**The Door to Betrayal**
After three months on rotation, Oliver Whitmore returned home to Manchester, exhausted but proud of his efforts. The sky was grey, yet inside, Oliver felt nothing but warmth—his pay packet in hand, imagining how thrilled his wife, the spirited and fiery Eleanor, would be. They’d recently bought a two-bedroom flat in a high-rise on the outskirts of the city. He’d spent weeks smoothing the walls, fitting the ceilings, tiling the bathroom, and setting up the appliances. The only task left was the furniture—exactly how she wanted it.
“Ollie, I won’t settle for anything shoddy,” she’d insisted. “I want it just as nice as Charlotte and Jake’s place—top quality, nothing less!”
He’d nodded, agreed, then left for his shift, working himself to the bone just to make her proud. The freezing nights in that cramped rig cabin had been brutal—no warmth, no familiar face, no scent of morning coffee. Just her voice on the phone, often impatient and demanding.
At the train station, he lingered by the florist, carefully selecting the freshest roses before settling on a grand bouquet of crimson blooms. A taxi brought him to their building in minutes, his pulse racing as he stood outside. He took the stairs two at a time, light with anticipation. He nearly used his key but stopped himself—smiling, he rang the bell instead.
Silence. Just as he reached for his keys, the door swung open. A stranger stood there—tall, broad-shouldered, shirtless, wearing *his* dressing gown, with an insolent smirk.
“Who the hell are you? Lost, mate?” the man growled.
Oliver’s world tilted. He froze. The bouquet slipped from his fingers.
“Seems I’m not just at the wrong door,” he muttered.
The door slammed shut. He stood there, numb. His heart pounded, hands trembling. All he could see were the walls he’d painted late at night, the tiles he’d scrubbed to perfection, the kitchen he’d taken out a loan for—and now, another man in his home.
The roses landed in the nearest bin. Oliver hailed a cab and headed straight to his best mate, Charlie. Along the way, he stopped at Tesco for whisky, pickled herring, and crisps. Charlie was thrilled—they hadn’t caught up in ages.
“Blimey! Cheers to this reunion!”
By the second glass, Oliver couldn’t hold back. He told Charlie everything. Half-Irish and quick-tempered, Charlie shot up from his seat.
“*What?!* In *your* flat?! I’d have—!” He slammed his fist on the table.
Oliver grabbed his arm. “Easy, mate. But… we getting payback?”
“Damn right we are.”
Buzzed and furious, they called another taxi, speeding toward Oliver’s flat. Their revenge plan was hazy, drowned in adrenaline and whisky.
Upstairs, the bedroom light glowed. Oliver roared, “I’ll show you—!”
Charlie hammered on the door. “Open up, you scum! Who’s messing with another man’s wife? Face us like a man!”
The door flew open—a fist shot out. Charlie stumbled back, clutching his nose.
“Well, that’s a welcome,” he groaned, wiping blood.
Oliver snapped. One kick sent the door flying off its hinges, crashing into the hallway. They stormed inside like a hurricane, shouting, tearing through rooms.
“Where’s that bastard?!”
Eleanor shrieked from the kitchen, fumbling with her phone. Charlie rushed to the hall. “Did he jump off the balcony?”
Then—a groan. Beneath the shattered door lay the lover, pinned under his own arrogance. He looked pitiful now—gown askew, face bloody, fear in his eyes.
“There’s your revenge,” Charlie sneered, nudging the door with his foot.
Then, just their luck, a shrill cry echoed up the stairwell. “*Help! Someone! They’re killing him!*” Eleanor’s mother, unmistakably.
Soberness hit instantly. They bolted before the police could arrive. By morning, Oliver filed for divorce. He couldn’t stay in a home where he’d been humiliated—where another man had walked around in his robe.
A week later, he was packing for another rotation. Charlie saw him off, sporting a black eye and bandaged knuckles.
“Still, it was bloody brilliant!” He laughed. “Next time you marry—just not an Eleanor. But *do* call me. I’ll help if anything… pops up.”
