Fresh out of the National Research Institute, I loaded up on my wife's favorite snacks and ordered a vibrant bouquet of roses, eager to surprise her.

I stashed the treats in her office, then stepped out to grab the flowers.

But in those fleeting minutes, a stranger had ripped open every package and devoured everything.

I glared at him. "Who gave you permission to touch those?"

He shot me a look of pure disdain. "Buzz off, flower boy. Drop your crap and scram!"

The secretary at the door snickered. "You heard the man. He's Ms. Bowman's husband. Better run before he leaves a bad review."

I pulled out my phone and called my wife. "Who is this guy in your office?"

"I told you I'm swamped today," Monica Bowman huffed. "Don't bug me with calls or your absurd questions."

Before I could turn the camera to show the scene, she hung up.

Jake Finley scoffed and lunged, his boot slamming into my knee with brutal force.

"Who do you think you are, meddling in my affairs?" he spat. "One word from me, and you're blacklisted in this city. Get lost!"

I stumbled, biting back the pain. "Do you have any idea who those snacks are for?"

He laughed, snatching the bouquet from my grasp. "Duh, they're for me. And she ordered these flowers because I wanted them. The snacks? Desserts before a feast."

My mind reeled, a buzzing roar filling my ears.

It had been only eight months since I joined the National Research Institute, and Monica had smuggled in her lover.

Before joining that program, I'd entrusted this lab and my life's work to her.

Over those three years of isolation, our daily supervised calls had been my lifeline. She'd called me a hero and painted pictures of our reunion.

I never imagined she'd give me this kind of a surprise.

"Are you her husband or something?" I demanded.

A cluster of puzzled researchers gathered at the door, nodding. "She introduced him at the holiday party. They even shared a long kiss onstage. Said they're childhood sweethearts, meant to marry."

Heat flushed my face, and I fixed my gaze on Jake. "I bought these snacks and flowers. Consider them gifts for your funeral."

"What did you say?" he roared, hurling the bouquet at me. "Do you have a death wish?"

Petals exploded in a colorful shower, littering the floor, while crushed stems lay scattered like battlefield casualties.

"Lick my shoes clean. Maybe I'll let you crawl out of here!" he demanded, grinding the flowers underfoot.

I glared at him, disgust rising. "Who do you think you are?"

Scanning the office, I declared, "This institute is mine, registered under my name, and your boss is my wife."

Jake froze for a split second, then burst into laughter. "Yeah, sure. You're decent-looking, but a delivery drone claiming Monica as your wife? Delusional much?" he scoffed. "If you're her husband, then I'm the president."

He kicked the flowers away and sauntered closer, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Get real. Take a good look at yourself."

His words hung in the air, igniting a chorus of snide whispers from behind me. The barbs stung like needles, each dripping with mockery.

Then, a swirl of fabric caught my eye. It was the unmistakable silhouette of Monica.

She strode in and demanded, "What's the commotion? Breakthroughs to discuss?"

Clad in a sleek beige pantsuit, she clutched a thick folder of documents. Her eyes locked on mine, and for a heartbeat, her composure faltered.

Her pupils contracted, and her fingers whitened around the papers. "Alex? You didn't mention you were back."

The room fell into a hush, and disappointment washed over me like a cold wave. I'd tried to tell her through the call earlier, but she had hung up on me.

I pointed at Jake. "Who is this guy?"

"Alex..." Monica hesitated, glancing between us.

"Babe, this delivery guy is unhinged," Jake interjected. "Claims that he bought the flowers and that he owns this place. He even scuffed up those shoes you bought me."

He draped an arm over her shoulder, adding, "Look at the mess. The flowers are trashed. He even trash-talked you. What a nut!"

I narrowed my eyes, marveling at his brazen audacity.

Turning to Monica, I demanded, "Why don't you tell him the answer? Who is your real husband?"

My voice was steady despite the storm within.

In the next instant, she looped her arm through Jake's, her voice syrupy. "Jake, obviously. Who are you to make a scene here?"

Incredulity hit me like a slap. I'd earned my stripes as a top national researcher long before meeting Monica.

Early in our relationship, I'd found her sobbing curbside, her family refusing to fund her education. I used my scholarship to support her.

Then it all unfolded naturally: graduation and marriage. My work kept me lab-bound, but I'd trusted her implicitly.

But now, she denied our bond.

I scanned her face, piecing together her motives. It all circled back to Jake.

But before I could retort, he barreled forward again.

"Scram, your worthless scum!" Jake bellowed. "I bet you sniffed out Monica's success and cash. Figured you could mooch off her."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Her success and cash? Every bit of it traces back to me. Ask her."

The spectators erupted in chuckles.

"Give it a rest! Ms. Bowman is an Ivy League whiz, steering this whole ship. She recruited Mr. Finley and spearheaded the national AI initiative."

"Do you even grasp what an elite graduate means? Our research focus? That cheapo watch on your arm is probably a bargain bin from Amazon, right? Ms. Bowman gifted Mr. Finley a Rolex."

I glanced at my wrist. The watch was Monica's present for our first anniversary. I'd cherished its sentiment, despite its modesty.

Now Jake's flashy Rolex glared at me.

He flaunted it. "Bet you've never seen luxury, delivery boy. Stuck slinging bouquets for chump change."

Their tag-team mockery unfolded like a scripted farce, each line amplifying the ridicule.

"I don't recall seeing you at the national lab," I countered.

Three years ago, I'd groveled to my father for a billion dollars to settle gambling debts for Monica's brother, freeing her from her family's grip.

Post-marriage, I'd integrated her into my institute to bolster her prestige, even handing over management to let her shine.

"Monica with you? Delusional!" Jake scoffed. "Claiming national lab creds? Hilarious! Just dial 911 and cart this loon off."

Ignoring the jeers, I pressed Monica. "Are you sure he is your legally wedded husband? Who owns this institute? You know the answer better than anyone else. Even if you're the manager, I can boot you out anytime."

Before she could respond, Jake inserted himself like a human shield. "Who are you to threaten her here? Our elite team reports to her, and they've snagged global awards."

Monica fidgeted silently, twisting fabric between her fingers. She'd conveniently forgotten one fact. I'd headhunted that team with premium salaries.

They were my dad's former students, brought in to guide her and pad her resume with prestige projects.

In my absence, they had bombarded me with complaints of Monica dismissing their expertise and dragging unqualified outsiders into sensitive areas.

I'd pleaded with them to hang on, promising to set things right upon my return.

Yet Monica strutted around like she owned the place, oblivious to the strings I'd pulled.

"Pipe-dreaming fool! Hit the bricks! No shot I'd stoop to your level!" she said.

I smirked, unfazed. "By all means, fetch the paperwork and see whose signature seals it."

"Total crap!" Jake bellowed, charging like a bull. His hands clawed for my throat. "You sneaky rat! If you don't bounce, prepare for the pain! Hold him, folks. I'm filming this and posting it online."