The Noble Traitor – A Story of One Illusion
We met at that age when every crush feels like destiny. Will was a lanky, awkward lad with a guitar slung over his shoulder and a crumpled notebook in his hand, scribbled full of his poetry. He’d wait for me by the school gates, pretending it was a coincidence, grinning with that childlike sincerity.
“Emily, listen to this new song,” he’d murmur, strumming the strings.
I listened. His voice was off-key, his lyrics painfully sentimental. But there was something tender burning in his eyes that I couldn’t ignore.
After school, life scattered us—I went to study teaching in Manchester, he enrolled in a tech college in Birmingham. Yet Will kept writing. Sometimes he’d call the dormitory reception, other times he’d send crumpled postcards with messages like, “Everything’s grey without you, my redhead.” He’d take three trains just to see me for an evening, spending his last quid to make it happen.
I remember once when I fell ill with a fever, and he showed up outside my window at three in the morning with a thermos and pills. He whispered through the glass, “Told you—you’d be lost without me.” I stood there wrapped in a blanket, crying from sheer happiness.
After uni, Will proposed—no ring, no grand gesture, just us on the same park bench where we’d first kissed.
“Marry me, Emily,” he said, his eyes just as bright as they were at seventeen.
“Only if you swear you’ll never turn into some boring suit-and-tie bloke,” I laughed.
“I solemnly vow.”
We’d planned to move to London, but Will’s mum fell seriously ill. So we stayed in our quiet hometown. He took a job at an electronics shop, I taught at the village school. We told ourselves it was temporary. But temporary turned permanent.
We rented a dingy flat, drank cheap coffee, and had “dance nights” on the old rug, blaring music from a cassette player. When Will got his first bonus, he took me to a restaurant where the dessert cost more than his weekly wages. “Worth it,” he said, kissing my fingers.
Then his mother passed. We inherited her spacious flat and decided to try for a child. Will dreamed of a redheaded daughter, just like me. Instead, we had a son. He lived only thirty-two days.
After that, everything unravelled.
We didn’t know how to grieve together. We’d built our love on lightness, jokes, escape—but pain forced us into separate corners. He buried himself in work; I sank into depression. When I finally dragged myself out, I quit teaching—I couldn’t bear seeing other people’s children.
A few years later, Will got promoted, but it wasn’t enough. He quit to start his own business. “I know the market, I’ve got contacts, I’ve spotted a gap,” he said. He wasn’t wrong. Within a year, we had a car, a wardrobe for every season, holidays abroad. I barely recognised my own life.
But with the money came distance. We barely spoke. I tried—cooking his favourite meals, suggesting the theatre, planning family gatherings. He’d just wave me off: “Later.” Later never came.
Mum often said, “Emily, a family’s not whole without a child. Don’t wait—it’ll be too late.” I wanted to. I was ready. But Will avoided my gaze. Any time I brought it up, he’d shut down with a clipped “no.”
“Six years have passed,” I said one evening. “Maybe it’s time?”
He dropped his fork sharply. “Enough.”
I froze. “Why? We’re a family—”
“No, Emily. Don’t.”
He walked out. I stayed in that spotless kitchen, surrounded by expensive plates, feeling emptier than ever.
Then Oliver appeared. Will brought him home—his new business partner. Charming, polite, well-mannered. He invited me to exhibitions, knew artists by name, actually listened. Once, without looking, he handed me a catalogue on Turner.
“Will said you adore Turner.”
“He’s mistaken,” I snorted. “I prefer Constable.”
Oliver smiled. “Then let’s discuss Constable. Over coffee?”
I ignored it. But he didn’t give up. Theatre tickets, flowers, conversation. Finally, I confronted Will.
“Oliver’s asking me to an exhibition. He’s acting like—”
“Go,” he cut in. “You’re bored.”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“He’s a good man, Emily. And he likes you.”
I stared. His face was calm. No pain. As if he’d planned this.
“There’s someone else, isn’t there?”
“Yes. But I didn’t want you to suffer. I just… didn’t want you to be alone.”
I laughed—a bitter, almost unhinged sound. “So you pushed me toward him, just so you wouldn’t feel like the villain?”
He stayed silent. His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—and for a second, that same spark flickered in his eyes. The one that used to burn only for me.
“Go,” I whispered. “She’s waiting.”
We stood in our pristine kitchen, oceans of loss between us.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed.
But there was no forgiveness. He didn’t just leave. He made sure he looked noble. Ensured the blame wouldn’t stick to him. Made sure I was the one left holding the pieces—with a “new husband” handed to me like charity, and a love poisoned by duty.
I packed my things the next morning. No drama. No shouting. As the cab turned the corner, I suddenly remembered that lanky boy with the guitar whispering,
“Emily, I’ll write real poetry for you one day.”
He never learned. But he did master lying so well, he even believed himself.
