My husband hates my dog. Always has. From the moment I brought Bella home, a terrified ball of fluff I rescued from a shelter, he saw her as an intrusion. A source of hair, noise, and expense. She was my comfort, though. My shadow. My unconditional love when his felt conditional. The first time I left her with him for more than a day was for my sister’s emergency. A week away. I called every night, he’d grunt, “She’s fine,” and hang up. I braced myself for the usual chaos upon return: neglected toys, a bewildered dog, and a husband eager to complain.
I came home to silence, then a soft whine. Bella. But not my Bella. She pranced towards me, tail a blur, her usual frantic joy. But something was different. Her fur, usually a fluffy, slightly matted chaos from chasing squirrels, was silky, shimmering under the hall light. Every strand perfectly aligned. Her nails, trimmed and buffed. She smelled faintly of lavender and a very expensive salon. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a DOGGY VOGUE SHOOT.
I stared. Did I get the wrong dog? No, those goofy ears are unmistakably hers.
He sauntered in, beer in hand, barely glancing up. “Oh, hey. Back already?”
“Bella,” I managed, pointing. “What… what happened?”
He shrugged, taking a swig. “Figured she deserved a bath. We finally, you know, bonded.” Bonded? The man who complains about her shedding, her barking, her mere existence? I wanted to be thrilled. I wanted to believe this was a breakthrough. Maybe, just maybe, he’s finally seeing how special she is. A tiny spark of hope flickered.
Two months later, another work trip. This time, ten days. I walked through the door, bags heavy, my heart lighter at the thought of seeing Bella.
She burst around the corner, a vision in baby pink. A tiny, ridiculously expensive-looking jumpsuit, complete with miniature ruffles. She navigated the living room like a seasoned model. And the smell… a cloud of sophisticated floral. Chanel No.5. I don’t even wear Chanel No.5.
My mouth went dry. “The jumpsuit? The perfume?”
He didn’t even flinch. “Oh, that? Found it online. Thought it’d be cute. She just likes being pampered now, I guess.” He smirked, like it was a private joke. A private joke I wasn’t in on.
Doubt gnawed at me. This wasn’t just pampering. This was… an aesthetic. A lifestyle. My dog, who once rolled in mud puddles with glee, was a walking boutique advertisement. I tried to shake it off. He’s trying. He’s just really bad at showing affection. But a cold knot settled in my stomach.
Then came the third trip. My longest yet. Almost three weeks. I unlocked the front door, my anxiety a tight band around my chest. My mind raced with impossible scenarios. What fresh hell had he inflicted this time?
Bella trotted out, more confident than ever. Her fur was gleaming. Her gait was practically a strut. And around her neck, attached to a leash I hadn’t seen before, was a collar encrusted with tiny, shimmering rhinestones. Dazzling. And from it, dangling like a tiny beacon, was a charm. A perfect, miniature diamond heart.
My breath hitched. My husband didn’t buy me diamonds. Ever.
He emerged from the kitchen, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He smiled, a genuine, unsettlingly relaxed smile. “Welcome home.”
I just pointed, speechless, at the shimmering heart.
“Oh, that,” he said, too casually. “Just a little something. She’s been a good girl.”
A good girl? For what?
Then I saw it. Tucked just under the diamond charm, peeking out from the collar’s luxurious fabric, was a small, folded piece of paper.
My hand trembled as I reached for it. He watched me, his smile fading, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
I unfolded the note. It was delicate, embossed. Beautiful handwriting. Not his.
My eyes scanned the words, and the world tilted. Every happy memory we ever shared, every moment I thought was real, shattered into a million sharp pieces.
It read:
“My Dearest,
Thank you for bringing our sweet Bella today. She looks absolutely stunning, as always. The diamond heart is perfect – a beautiful symbol of the love we share, and the new life we’re building. I can’t wait for us all to be together, finally.
Love, forever yours,
[Redacted name]”
I looked up, my vision blurring. He was still standing there, watching me. The smile was gone. His face was stark, devoid of emotion.
OUR sweet Bella.
THE NEW LIFE WE’RE BUILDING.
US ALL TO BE TOGETHER, FINALLY.
My dog. My husband. MY ENTIRE LIFE WAS A LIE.
And Bella, nestled innocently at my feet, wearing a charm meant for another woman, for another family.
I collapsed, the note fluttering from my numb fingers.
ALL THIS TIME. He wasn’t pampering my dog. He was pampering the dog of his new family.
And the Chanel No.5? The pink jumpsuit? The diamond heart? They were for HER.
Bella was just the messenger.
Or worse.
Bella was the practice.
Bella was the gift.
Bella was already gone.
