somewhere inside it.
Until this morning.
Until fifty-six yellow roses appeared on my anniversary.
And hidden among them was an ugly paper flower carrying James’s initial.
My hands trembled as I searched through the bouquet again.
This time, beneath the ribbon, I noticed a small cream envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Mary.
The handwriting wasn’t James’s.
I opened it anyway.
Inside was a card.
The first sentence made the room tilt around me.
“Darling, you won’t believe why I had to disappear. Adrian lied to you.”
I
