Chapter 6 - Greenery for White Roses
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By 3:00 PM, my personal phone rang. The caller ID showed Calloway Holdings Corporate Office.
I answered smoothly. "Hello, Martin."
"Mrs. Calloway," Martin said, his tone laced with a mix of professional deference and deep anxiety. "I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but I wanted to check if Mr. Calloway had left a specific set of handwritten notes on his desk at the house this morning?"
I set down my sketching pencil. "Notes, Martin?"
"Yes, ma'am," Martin hesitated, lowering his voice so the rest of the executive suite wouldn't hear. "He’s been... unusually distracted today. During the noon recess, I noticed him searching through his briefcase three separate times. When I asked if he was looking for something specific, he just stared into the side compartment and didn't answer me. I thought perhaps he left a memo at home."
A bitter, cold irony settled in my chest.
He didn't notice my presence when I was standing right in front of him, but the sudden absence of a slip of paper was throwing a thirty-million-dollar deal off balance.
"No, Martin," I said, keeping my voice sweet and untroubled. "He didn't leave anything here. He has everything he needs."
"I see," Martin sighed. "Thank you, Mrs. Calloway."
That evening, Graham came home at 6:30 PM—an hour and a half earlier than his usual schedule.
I was sitting in the formal dining room, arranging fresh cut branches of dark green boxwood into a tall crystal vase on the sideboard.
I heard his car, heard his footsteps, and heard the front door open. Once again, I didn't rise to meet him.
Graham walked directly into the dining room. He didn't take off his suit jacket. His tie was slightly crooked, and his eyes were dark with an intensity I hadn't seen since his firm went public five years ago.
He walked up to the sideboard and stopped, his eyes falling on the tall green branches sitting in the vase.
"You changed the flowers," he said. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation.
I trimmed the stem of the last boxwood branch with my brass shears. "The white roses were wilting, Graham."
"You always replace them with white roses," he said, stepping closer. "For ten years, there have been white roses in this room and on my office desk."
"Fashions change," I said lightly, placing the shears on the table. "Greenery lasts much longer. It doesn't require nearly as much care."
May you like
Graham stared at the green leaves, then slowly turned his head to look directly into my eyes. For the first time since I had stood behind the half-open door on our anniversary night, he was actually seeing me.
"Elena," he asked, his voice low and cautious. "Did I do something?"
