**The Neighbour Spilled the Groom’s Secret, and I Got My Revenge**
I watched from the kitchen window as Nigel strolled up the garden path of his countryside cottage in the Cotswolds, his arm linked with a woman I didn’t recognise.
“Nigel, hello there!” called out Mrs. Evelyn, our neighbour, peering over the fence. “And who’s this with you?”
“Afternoon, Evelyn!” Nigel flashed a grin. “Decided it’s time to settle down. This is Emily, my future wife.”
Emily threw herself into tending the garden, and Nigel was never far behind. One afternoon, while he was away in Oxford, Mrs. Evelyn beckoned from over the hedge.
“Fancy popping round for tea, love?” she asked, a sly glint in her eye.
“I’d love to,” Emily nodded.
She spent a good hour at Evelyn’s and returned just as Nigel’s car pulled up.
“You seem deep in thought,” he remarked.
Emily only smiled. She already knew the truth.
—-
The first time they met was at the farmer’s market in Oxford. Nigel was inspecting raspberry bushes while Emily browsed dill seeds for her windowsill.
“Take three packets—I’ll give you a discount,” the vendor urged.
“That’s far too much!” she laughed. “I’m on my own—one’s plenty.”
“Well, I’ve got an empty plot at my cottage,” Nigel winked. “Maybe we could team up?”
“And what would your wife say?” Emily teased, eyeing his smart attire and silver-streaked hair.
“Widowed,” he sighed. “But you’ve warmed my heart.”
A week later, Nigel confessed, “Emily, being with you is so easy. I don’t want to say goodbye. I’m heading to the cottage for the summer—come with me?”
“Why not?” she agreed. “The kids are grown, and they only call when they need money. No husband, not even a cat. Maybe this is my second chance.”
At the cottage, they grew close fast. When Nigel proposed, Emily was touched—but Mrs. Evelyn only chuckled.
—-
All summer, Emily worked the garden—weed-free, bursting with tomatoes and cucumbers. Nigel chopped wood, hauled water, and they seemed the picture of harmony.
Then, one day, Evelyn invited Emily over while Nigel was out.
“Tea?” she offered. “Or does Nigel forbid it?”
Emily scoffed. “Why would he?”
She returned pensive.
“What’s on your mind?” Nigel asked.
“Just thinking how cruel life can be,” she murmured. “One moment someone’s here, the next—gone.”
“Enough of that,” he dismissed, pulling her into a hug. “If you’re on about my late wife, that’s ancient history. Now I’ve got you—don’t know what I’d do without you!”
But as weeks passed, Nigel grew snappish. He nitpicked—the greenhouse door left open, the way she pruned the roses. The wedding was never mentioned again.
“Why didn’t you shut the greenhouse?” he snapped one morning.
“It’s warm enough—they’ll scorch otherwise!”
“Since when are you the expert?” he sneered. “You’ve never grown more than herbs on a sill!”
Evelyn’s warning echoed in Emily’s mind: *He’s done this before. Lures women here, works them ragged, then chases them off. Teach him a lesson.*
—-
Then came the scam call.
“They’re draining my accounts!” Nigel panicked, reading bank alerts. “The fraud team’s calling—they need my code!”
“Don’t give it!” Emily warned.
“Since when do you know banking?” he snapped.
“Just—don’t.”
He ignored her. A minute later, a howl came from the house.
“They’ve emptied me! And taken out a loan!”
“I did warn you,” she said coolly.
“It’s fifty grand!” he choked. “Where do I get that?”
Emily saw her chance. “I’ll cover it—if you sign the cottage over to me.”
“You’re mad! It’s worth triple!”
“Suit yourself,” she shrugged. “But by the time you sell, the bank’ll have your flat too.”
His face twisted, but he caved. At the solicitor’s, the papers were signed. She transferred the money, packed his things, and left a basket of veg and a jar of jam on the porch. The locks were changed before he could blink.
From her window, Mrs. Evelyn called, “Tea later?”
Emily grinned, dangling the new keys. “Come to mine—we’re celebrating. The cottage is mine now.”
