We’d been together for ten years, married for seven, and I still felt that flutter when he looked at me. Tonight was his annual office gala, the big one. He was in the bathroom, humming off-key, wrestling with his tie. Always a struggle, that tie. I leaned against the doorframe, watching him, feeling that familiar warmth spread through me.
He finally got it right, adjusting the collar of his crisp white shirt. He turned to me, a grin playing on his lips. “How do I look, Mrs. [My Initial]?” he teased, using that private nickname. I walked over, smoothed down his lapel. He smelled of his favorite cologne, expensive and subtle.
“Perfect,” I whispered, then my eyes twinkled. “Almost.” I reached for the washable marker I kept in the drawer for labeling craft supplies. He raised an eyebrow, a question in his eyes. “What mischievousness are you up to now?” he chuckled.
“Just adding a little personal touch,” I said, uncapping the marker. He stood still, laughing softly as I pulled back his shirt a little, just enough to expose the smooth skin of his upper chest. Near his collarbone, I wrote a single word, bold and clear, in my looping cursive: MINE. Below it, smaller, I added my initial. “Just so everyone knows,” I murmured, pressing a kiss there.
He looked down, then back at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “A brand, huh?” He pulled me close, kissing my forehead. “Like anyone could ever doubt it.” That’s what I thought too. We shared a moment, wrapped in our private joke, our shared intimacy. He tucked the marker back into my hand, buttoned his shirt, and with one last lingering hug, he was out the door. “Wish me luck!” he called, and I blew him a kiss from the porch.
The house felt quiet after he left. Too quiet. I spent the evening pottering around, tidying things that didn’t need tidying, scrolling aimlessly on my phone. Parties were never my thing, really. But sometimes I missed the buzz. I kept checking my watch. He’d probably be home by midnight, latest. We had talked about it earlier, about ordering takeout and watching a movie when he got back, a little late-night debrief.
Around 10 PM, my phone buzzed. Not him. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but the area code was local. Probably a wrong number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but then a strange feeling made me answer.
“Hello?” I said, a little hesitantly.
There was a pause on the other end, a rustling sound, like someone stepping away from noise. Then, a woman’s voice, slightly breathless, but clear. “Hi. Is this… is this [My Full Name]?”
“Yes, it is. Can I help you?” Who was this? My heart started to beat a little faster.
“My name is Sarah,” she said, her voice dropping a little, as if hesitant. “I… I work with your husband.”
Oh. Relief mixed with a prickle of curiosity. “Oh, hi Sarah. Is everything alright? Is he okay?” A sudden wave of panic washed over me. Had something happened at the party?
“Yes, no, he’s fine. Physically, I mean,” she rushed to assure me. Then another pause. “Look, I know this is going to sound really strange. And I probably shouldn’t be calling you. But I just… I had to.”
My stomach clenched. This wasn’t going to be good. “What is it, Sarah?” I managed, my voice barely a whisper.
“Well,” she began, her voice strained. “He was on stage a little while ago, accepting an award for the project. And, you know, his shirt collar came undone a bit when he bowed.”
The joke. My playful “MINE.” It must have been visible. I felt a flush of embarrassment, but also a silly sort of pride. He probably laughed it off.
“And I saw it,” she continued, “that writing on his chest. It said ‘MINE.’ and your initial. It was… it was quite sweet, actually. A lot of people noticed.”
See? Sweet. I almost smiled. “Oh, that was just a silly joke,” I started to explain.
She cut me off, her voice urgent now. “No, wait. That’s not why I called. Someone else saw it too. Someone came up to him after he got off stage, a few of us were standing around, congratulating him. And someone asked him about it.”
My breath hitched. What did he say?
“They asked, ‘Oh, new tattoo? From your fiancée?'” Sarah’s voice was barely audible over the sudden rush of blood in my ears.
My mind went blank. Fiancée?
“And he just… he smiled. He looked at her, then back at us. And he said, very clearly, ‘Yeah. She just got it done for me this morning. She’s really something, isn’t she?'”
The world tilted. The phone felt like it weighed a ton. My head swam. “WHAT?” I didn’t mean to yell, but the sound ripped from my throat.
“He called her his fiancée,” Sarah repeated, her voice thick with regret. “He said you were his fiancée. He was pointing at another woman. The Head of Marketing. He’s been seeing her for months. Everyone at work knows about them. And that message… he said she wrote it for him. This morning.”
My legs gave out. I sank to the floor, clutching the phone. Another woman. Fiancée. My joke. My initial. Claimed by her. The warmth in my chest had turned to a freezing, burning ache. The intimate moment, the playful brand, the private joke – it wasn’t ours anymore. It had been stolen. Twisted. Used to confirm a lie I hadn’t even known existed. He didn’t just have a girlfriend. He had a fiancée. And my symbol of love, my mark of ownership, had become her mark.
I stared at the empty space where he’d stood just hours ago, smelling of cologne, promising a late-night movie. All I could hear was Sarah’s voice, echoing in my head, “She’s really something, isn’t she?” My own heart, branded with his lie, shattered into a million, irreversible pieces. I thought I knew him. I thought I knew our life. I WAS WRONG. OH, GOD, I WAS SO WRONG.
