Chapter 3: The First Thorn

One year later

The delivery arrived at 3:17 PM on a Tuesday that had started like any other in the Thorne household. Isabelle was arranging white orchids in the front hall—Marcus preferred orchids, said they projected the right image—when the doorbell chimed with its expensive, understated melody.

"Mrs. Thorne?" The delivery man held a modest bouquet wrapped in brown paper, the kind of arrangement that whispered rather than shouted. "These are for you."

Isabelle signed for the flowers with practiced grace, the same smile she'd perfected for charity galas and business dinners. It wasn't until she'd closed the door and began unwrapping the bouquet that she noticed they weren't orchids.

White lilies. Stargazer lilies, to be precise, with their heavy perfume and dramatic petals that seemed almost indecent compared to the restrained elegance of orchids. She couldn't remember the last time someone had sent her lilies—Marcus's preferences had long since become her own, at least in public.

The card was small, cream-colored, with elegant script that suggested expensive stationery:

For Isabelle— Some anniversaries deserve to be remembered. Your secret admirer

Isabelle stared at the words, a frown creasing her forehead. Anniversary? Their wedding anniversary wasn't for six months, and she couldn't think of any other significant date that a "secret admirer" would know about. The whole thing felt oddly personal for a mistake delivery, yet too specific to be random.

She was still holding the card when Marcus's key turned in the lock.

"Whose are those?" He paused in the doorway, his designer suit immaculate despite a day of client meetings. His eyes fixed on the lilies with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"I'm not sure. They were delivered for me, but there's no sender information." She handed him the card, watching his face as he read it.

Marcus's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly—the kind of micro-expression she'd learned to notice after twelve years of marriage. "Probably some marketing gimmick. You know how these flower shops try to drum up business with 'mystery' deliveries."

"The card seems rather personal for marketing."

"Isabelle." His voice carried the patient tone he used when he thought she was being naive. "These places buy mailing lists, cross-reference them with public records. They know our anniversary date, they know you're married to someone successful enough to afford expensive flowers. It's all calculated."

She nodded, accepting his explanation the way she'd learned to accept most of his explanations over the years. Marcus understood business, understood how these things worked. She was probably overthinking it.

But as she carried the lilies to the kitchen to find a vase, something nagged at her. The flowers were beautiful—more beautiful than anything Marcus had sent her in years. His gifts tended toward jewelry or designer handbags, status symbols that looked impressive at social functions. When was the last time he'd sent her flowers just because he thought she'd like them?

"Actually," she called toward the living room where Marcus was checking his phone, "I think I'll put these in the bedroom. They smell lovely."

"If you want." His response was distracted, already focused on whatever emails demanded his attention.

Isabelle found a crystal vase in the rarely-used china cabinet and arranged the lilies carefully, their perfume filling the kitchen with something that felt like a memory she couldn't quite grasp. As she carried them upstairs, the scent seemed to grow stronger, more insistent.

She placed the vase on her dresser, where the late afternoon light from the bedroom windows would catch the petals just right. Standing back to admire the arrangement, she found herself thinking about secret admirers and forgotten anniversaries, about the kind of romance that inspired mysterious flower deliveries.

When was the last time she'd felt mysterious? When was the last time anyone had wanted to surprise her with something beautiful just for the sake of it?

The thought was dangerous, the kind that led to dissatisfaction and questions she'd trained herself not to ask. She had a good life—a beautiful home, financial security, a husband who was successful and respected. Other women envied her marriage, her lifestyle, her position in Chicago's social hierarchy.

So why did a bouquet of lilies from a stranger make her feel more seen than she'd felt in months?

That evening, Marcus worked late in his home office while Isabelle moved through their evening routine alone. She ate dinner by herself, watched the news by herself, and eventually went to bed by herself—all perfectly normal occurrences in their marriage. Marcus's business demanded long hours and constant attention; she'd understood that from the beginning.

But as she lay in the dark, the scent of lilies drifting from the dresser, Isabelle found herself thinking about anniversaries that deserved to be remembered. Their wedding anniversary, obviously. But what other anniversaries might matter to someone? First date, first kiss, first time they'd said "I love you"...

The thought struck her with unexpected force: what if the flowers weren't meant for her at all?

What if they were meant for Marcus, from someone commemorating an anniversary he'd prefer to forget?

The idea was absurd, paranoid, the kind of jealous suspicion that had no place in a secure marriage. Marcus had never given her any real reason to doubt his fidelity. He was attentive when he was home, affectionate in public, and their social circle certainly didn't whisper about infidelity or scandal.

But the seed was planted now, and like all seeds in fertile ground, it began to grow.

Isabelle turned onto her side, facing away from the lilies, but their perfume followed her into uneasy dreams. She dreamed of white flowers and faceless women, of anniversaries celebrated in secret and gifts given in shadows. She dreamed of her husband's hands—hands she knew as well as her own—touching someone else's skin with the same casual familiarity he once brought to touching hers.

She woke at 3 AM with the taste of betrayal in her mouth and the absolute certainty that she was being ridiculous.

But when she got up for water and passed the dresser, she found herself studying the lilies in the moonlight. They were expensive flowers, expertly arranged, sent with obvious care to someone who would understand their significance. The kind of gesture that suggested intimate knowledge of the recipient's preferences.

Had Marcus ever sent her lilies? In twelve years of marriage, through birthdays and anniversaries and random romantic gestures, had he ever chosen the flowers she actually preferred over the ones that looked appropriate in their carefully curated life?

She couldn't remember a single lily.

The next morning, Marcus barely glanced at the flowers as he grabbed his coffee and briefcase. "You should probably throw those out soon," he said, not looking directly at her. "Lilies don't last long, and the pollen stains everything."

Isabelle nodded and smiled, the perfect wife accepting her husband's practical advice. But after his car pulled out of the driveway, she found herself standing in front of the bedroom mirror, studying her reflection with new eyes.

At forty-three, she was still beautiful—Marcus often told people so, usually in the context of explaining how lucky he was. Her personal trainer kept her figure trim, her aesthetician kept her skin flawless, and her stylist ensured she never appeared anywhere looking less than perfectly put-together.

But when was the last time she'd felt beautiful for herself rather than for her role as Marcus Thorne's wife?

When was the last time someone had looked at her and seen Isabelle rather than Mrs. Thorne?

The lilies seemed to mock her with their wild, unrestrained beauty. They were nothing like the orchids Marcus preferred—nothing like the controlled, elegant perfection that defined every aspect of their life together. They were passionate and dramatic and slightly dangerous, the kind of flowers a man might send to a woman he couldn't stop thinking about.

The kind of flowers Marcus had never sent her.

Isabelle touched one of the petals gently, careful to avoid the pollen that might stain her silk robe. The flower felt alive under her fingertip, soft and vibrant with possibility.

For the first time in years, she wondered what it would feel like to be someone's secret rather than someone's showcase.

The thought should have horrified her. Instead, it felt like waking up.