I shift the cake box to my left hand as I step out of the silver car and close the door with a gentle thud. The cool air brushes against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms, but the chill does little to dampen my excitement. I glance at my reflection in the darkened car window and smooth both hands over my new dress, checking the fabric one last time. A shy smile pulls at my lips when I imagine Mark's reaction. He has not seen me wear it yet, and I can already picture the surprised look on his face before he pulls me into his arms.
I know I should not be here. Mark has warned me several times that this month is especially demanding, with investors arriving from different countries and meetings filling nearly every hour of his day. He has complained about barely having enough time to eat, and I know he would probably prefer that I stay home rather than interrupt him. Still, I could not resist surprising him today. For the past two weeks, he has mentioned how much he craves cranberry cake, bringing it up during dinner, teasing me about it during our calls, and even joking about dreaming of it when he is too tired to think about anything else.
As his wife, I have always taken pleasure in remembering the little things that make him happy. I arranged the cake this morning, chose the dress because I wanted to look beautiful when I saw him, and slipped the new apartment key into my pocket because I wanted to surprise him with that too. We have been talking about having a place of our own, somewhere that belongs entirely to us, and I have spent the entire morning imagining his expression when I place the key in his hand.
With that thought warming me, I walk toward the glass doors of Mark's company.
“Violetta. ”Nolan rises so abruptly when I enter that his chair scrapes across the tiled floor. The unexpected noise makes me stop, and I look at him with a small frown. He is Mark's secretary, and I have known him long enough to recognize how composed he usually is, which makes his sudden nervousness immediately noticeable. “Mark is in a meeting,” he says, glancing toward the elevators before looking back at me.
“I know.” I lift the cake box slightly. “I won't disturb him for long. I just brought him something.”
Nolan moves around his desk and approaches me with an uneasy smile. “You really don't need to go upstairs. I can take that to him.”
I look down at the cake box and then back at him. “And deprive myself of seeing his face when he realizes I remembered what he wanted?”
His smile widens, but the expression does not reach his eyes. “Of course not. I just thought you might want to wait here.”
“Why?”
The question catches him off guard. His fingers tighten around the edge of his desk before he releases it. “There is nothing wrong,” he says quickly.
I study him for another moment, wondering why he looks as though he is trying to keep me from entering my own husband's office. “Nolan, you know Mark gave me access to his office. I have come up here plenty of times before.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like I'm about to walk into a restricted area?”
His mouth opens, but no answer comes immediately. He finally forces a laugh and steps aside. “You're right. I'm probably making this more complicated than it is.”
“You are,” I say with a smile.
I walk toward the elevator before he can find another excuse to stop me. When the doors open, I step inside and press the button for the tenth floor. As the doors begin to close, I catch Nolan watching me from behind his desk, and the worried expression he fails to hide makes me pause.
The doors shut before I can ask him about it. I slip my fingers into my pocket and touch the small key waiting there. The familiar shape immediately brings back the excitement I felt that morning. I picture myself handing it to Mark and telling him that our apartment is finally ready. I imagine him laughing, pulling me close, and telling me that I always manage to surprise him.
The elevator hums as it climbs, and I lean against the wall while my smile grows. Nolan's strange behavior still lingers in the back of my mind, but I dismiss it as unnecessary worry. Mark has been working himself exhausted lately, and perhaps Nolan is simply trying to protect his boss from another interruption.
When the elevator reaches the tenth floor, the doors slide open with a soft chime. I step out and immediately slow down when I notice how silent the hallway is.
I glance toward the offices lining both sides of the corridor, expecting to see assistants moving between desks or hear the ringing of phones, but there is no movement anywhere. On an ordinary Tuesday, this floor is never quiet. Mark's company runs on constant activity, and even when he is buried in meetings, the hallway is usually filled with voices and hurried footsteps.
I tighten my grip on the cake box and walk forward.
Perhaps everyone is gathered in another meeting room, I tell myself. Perhaps Mark has managed to clear his schedule for an hour. The thought makes my smile return because, if that is the case, I might actually get more time with him than I expected.
I reach his office and stop outside the door. For a moment, I smooth my dress again and check my hair with my phone. I laugh softly at myself when I realize how nervous I am. I am his wife, not some girl going on her first date, yet my heart still beats faster at the thought of surprising him.
I place my hand on the door handle. “Mark, darling!” I push the door open.The room is dim, and I step inside while reaching for the light switch. The sudden brightness makes me blink, but I recover quickly and lift the cake box with a smile. “I brought your favorite ca—”
The rest of the word disappears as my body goes still. Mark is standing near the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, but he is not alone. At first, I see only the woman standing in front of him. Her back is turned toward me, and my mind refuses to attach a name to her. Then I recognize the silk dress covering her shoulders.
My stomach drops. It is the dress I gave my mother for her birthday. She had complained that the material was too thin and the design too inappropriate to wear outside the house. Yet she is wearing it now, standing in my husband's office. I stare at Mark's hands resting around her waist.
The cake box slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a wet thud. The lid pops open as the cranberry cake tumbles onto the polished tiles. The sound echoes through the office, but neither of them moves immediately.
Mark turns first, our eyes meeting. I wait for him to pull his hands away.He doesn't.
My heart begins pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears. I look at his face, searching for surprise, guilt, or even panic, but he only stares at me with a guarded expression. “Mark,” I say, and my voice comes out unsteady. He finally releases my mother, but the damage has already been done. “What is going on?”
Mark takes a breath. “Violetta, I can explain.”
I laugh once, but there is no humor in the sound. “Explain what?” I point toward my mother, unable to stop my hand from shaking. “Why is she here?” Neither of them answers, the silence making my chest tighten. “Why was she in your arms?”
“Violetta—”
“No.” I take another step into the office, forcing myself to look at my mother. “I asked you a question, Mom. Why were you standing in my husband's arms?” My mother looks at me calmly. There is no shock on her face, no embarrassment, and no attempt to deny what I have seen. That calmness makes my anger rise faster than the betrayal itself. “Say something,” I demand.
She glances at Mark before looking back at me. “You shouldn't have come here.”
For a moment, I simply stare at her. “You're telling me I shouldn't have come here?” My voice rises as I gesture toward the cake scattered across the floor. “I came here because I wanted to surprise my husband. I brought him the cake he has been talking about for two weeks, and I came wearing a dress I thought he would like. What exactly did you expect me to find?”
My mother's expression remains unchanged. I turn toward Mark. “Did you know she was coming?” He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. The gesture answers me before his mouth does. “You knew.”
“Violetta, listen to me.”
“How long?” He looks at me. “How long has this been happening?”
“I said I can explain.”
“And I asked you how long. ”My voice cracks, but I refuse to let the tears forming in my eyes fall. I take another step toward him, anger pushing aside the shock that had kept me frozen. “You knew I was coming here today?”
“No.”
“Did you know she would be here?” He hesitates prompting me to glare at him. “Answer me.”
“Yes.”
The single word hits harder than I expect. I look at my mother again, trying to understand how the woman who raised me could stand in front of me without even looking ashamed. Instead of stepping away from Mark, she moves closer to him. “Mom, don't.” She ignores me. “Don't you dare.” I scream. My mother places a hand against Mark's chest. I rush forward, but before I can reach them, she turns her face toward him and kisses him. Something inside me snaps. I shove the nearest chair so hard that it scrapes violently across the floor and crashes into the side of Mark's desk. “Stop!” My mother pulls away, but I am already moving toward them. “How could you?” The words come out of me before I can stop them. I look at Mark, then at my mother, my hands trembling as I struggle to contain the rage burning through me. “How could either of you do this to me?”
Mark steps toward me. “Violetta, please.”
I immediately step back. “Don't come near me.”
“I know how this looks.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “How this looks?” I point toward my mother. “You had your hands on her. She kissed you in front of me, and you're standing there telling me I need to worry about how it looks?”
“It's complicated.”
I let out another bitter laugh. “No. It isn't.” I turn toward my mother. “You are my mother.” She folds her arms. “You knew exactly who he was when you chose to do this.”
“Violetta, you don't understand—”
“Then make me understand.” My voice echoes through the office. “Tell me why my mother is kissing my husband. Tell me why you were in his office. Tell me how long you've been lying to me.”
My mother remains silent. I look at Mark and he doesn't answer either. The tears finally spill down my cheeks, and I wipe them away angrily. “I hate that I'm standing here asking questions when I already know the answers.”
Mark takes another step toward me. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
His words make me stare at him. “You never wanted to hurt me?” I reach into my pocket and pull out the small key I have been carrying all morning. “This was supposed to be for you.” Mark looks at the key in my palm. I swallow against the ache in my throat. “I came here to give you the key to our apartment. I wanted to tell you that we finally had a place that belonged to us. I spent the whole morning imagining how happy you would be.” My fingers close around the key. “I thought I was bringing you a cake and the beginning of our future.” I walk toward him and hold the key out. He reaches for it and instead of placing it in his hand, I drop it at his feet. The tiny metallic sound against the floor seems louder than the crash of the chair. “You can keep it.”
“Violetta—”
“I don't want it anymore.” I turn toward the door, but Mark catches my wrist. I look down at his hand before meeting his eyes. “Let me go.”
“Please.”
I pull my wrist free. “You should have thought about asking me to stay before you put your hands on her.”
He looks at me helplessly. I shake my head and walk toward the door.
“Violetta, wait.”
I stop with my hand on the handle, but I do not turn around. For a moment, I consider looking back at him one last time. Then I remember the way he stood there with my mother, the way neither of them had rushed to explain themselves, and the way my mother had kissed him while I was still standing in the doorway. I open the door. “I came here because I thought you were my husband,” I say quietly. “Now I don't even know who you are.” I walk out before either of them can answer. This time, when Mark calls my name, I keep walking.