how could you do this to me? My heart was torn to shreds, the pain so intense I couldn’t breathe. I leaned against the cold tile, crying until no more sounds would come out. And then, somewhere in the middle of the silent sobs, I started to laugh. I stood up and splashed cold water on my face. My pain wouldn’t earn his guilt. My tears were worthless. *You want to give her a title, Julian? Fine. I’ll help you make it a night to remember.* Just then, Julian pushed the door open. Seeing my state, his expression changed instantly. “Ava, what’s wrong? Why are you so pale?” He rushed over, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead. I looked up at him, my eyes red and swollen from crying. “Julian, I don’t think… I can do this anymore.” He froze, his face a perfect mask of concern and heartache. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? We’re going to the hospital, right now.” He started to grab his coat. “No,” I said, grabbing his wrist. “It’s just… my heart. It feels so heavy.” Julian stopped. He knelt before me, taking my hands in his, his face a portrait of regret. “It’s all my fault. I’ve been so focused on work, I’ve completely ignored how you feel.” “Ava, listen to me. The business doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Only you.” “I’m clearing my schedule tomorrow. We’ll go to Aspen, just like you’ve always wanted. We’ll go see the snow. How does that sound?” He was so earnest, as if all my pain stemmed from his neglect, not his betrayal. I looked at him and, to his surprise, I smiled. “Okay,” I whispered. “Whatever you say.” The family gala next week was actually the Croft Foundation’s annual charity ball. The Crofts were one of the city’s founding families, and the event was a massive affair held at their sprawling country estate. As the most brilliant heir of his generation, Julian was naturally the center of attention. He looked impeccable in a tailored black tuxedo, moving through the crowd of socialites and billionaires with an easy smile. My mother-in-law, dripping in jewels, stood beside him, her face beaming with pride. His grandfather, the patriarch of the Croft empire, sat at the head table, leaning on a dragon-headed cane, his presence commanding the room. “Ava, come here.” The old man beckoned to me. I walked over, and he patted the empty seat beside him. “Sit.” “Tonight’s guests are all very important people. Don’t walk around with such a long face. People will think the Croft family mistreats you.” “Julian is out there building an empire. You need to learn to be the woman behind him. Be softer. More supportive.” “And another thing, it’s about time that belly of yours showed some activity!” His words were gentle, but they carried the weight of an order. I lowered my eyes and said nothing. He seemed ready to continue his lecture, but Julian appeared with a glass of champagne. “Grandpa, are you scolding Ava again?” He stood naturally behind me, resting a hand on the back of my chair and smiling at his grandfather. “Ava hasn’t been feeling well lately. I’ve told her to rest and not to worry about a thing.” He was always like this, flawlessly protecting me in public, giving me the ultimate appearance of respect. The old man grunted and turned to speak to someone else. Julian leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Don’t listen to him. I love you just the way you are.” I smiled, my gaze drifting over his shoulder, where I saw a face that had no business being here. Rose. She was wearing a pale pink slip dress, a white silk shawl draped over her shoulders. Her long hair was curled, her makeup was light and dewy, and her expression was a mixture of timidness and poorly concealed triumph. Her hand rested unconsciously on her lower abdomen. She was standing near one of Julian’s cousins, pretending to be his date. Julian’s eyes flickered in her direction. It was only for a second, but I saw it all: the joy, the possessiveness, the certainty of a man who believes he has won. Halfway through the evening, it was time for the old man to give his speech and announce the company’s major plans for the coming year. As the heir apparent, Julian was called to the stage. He took the microphone and began by reporting on the year’s successes. Then, his tone shifted. His eyes swept across the room before finally landing on me. “I want to thank my grandfather, my uncles, and all of our partners. But most of all, I want to thank my wife, Ava Croft.” Every eye in the room turned to me. “However,” he paused, “tonight, I must also announce a difficult decision.” His gaze finally moved away from my face, becoming cold and unfamiliar. “I, Julian Croft, will be seeking a divorce from Ava.” A wave of gasps and murmurs rippled through the hall. “What? A divorce?” “What’s going on? I thought they were the perfect couple.” “My God, announcing a divorce at the family gala? Is he insane?” His grandfather’s face darkened. He banged his cane on the floor. “Julian! What is the meaning of this nonsense!” Julian ignored him, his voice as cold as a tombstone. “This isn’t nonsense.” “Ava and I have irreconcilable differences. Our marriage has been over in all but name for years.” “For too long, she has been consumed by her own career, neglecting her duties to me and to this family. She has failed to provide the support and care that a wife should.” “That is, until I met a girl who is willing to put family first. A girl who is willing to build a home with me.” “And she is carrying my child. I have a responsibility to her, and I intend to give her the title she deserves.” He turned and extended his hand toward Rose. “Rose, come up here.” With tears streaming down her face, Rose lifted the hem of her dress and, in the dead silence, walked step by step onto the stage. She went to Julian’s side, and he pulled her into his arms. He bent his head, tenderly kissing a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered into the microphone. “I’m sorry you had to endure this.” Then, he looked up, his eyes fixing on me with the air of a judge delivering a sentence. “Ava, for the sake of the years we spent together, you can leave now with your dignity intact. We can keep this civil.” “I will provide you with a settlement generous enough to ensure you live comfortably for the rest of your life.” “But if you choose to make a scene, the only person you will humiliate is yourself.” He had planned it all perfectly. In this place, in this way, he would nail me to a cross of public shame. He wanted everyone to know that it was me, Ava, the barren wife, who was selfishly clinging to the Croft name. And he was just the victim, a man fighting for true love and the family he so desperately wanted. I looked at the two actors on the stage. I looked at the old man at the head table, his face shifting from rage to disappointment. And I smiled. Step by step, I walked onto the stage. I took the other microphone from the stunned emcee. In an instant, every camera, every pair of eyes in the entire estate, was fixed on me.

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