Betrayed By My Lover

 Chapter One

A Birthday Surprise

Emma's POV

Today's the day. I smooth my dress, check my reflection in the rearview mirror, and smile. I can barely contain my excitement. Peter has always insisted he doesn't care for birthdays—

“Just another day, Emma,” he’d always say—but I know better. Beneath that cool exterior of his, he loves a little celebration. And this time, I’ve planned everything to perfection.

The cupcakes in his favorite colors sit next to me on the passenger seat, wrapped in a small box. A bouquet of white roses is carefully tied with a navy ribbon—his mother’s favorite, one he loves because it reminds him of her. I thought of everything. This will be a surprise visit to his office, reminding him how much he means to me, how well I know him.

I check my lipstick one last time before stepping out of the car. Everything is going to be simply perfect—as it has to be,today. 

It is already nearly noon, Peter’s favorite break time from the chaos. He would be alone for a few minutes; I need him that way to catch him off guard—just to see that flicker of surprise in his eyes.

The building is imposing, an expanse of glass and steel that reflects the midday sun, and I feel a quiet thrill as I walk inside. It’s his world—a world I rarely enter but one I respect. A part of me loves the idea of melting into his busy life, surprising him in a place where he commands attention.

But as I step into the lobby, that thrill is tempered by the odd look on the receptionist’s face as I approach with the box of cupcakes and the bouquet of flowers in my hands. She stares at me, her eyes darting between my face and the flowers, as if I’ve come to the wrong place.

“Can I help you, miss?” she asks, her voice cautious and polite, yet laced with something else—a note of confusion, or perhaps suspicion.

“Hi, yes. I’m here to see Peter, I mean your boss,” I say, smiling. “It’s his birthday, and I thought I’d surprise him.”

The receptionist’s eyes widen slightly, and she shifts in her seat. “Peter Williams?”

I nod, a little confused. “Yes. His wife,I am his wife,” I add, hoping the confusion on her face will be erased.

“Ah, okay.” Her face relaxes, but she doesn’t reach for the phone. Instead, she looks over her shoulder at a small group of employees murmuring to one another, they keep on staring at each other, shooting glances at me. Their looks feel weighted, sharp, like I’m some sort of anomaly that has just walked in.

I feel the prickling along my spine as I wait, my hands tightening around the bouquet. “Is…is something wrong,is there something wrong here?”

“No, of course not,” she says quickly, but her tone is rehearsed, and there’s a flicker of doubt in her eyes. “It’s just that—well, I mean, we weren’t expecting you, he did not tell me he was expecting any visitors today.”

The words hang in the air, unsettling and peculiar. Why wouldn’t they be expecting me? I am his wife. Whom else would they expect, and am I a visitor or stranger?

I shake it off for a moment, reminding myself it’s probably just a surprise. I take a step back as the receptionist finally reaches for the phone, her voice low and clipped as she calls up to his office. I catch a few words—“visitor,” “waiting,” and “seems urgent”—and my stomach knots as her tone grows more hushed.

Several minutes later, one of the elevator doors finally pings open. A tall, blonde woman steps out, her hair sleek and her outfit perfectly tailored—an air of authority oozing from her. She walks to the desk with purpose, her eyes assessing me as she approaches. Her gaze flickers from the flowers to my face, but her expression doesn’t change.

“You’re here to see Mr. Williams?” she asks in a voice smooth but distant.

“Yes, I’m Emma. His wife,” I repeat, laying emphasis on the last word. My smile feels just a little strained now.

Something flickers across her face—barely a reaction, but enough that I catch it. “Ah, of course. I wasn’t aware he’d be receiving another visitor today.” There is a pause before the last part, and it’s as if she chooses her words very carefully. “Right this way, Mrs. Williams.”

Another visitor? I want to ask her what she means, but she’s already turning, leading me to the elevators. I follow her, questions swirling in my head. I wonder if maybe I should have called ahead or if something else was planned today. Maybe there’s some kind of office tradition that I’m not aware of. After all, I’m hardly ever a part of Peter’s world here.

We ride the elevator in silence, her eyes never quite meeting mine, fixed forward as if I’m barely present. There’s something unnerving about her, something I can’t quite put my finger on. At the top floor, she stops and ushers me down the long corridor of glass walls toward his office.

We finally reach his door, and she stops, turning back to me and giving a polite, cool smile. “Enjoy your time with Mr. Williams,” she says, placing very deliberate emphasis on “Mr.,” directed pointedly at me, or so it seems. I barely get the chance to say anything before she turns and walks away, leaving me to my own devices.

I inhale a deep breath; my hand reaches for the door handle, shaking. My excitement now feels like an odd sensation—half nerves, half unease—as I open the door and step into his office.

Peter is standing by the window, his back to me, deep in conversation with someone on the phone. As I enter, he glances over his shoulder; his eyes widen slightly as he sees me. He ends his call, turning to face me, but the look in his eyes isn’t the warm surprise I’d hoped for. Shock—almost bordering on irritation—stares back at me, as if he hadn’t expected to see me.

“Emma,” he says, his voice careful, guarded. “What…what are you doing here, why can't you just call before coming here?”

My heart sinks, and my hold tightens on the bouquet as I force a smile. “Happy birthday, Peter. I thought I’d surprise you, I am here for a surprise.”

He says nothing for a minute but looks down at the flowers and the box of cupcakes, unreadable. The air is silent for that one looming moment—so heavy and uncomfortable.

“I… I didn’t think you’d—” He breaks off, his eyes darting to the door as if expecting someone else to enter. I turn toward the doorway, but no one is there.

It is just the two of us, yet all at once, a feeling settles in the pit of my stomach that something is horribly, irreparably awry.