When Oliver got home on Friday evening, the flat smelled of fried potatoes and something sour. He wrinkled his nose—Sophie had made cabbage again, even though she knew how much he hated it. He hung his expensive suit jacket carefully on the hanger and walked into the kitchen.
“Hey,” he muttered.
“Already ate at work, I suppose?” she asked flatly.
“There was a networking event after the meeting. Oil and gas client—they put on a full spread. But I closed a deal worth two hundred grand.”
Sophie said nothing. She stood by the stove in an old dressing gown, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She looked exhausted. And honestly, she couldn’t care less—not even if it were a million. No amount of money could bring back what they’d had two years ago.
Oliver sat at the table, cracked open a bottle of sparkling water. His wife’s eyes flickered with something like accusation.
“Your whole expression is different now,” she said.
“Different how?”
“Like you’re looking down at me. Like I’m just the help. None of this feels like *us* anymore, Oliver. You’ve changed.”
“Seriously, Soph? I’m working my arse off! Everything we have is because of me—this flat, the new car, the holidays. And what do you do? You don’t even work anymore.”
“I don’t work because *you* insisted!” Her voice cracked. “You said, ‘Stay home, relax, I’ve got this.’ Now you look at me like I’m just dead weight.”
He pushed his plate away.
“You’re just jealous. I’m moving forward, and you’re stuck. That’s not my fault.”
“I’m stuck because you won’t *let* me move.”
He stood, shoving his chair back. “If you’re not happy, live however you want. Just don’t come crying to me later.”
Their marriage had started beautifully. Back then, Oliver was a junior account manager at an ad agency, Sophie an English teacher. They rented a tiny flat, saved where they could, picked out modest gifts for each other. Their happiness was in the little things—evening walks along the Thames, picnics in the park, movie nights in.
Then everything changed when Oliver got headhunted for a director role at a bigger firm. Triple the salary. He climbed fast—business trips, bonuses, important contacts. They bought a two-bed in a flashy new development, and Sophie quit her job at his insistence. “Why bother with that school? I’ve got us covered.”
At first, it felt like a dream. But soon, Sophie started noticing a third presence in their home—something cold. It arrived with Oliver in his tailored suits, the scent of expensive whisky, chats about markets, trends, and KPIs. He was changing, and she was staying the same. And it annoyed him.
“I keep thinking,” Sophie told her mate, Emily, over coffee one day, “maybe I should go back to teaching?”
“Do it. You loved it. Or find something remote—you’re clever, Soph. It’s just a rough patch.”
“It’s not even about work. Oliver feels like… a stranger. He’s not cruel. But I’m just part of the furniture to him. Cook, clean, look presentable. Everything’s *perfect*. Except no one asks how I’m actually doing.”
Emily sighed. “Classic story. Makes money, tastes power. Cash strips people bare—and not everyone likes what’s underneath.”
Once, Oliver came home midday, midweek, in a weirdly good mood, clutching a boutique bag.
“Look what I got you.”
Sophie unfolded the fabric—black, fitted, slit up the side. Expensive. Stylish. Nothing like her.
“This isn’t me. I don’t wear things like this.”
“You’re just insecure. We’ll go out. Actually, there’s a work do on Friday. Come with me. Show everyone what a stunning wife I’ve got.”
“Like an accessory?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t hear. Or pretended not to.
The event was at some swanky country club. Everyone in designer labels. Sophie felt out of place. She sipped champagne, listening to talk of stocks, exchange rates, luxury cars.
When she stepped back inside from the terrace, Oliver was next to a woman in red—young, polished, all glossy hair and perfect teeth. Sophie saw her hand brush his. He didn’t move away.
She stayed silent the whole drive. Only spoke at home.
“Who was she?”
“Just a PR girl. We’re on a project together.”
“And you let her touch you like that?”
“Don’t be daft. She’s just flirty. Why the drama? We’re adults.”
“Or maybe you’ve forgotten you *have* a wife?” Sophie turned to him. “Or is it easier if I’m just… a trophy on the shelf?”
“Here we go again. What do you *want*, Sophie?”
She didn’t answer. Because she didn’t know. Respect, maybe. Interest. Love, even. But how do you explain that to someone who only thinks in numbers?
That Sunday, she left for her mum’s.
“What’s happened?” her mum asked.
“He doesn’t *see* me anymore, Mum. Like I’m invisible.”
“Then tell him. Fight for it.”
“Is it worth it? All he loves is his career.”
“If you don’t try, you’ll never know.”
She went back. Tried to talk.
“Oliver, I’m tired of being a ghost. I want to *work*. Be someone, not just ‘the wife.'”
“Work, then. Who’s stopping you? Just don’t expect me to hold your hand. I’ve got my own life.”
“You could at least *care*.”
“And you could stop turning every chat into a row.”
A month later, Sophie started teaching English online. The pay was minimal, but it wasn’t about that—it was about feeling like *herself* again.
But Oliver drifted further. More closed-off. More late nights, less interest in home.
Then one day, she saw his phone—left it behind by accident, and a call came through. Scrolled without meaning to. Messages. That PR girl.
*You looked incredible today. Loved being near you. Can’t stop thinking about you.*
Sophie didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just packed a bag and left.
The divorce was quiet. He didn’t even argue.
“If you really think this is best, fine.”
“It’s not *best*. But it’s honest.”
Two months later, he spotted her at a café. Sophie was scribbling in a notebook, focused.
“Hey. How’ve you been?”
“Working. Living. Fine.”
“You look… good.”
“Because I’m *happy* again. You?”
He shrugged. He looked tired.
“Got everything I wanted. Just… the people around me. They’re hollow. All they want is money, favours. I honestly thought *she*’d love me for me. Not for connections. But… I was wrong. She just used me. Then moved on.”
“Not everyone knows how to love. It’s an art, Oliver. Like valuing someone else’s heart. Anyway—I’ve got to go.”
He watched her walk away. For some reason, he just felt… sad. Sad that what they’d had before was gone for good.
