He Chose Her—In My Own House / Chapter 3: Signs, Signatures, and Secrets
He Chose Her—In My Own House

He Chose Her—In My Own House

Author: Jack Marsh

Chapter 3: Signs, Signatures, and Secrets

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Next morning, I rode to the lab in Harrison’s car, just like always.

He still brewed my herbal tea, packed up my vitamins and fruit for the day.

Everything looked the same.

At lunch, I checked my phone. Daisy’s latest post popped up: “Guess I’ll just fly back to the mountains. Thanks to my hero.”

First photo? My favorite book.

When I first married Harrison, I begged him to read it to me every night.

But the copy he gave Daisy? Signed by the author.

My hands shook as I scrolled down. Chat logs between Harrison and her stared back at me.

Harrison: “Don’t let little things get to you.”

Harrison: “If you’re in a bad mood, hang out in the lab more. Don’t waste your energy on slippers.”

Fairy Daisy: “But why can someone else waste it?”

Harrison: “I can’t control others, but I won’t let you waste it.”

Fairy Daisy: “Haha, I’m honored. Okay—saluting cat.gif”

...

I scrolled through the comments, numb, a chill crawling up my spine.

“Oh my god, what a dream advisor! So thoughtful!”

“Total boss energy—and he’s hot too.”

“I think I’m a little obsessed. Is it too late to apply for grad school?”

“Don’t get your hopes up—my advisor just nags about citations.”

“Girl, keep posting! When I’m bored, I love shipping you two.”

...

In a daze, I took the list my coworker handed me.

"Lillian, here’s the Haverhill project group list. Want to look it over?"

I nodded, barely glancing as I signed my name.

Our lab was collaborating with Haverhill. Their contact wanted us to give their students a shot.

After some debate, the group agreed to let them submit resumes. Ten would get to stay.

That night, I drove home. Harrison had already made dinner.

The smell of rosemary chicken and fresh bread filled the kitchen. For a second, I almost believed everything was back to normal.

I slipped into the new slippers he bought, dropped my phone in front of him. "Why didn’t you give me a signed copy of that book?"

He hates social media, prefers phone calls to texting.

So I had to show him—how Daisy spun his every word, how everyone else saw their little dance.

His brow furrowed deeper and deeper. Then he set my phone down, voice low: "I get it."

Harrison explained the book was a gift for all the students, not just Daisy.

And he hadn’t given me one because he figured I cared more about the story than a signature.

As for Daisy, he’d handle it.

I met his eyes, nodded gently. "Okay. I believe you."

For the last time.

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