"Custom-Made" Lies

By the time I got home from my business trip, it was already past midnight—and my husband wasn't there.

A woman's blouse lay on the sofa. It wasn't mine.

I called him. He said he was working late at the office.

I didn't bother with pretense. "Whose blouse is on the sofa?"

His tone was light and casual. "Who else would it be? It's obviously a gift for you. Try it on."

Suspicious, I picked it up and held it against myself. The blouse was clearly one size too small.

"Honey, this is a size S. I always wear M."

My husband owns a clothing company. He handles all my clothes. He's even used my measurements to design women's wear. There's no way he doesn't know my size.

On the phone, he froze for half a second, then spoke as if piecing something together. "This is a new women's line I'm launching. I ordered custom pieces for you and my sister. I must've grabbed the wrong one. I'll switch it tomorrow."

A moment later, his voice softened with exhaustion. "Babe, you've been gone for days. Without you, I feel so tired… I miss you so much…"

It was already late into the night. Hearing him sound vulnerable—something he rarely did—made my chest tighten. I blamed myself for overthinking.

But the moment I hung up, realization struck.

His sister has the same build as me. She always wears size M.

The craftsmanship of the blouse was exquisite—exactly the kind of work Marc Maxwell would make himself. But the feel of the fabric beneath my fingertips stirred doubt in my chest.

My sister-in-law and I were nearly identical in size. We both wore a size M—no exceptions. So why would this be an S?

Could he really have mistaken the size?

I reconsidered, then dismissed the thought almost immediately. Marc was a professional fashion designer and the person who understood us both best. How could he possibly make an S-sized blouse for either of us?

Unless… it wasn't made for me—or for his sister.

Then who was it for?

The moment the thought surfaced, it wrapped around my mind like wild vines, tightening with every second.

Forcing myself to calm down, I opened the pet-monitoring app on my phone. I'd been away on business for a month, and the thing I worried about most was our cat. So I had installed cameras in both the living room and the bedroom.

I dragged the timeline back to the day I left.

Besides the housekeeper who came at scheduled times to feed the cat and clean the litter box, no one else had entered the apartment. No visitors. No strangers.

It seemed I was overthinking. He must have been overwhelmed from work—nothing more.

I closed the surveillance app, tossed the blouse onto the sofa, and forced myself to stop spiraling.

Maybe the truth was simple. Maybe I was just exhausted and imagining things.

I took a shower, then leaned back on the sofa and