My name is Ann Watson, and I live in Oxford, surrounded by its historical buildings and quiet, cobbled streets. When I found myself in the arms of my colleague, Edward, my heart was singing with joy. I dreamed of being his one and only, his beloved. Eventually, my dream came true, but with a bitter twist—I had to share him with his wife, Mary.
I had just joined the company, and I was immediately sent on a business trip to London with Edward to finalize an important deal. We succeeded beyond expectations, and afterward, Edward suggested, “Shall we have a drink? Deals like this don’t happen every day.” I was delighted to agree. We sat in the hotel bar, ordered whiskey, and the alcohol loosened our tongues. Conversation flowed as easily as a river, and suddenly, he kissed me. I was taken aback, but I didn’t resist. In the elevator, he pulled me close with such passion that I couldn’t fight it—his breath was more intoxicating than the whiskey. The night in his room was magical, unforgettable, and full of fire.
Back in Oxford, I couldn’t keep this to myself and confided in my colleague, Sarah. I trusted her like a sister. “Don’t fall in love with him!” she abruptly warned. “Why?” I was surprised. “He’s married.” Those words hit me like a thunderbolt. Edward was only 27, and I couldn’t believe he was already married—in this day and age, men rarely marry so young. I asked him directly, and he didn’t evade: “Yes, I’ve been married for a year.” But that didn’t stop us. We became lovers. Our meetings at the apartment, inherited from his grandparents, turned into a secret ritual. Every day, I was falling deeper under his spell.
One Sunday morning, lying next to him, I plucked up the courage: “Edward, divorce her. You’ll be happier with me.” He looked at me with sorrow: “I love you, but I can’t.” “Why?” I blurted out. “She’s seriously ill.” I froze. “What’s wrong with her? Why didn’t you tell me?” my voice trembled. “She has breast cancer; we only found out recently. I can’t leave her now.” His words cut deep, but I understood: he was needed by her at this moment. I felt sorry for Mary. When he said she would have surgery on Thursday, I prayed for her all day, sincerely and tearfully. After she was discharged, Edward and I stopped seeing each other—I knew his place was with his wife.
Four months passed. Edward never invited me to meet. I asked what was going on. “Mary is still unwell, might need another operation,” he replied wearily. “I understand your pain, but think of me too,” I pleaded. He nodded: “You’re right, let’s figure something out this weekend.” We met on Saturday at the same apartment. The night was hot, full of passion. But before leaving, I brought up divorce again. His face darkened: “I’ll never do it. She’s the boss’s sister.” I was stunned. “So that’s it! And the cancer?” He stayed silent and left, slamming the door to avoid further argument.
A few days later, a distinguished brunette arrived at the office. She asked for Edward. Sarah showed her to his office. “Who is she?” I whispered to Sarah later. “His wife,” she replied. I made up an excuse, entered his office—supposedly for some papers—to see her. Mary didn’t just look healthy; she radiated beauty, confidence, and elegance. Next to her, I felt like a grey mouse. Returning, I asked Sarah: “Have you heard she had cancer?” “No, that’s nonsense, everybody would know,” she dismissed. It hit me: he had lied from the start.
Soon, I began to feel weak and was nauseous. I told Sarah, and she suggested, “Maybe you’re pregnant?” I brushed it off but took a test—two lines. The gynecologist confirmed it: two months along. I was in shock. I remembered that night—we hadn’t been careful. Confused thoughts swirled: should I keep the baby or not? I called Edward. “Have an abortion!” he blurted coldly. “No, I won’t,” I replied firmly. “Then I’ll make sure you’re fired,” he threatened. “You can’t scare me!” I retorted. Out of spite, I decided to keep the baby. I thought he was bluffing. But he wasn’t—I got fired. A friend got me a job as a cashier at her brother’s bookstore. He wasn’t keen on hiring someone pregnant, but he took pity.
My daughter was born in the seventh month—fragile, but alive. I named her Seraphina, after her father, Edward. I haven’t told him. And probably never will. He betrayed me, abandoned me at the most terrifying moment, when I was left alone with a baby and no job. I see his face in my dreams—handsome and deceitful—and my heart aches. He chose his wife, his career, erasing me like an unwanted page. But I wasn’t broken. I raise my daughter, fight for her, though every day feels like a battle with fate. Let him live with his lies; I will live for Seraphina—my light in this darkness.
