It was incredibly soft.
Too soft.
The handle carried the faint bend left behind by years of someone else’s grip.
This wasn’t new.
Someone else had owned it.
Lila whispered, “That thing probably costs more than my car.”
Everyone applauded.
Robert smiled nervously.
“For my beautiful wife.”
I wanted to believe him.
Then my fingertips brushed something hidden inside one of the interior pockets.
A folded piece of paper.
I didn’t pull it out—not while everyone was watching.
Instead, I smiled for photographs while an uneasy feeling settled deep inside my stomach.
Throughout dinner, Robert barely touched his food.
His phone buzzed twice, and both times he silenced it immediately without checking the screen.
When my sister teased him, saying she never imagined he’d splurge on such an expensive gift, Robert forced a smile.
“Neither did I.”
It should have sounded sweet.
Instead, something about it felt painfully wrong.
After our guests finally left, I carried the handbag into the kitchen.
Robert stood silently at the sink, staring into the dark reflection of the window.
I reached into the hidden pocket and unfolded the paper.
There was no message.
No name.
Only a phone number written carefully in blue ink.
The moment Robert saw it, every trace of color drained from his face.
“Where did you get that?” I asked quietly.
His throat tightened.
“Elle…”
“Don’t call me that. Tell me where this purse came from.”
He grabbed the edge of the counter as though trying to steady himself.
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
After several long seconds, he finally whispered,
“The handbag belonged to someone else.”
The words landed like ice.
“To another woman?”
Robert closed his eyes.
He didn’t have to answer.
