My name is Anna Smith, and I live in a quaint little town in the English countryside, surrounded by the rolling hills and charming lanes of Oxfordshire. When I found myself wrapped in the arms of my colleague, James, my heart sang with joy. At that moment, I dared to dream of being his one and only, his beloved. Yet, that dream was bittersweet—I soon learned I had to share him with his wife, Katherine.
I had just joined our company, and it wasn’t long before I was sent on a business trip to London with James. We were tasked with securing a significant deal, and we excelled. Afterward, James suggested, “Shall we toast to our success? It’s not every day we sign such deals.” Eagerly, I agreed. Seated in the hotel bar, we ordered whiskey, and soon the drinks loosened our tongues. Our conversation flowed as freely as a river until he suddenly kissed me. I was taken aback but didn’t pull away. In the elevator, he held me so passionately that I couldn’t resist—his breath was intoxicating, far more than the whiskey. The night spent in his room was magical, unforgettable, blazing with passion.
Back in Oxfordshire, I couldn’t keep it to myself and confided in my colleague, Sophie, whom I trusted like a sister. “Don’t fall for him!” she snapped. “Why?” I asked, bewildered. “He’s married.” The words struck me like thunder. James was only 27, and it was hard to believe he was already settled—these days, men rarely marry so young. I asked him directly, and he didn’t evade the question: “Yes, I’ve been married for a year.” But that didn’t stop us. We became lovers. Our meetings at the flat he inherited from his grandparents turned into a secret ritual. Every day, I sank deeper into him.
One Sunday morning, as I lay next to him, I gathered the courage: “James, get a divorce. You’ll be happier with me.” He looked at me wistfully: “I love you, but I can’t.” “Why?” I blurted out. “She’s very ill.” I froze. “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you say anything?” 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: at such a time, he was needed. I felt sorry for Katherine. He said her surgery was on Thursday, so I spent the entire day praying for her, sincerely, in tears. After she was discharged, James and I stopped seeing each other—I knew his place was with his wife.
Four months passed. James never once asked to meet. I asked him what was going on. “Katherine is still not well; another surgery might be needed,” he responded wearily. “I understand your pain, but think of me too,” I pleaded. He nodded, “You’re right, let’s figure something out over the weekend.” On Saturday, we met in that same flat. The night was as passionate as ever. But before leaving, I brought up divorce again. His expression darkened: “I’ll never do it. She’s my boss’s sister.” I was stunned. “Is that it! And the cancer—is that a lie?” He said nothing and left, slamming the door to avoid further conflict.
A few days later, a striking brunette walked into the office. She asked for James. Sophie showed her to his office. “Who is she?” I whispered to Sophie afterward. “His wife,” she replied. I found an excuse to enter—pretending to need some papers—to see her. Katherine looked not just healthy—she was glowing with beauty, confidence, and elegance. Next to her, I felt like a drab little mouse. Back at my desk, I asked Sophie, “Have you heard about her having cancer?” “No, that’s nonsense, everyone would know,” she said bluntly. It hit me then: he had been lying all along.
Soon after, I began to feel weak and nauseous. I complained to Sophie, and she suggested, “Could you be pregnant?” I brushed it off but took a test—two lines. The doctor confirmed it: two months along. I was in shock. I remembered that night—we didn’t use protection. Thoughts swirled: should I keep the child or not? I called James. “Get an abortion!” he snapped coldly. “No, I won’t,” I declared. “Then I’ll make sure you lose your job,” he threatened. “You can’t scare me!” I retorted. Out of spite, I decided to have the baby. I thought he was bluffing. But he wasn’t—I lost my job. A friend got me a position as a shop assistant at her brother’s bookstore. He didn’t want to hire a pregnant woman, but he took pity on me.
My daughter was born in the seventh month—frail, but alive. I named her Sophia, after her father, James. I didn’t tell him. And I likely never will. He betrayed me, left me in my darkest hour with a child and no job. His face haunts my dreams—handsome, deceitful—and my heart aches. He chose his wife, his career, and erased me like an unnecessary chapter. But I refuse to break. I’m raising my daughter, fighting for her, even though every day is a battle with fate. Let him live with his lies, while I live for Sophia—my light in this darkness.
