My name is Anna Cooper and I live in the charming town of Totnes, where the lush hills of Devon cradle their secrets and silent lanes. When I found myself in the arms of my colleague, Simon, my heart sang with joy. I dreamed of being his one and only. Over time, that dream came true, but with a painful twist—I had to share him with his wife, Mary.
I had just started working at our company when I was promptly sent on a business trip to London with Simon to close a significant deal. We managed it brilliantly, and Simon suggested, “Shall we have a drink? Deals like this don’t come along every day.” I happily agreed. We sat in the hotel bar, ordered some whisky, and as the alcohol loosened our tongues, the conversation flowed as effortlessly as a river. Suddenly, he kissed me. I was taken aback but didn’t push him away. In the lift, he held me with such passion that I couldn’t resist — his breath was more intoxicating than the whisky. That night in his room was magical and unforgettable, filled with fire.
Back in Totnes, I couldn’t hold it in and confided in my colleague, Sally, whom I trusted like a sister. “Don’t fall in love with him!” she bluntly warned. “Why?” I asked, surprised. “He’s married.” Those words struck like lightning. Simon was only 27, and I couldn’t believe he was already settled down—in this day and age, men rarely marry that young. I confronted him directly, and he didn’t dodge the truth: “Yes, I’ve been married for a year.” But that didn’t stop us. We became lovers. Our meetings in the flat he’d inherited from his grandparents became a secret ritual. Every day I sank deeper into him.
One Sunday morning, lying next to him, I gathered courage: “Simon, get a divorce. You’ll be happier with me than with her.” He looked at me with sadness: “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 just found out. I can’t leave her now.” His words cut deeply, but I understood he was needed. I felt sorry for Mary. When he said she was having surgery on Thursday, I prayed for her sincerely, in tears, all day. After she was discharged, Simon and I stopped seeing each other—I knew he belonged beside his wife.
Four months passed. Simon never once asked to meet. I questioned him about it. “Mary is still unwell, she may need another operation,” he said wearily. “I understand your pain, but think about me too,” I murmured. He nodded, “You’re right, let’s make a plan for the weekend.” We met at the same flat on Saturday. The night was hot and full of passion. But before leaving, I raised the topic of divorce again. His face darkened: “I’ll never do it. She’s the sister of my boss.” I was stunned. “So that’s it! And her cancer—is it a lie?” He stayed silent and left, slamming the door to avoid further argument.
A few days later, an elegant brunette came into the office. She asked for Simon. Sally escorted her to his office. “Who is she?” I whispered to Sally later. “His wife,” she replied. I concocted an excuse and entered his office—ostensibly for documents—to see her for myself. Mary did not look ill at all—she radiated beauty, confidence, and elegance. I felt like a grey mouse next to her. Back at my desk, I asked Sally, “Have you heard she’s got cancer?” “No, that’s garbage. Everyone would know,” she retorted. It hit me then: he had been lying from the start.
Soon I began to feel weak and nauseous. I complained to Sally, and she speculated: “Maybe you’re pregnant?” I brushed it off but took a test—two lines. The doctor confirmed it: two months along. I was in shock. I recalled that night—we hadn’t taken precautions. My thoughts were tangled: should I keep the baby or not? I called Simon. “Get an abortion!” he snapped coldly. “No, I won’t,” I stated firmly. “Then I’ll have you fired,” he threatened. “You won’t scare me!” I shot back defiantly. Out of spite, I decided to keep the baby. I thought he was bluffing. But no—I was dismissed. A friend helped me get a job as a shop assistant at her brother’s bookstore. He was hesitant to hire a pregnant woman but took pity.
My daughter was born prematurely, at seven months—frail, but alive. I named her Sophie, after Simon. I never told him. And probably never will. He betrayed me, left me in the toughest moment, when I was alone with a child and jobless. I see his face in my dreams—handsome, deceitful—and my heart aches. He chose his wife, his career, and struck me out like an unwanted page. But I am not broken. I raise my daughter, I fight for her, even though each day is a battle with fate. Let him live with his lies; I will live for Sophie—my light in the dark.
