**The Door to Betrayal**
After a gruelling three-month shift, Mark Townsend trudged home to Manchester, exhausted but proud of a job well done. The sky was overcast, yet his heart felt light—clutching his wages, he imagined surprising his wife, the striking and headstrong Victoria. They’d recently bought a two-bed flat in a high-rise on the city’s outskirts. He’d done up the place himself: plastered the walls, fitted the ceilings, laid the tiles, even wired up the appliances. Only one thing remained—furnishing it to her taste.
“Mark, I won’t settle for second-best. I want it as nice as Sophie and Dave’s—top quality, no cutting corners!”
He’d nodded, agreed, then left for work, grinding himself to the bone so she’d be proud. Nights in that freezing oil-rig cabin were brutal—no warmth, no familiar face, no scent of morning coffee. Just her voice on the phone, often whiny, always demanding.
At the station, he lingered at a flower stall, fussing over roses until he picked the freshest. A dozen deep-red stems in hand, he hailed a cab. Fifteen minutes later, he stood outside their building, pulse racing. He took the stairs two at a time, too giddy to bother with the lift. Key poised, he hesitated—then grinned and knocked instead.
Silence. He reached for his keys, but the door swung open. A stranger stood there—tall, broad-shouldered, bare-chested, wearing *his* dressing gown, smirk already in place.
“Who the hell are you? Lost, mate?”
The world tilted. Mark froze. The bouquet slipped in his grip.
“Seems I’ve misjudged more than just the door.”
The door slammed. He stood paralysed. Heart hammering, hands shaking—all he saw were the walls he’d papered at midnight, the tiles he’d polished, the kitchen he’d financed… and now some bloke lounging in his home.
The roses hit the nearest bin. Mark grabbed another cab, detouring to Tesco for vodka, crisps, and pickled onions before heading to his best mate, James.
“Bloody hell, look who’s back! Cheers to that!”
By the second shot, Mark cracked. James—half-Irish and quick to flare—shot up:
“*In your flat?!* I’d have—Christ, I’d *kill* the bastard—” His fist hit the table.
Mark yanked him back. “Easy. But… reckon we settle this?”
“Damn right we do.”
Drunk and furious, they hailed a cab. Vague plans of vengeance swirled as they staggered to Mark’s building.
The bedroom light was on. Mark roared, “Right, you’re done—”
James hammered the door. “Open up, you rat! Steal a man’s wife? Face us like a bloke!”
The door flew open—and a fist cracked James square in the nose. He stumbled back, swearing. “Nice welcome…”
Mark snapped. One kick sent the door crashing inward. They stormed the flat like madmen, shouting, searching. “Where’s the coward?!”
Victoria shrieked in the kitchen, dialling frantically. James bolted down the hall. “Did the tosser jump?”
Then—a groan. Under the wrecked door, the loverboy writhed, pinned by his own arrogance. Dressing gown askew, face bloodied, he looked pathetic.
“Fitting revenge,” James chuckled, nudging the door with his boot.
Then, bang on cue—screeching from the stairwell: “Help! Someone! Murder!” Mark’s mother-in-law, no doubt.
Sobered instantly, they bolted before the cops came. Next morning, Mark filed for divorce. No way he’d live where he’d been humiliated. Where another man wore his robe.
A week later, he packed for another rig stint. James saw him off, nose taped, knuckles bandaged.
“Still, epic exit!” He clapped Mark’s shoulder. “If you remarry—just not another Victoria. But *do* call me. I’ll handle the doors next time.”
**Lesson learned:** A man’s home is his castle—until someone leaves the drawbridge down.
