I am Emma Thompson, and I reside in the picturesque town of Bath, where the historic streets blend with a timeless charm. When I found myself wrapped in the arms of my colleague, Jack, my heart sang with joy. At that moment, I dreamt of becoming his one and only, his beloved. My dream did come true, but it arrived with a bitter twist — I had to share him with his wife, Alice.
I had recently joined our company, and was promptly sent with Jack on a business trip to London. We were tasked with closing a significant deal. We succeeded brilliantly, and afterward, Jack suggested, “Shall we have a drink? It’s not every day we sign a contract like this.” I eagerly agreed. We sat in the hotel bar, ordered whisky, and the alcohol loosened our tongues. Our conversation flowed effortlessly, like a river, and suddenly he kissed me. I was taken aback but didn’t push him away. In the elevator, he pressed me against him with a passion that was intoxicating, more so than the whisky. The night in his room was magical, unforgettable, filled with fire.
Back in Bath, I couldn’t keep this to myself and shared it with my colleague, Sarah — someone I trusted like a sister. “Don’t fall for him!” she abruptly warned. “Why?” I asked, puzzled. “He’s married.” Those words hit me like a bolt of lightning. Jack was only 27, and I couldn’t believe he already had a family — men rarely marry so young these days. I asked him directly, and he didn’t shy away: “Yes, I’ve been married for a year.” But this didn’t stop us. We became lovers. Our meetings in the apartment he inherited from his grandparents turned into a secret ritual. Each day, I sank deeper into him.
One Sunday morning, lying beside him, I dared to ask, “Jack, get a divorce. You’d be happier with me.” 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 recently found out. I can’t leave her now.” His words cut, but I understood: she needed him. I felt sympathy for Alice. When he mentioned she was having surgery on Thursday, I spent the entire day praying for her, sincerely, to the point of tears. After her discharge, Jack and I stopped seeing each other — I knew he belonged with his wife.
Four months passed. Jack never once asked to meet me. I questioned him about it. “Alice is still not well, she might need another operation,” he replied wearily. “I understand your pain, but think about me too,” I pleaded. He nodded, “You’re right, let’s figure something out for the weekend.” We met at the same flat on Saturday. The night was hot, filled with passion. But before leaving, I broached the topic of divorce again. His face darkened: “I’ll never do that. She’s my boss’s sister.” I was stunned. “So that’s it! Was the cancer a lie?” He remained silent and left, slamming the door to avoid further argument.
A few days later, a striking brunette appeared at the office, asking for Jack. Sarah led her to his office. “Who is she?” I whispered to Sarah later. “His wife,” she replied. I made an excuse, entered his office — supposedly for some papers — to see her. Alice not only looked healthy, she radiated beauty, confidence, elegance. I felt like a plain Jane beside her. Returning, I asked Sarah, “Have you heard she’s ill with cancer?” “No, that’s nonsense, everyone would know,” she retorted. That’s when it hit me: he had lied to me from the start.
Soon after, I began to feel weak and nauseous. I complained to Sarah, and she suggested, “Could you be pregnant?” I brushed it off, but took a test — two lines. The gynecologist confirmed it: I was two months along. I was in shock. I remembered that night — we hadn’t used protection. My thoughts were a whirlwind: should I keep the baby or not? I called Jack. “Get an abortion!” he coldly demanded. “No, I won’t,” I snapped. “Then I’ll make sure you get fired,” he threatened. “You can’t scare me!” I shot back. Out of spite, I decided to have the baby. I thought he was bluffing. But he wasn’t — I got fired. A friend managed to get me a job as a salesperson at her brother’s bookshop. Reluctant to hire a pregnant woman, he took pity on me.
My daughter was born in the seventh month — fragile, but alive. I named her Scarlett, in honor of her father, Jack. I haven’t told him, and probably never will. He betrayed me, abandoned me at the worst time when I was left alone with a child and no job. I see his face in my dreams — handsome, deceitful — and my heart aches with pain. He chose his wife, his career, and erased me as though I were an unwanted chapter. But I haven’t broken. I raise my daughter, fight for her, even though every day feels like a battle with fate. Let him live with his lies, while I live for Scarlett — my light in this darkness.
