It wasn’t a rushed kiss. It wasn’t an accident. It was comfortable, slow, and familiar. That was what shattered me more than any words could—because comfort meant this had been going on for a long time.

I pushed the door open.

Mariana was leaned back against the edge of the mahogany desk, wrapped in Rodrigo’s arms. His hands rested on her waist, while her fingers touched his chest with a quiet, practiced intimacy.

The bouquet slipped from my hands first, hitting the floor and scattering petals across the tile. Then the designer bag dropped with a heavy thud that echoed into the hallway, causing several passing employees to stop and turn.

Mariana looked up.

I didn’t see guilt in her eyes. I saw panic—the sudden terror of someone caught before they could finish executing their plan.

“Ethan…” she stammered. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Outside the glass windows, right beside the custom pink SUV I had just bought for her, a voice from the gathering crowd yelled, “No way! Is that his wife?!”