**The Door to Betrayal**
After three long months on the rig, Thomas Whitmore returned home to Manchester, exhausted but proud of his work. The sky was grey, but inside, he felt nothing but warmth—his wages were safely tucked away, and all he could think of was surprising his wife, the elegant and spirited Victoria. They had just bought a two-bedroom flat in a high-rise on the outskirts of town. He’d done most of the work himself—plastered the walls, fitted the ceilings, laid the tiles. The only thing left was to furnish it exactly as she wanted.
“Tommy, I won’t settle for second best,” she’d said. “I want our place to be just as nice as Sophie and Alex’s—everything top-notch!”
He’d nodded, agreed, and left for another gruelling shift, working himself to exhaustion just to make her proud. The cold, lonely nights in the rig’s cramped cabin were unbearable—no warmth, no familiar face, no scent of morning coffee. Just her voice on the phone, usually impatient, always demanding.
At the station, he paused at a flower stall, fingers brushing over roses until he found the freshest bunch. He carried the crimson bouquet into a cab, heart pounding as he reached his building fifteen minutes later. Light on his feet, he took the stairs to the fourth floor, anticipation swelling in his chest. He almost used his key but stopped himself—smiling, he rang the bell instead.
Silence. He reached for the keys again when the door swung open. A stranger stood there—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing Thomas’s own robe, bare-chested and smirking.
“Who the hell are you? Wrong flat, mate?” the man growled.
The world tilted. Thomas froze, the bouquet slipping in his grip.
“Guess I wasn’t the only one who got the wrong door.”
The door slammed shut. He stood there, paralysed, pulse roaring in his ears. All he could see were the walls he’d painted, the tiles he’d scrubbed clean, the kitchen they’d taken out a loan for—and now, some stranger standing in his home.
The flowers went straight into the nearest bin. Thomas called another cab, heading straight to his best mate, Michael. On the way, he stopped at Tesco for whisky, pickled onions, and crisps. Michael was thrilled—they hadn’t seen each other in ages.
“Blimey! Cheers to that!”
By the second glass, Thomas couldn’t hold it in. Michael, hot-headed and half-IThey clinked their glasses again, and in that moment, Thomas knew he’d rather face the freezing rig than another day in that broken home.
