When Richard returned home on Friday evening, the flat smelled of fried potatoes and something sour. He wrinkled his nose—Emily had cooked cabbage again, despite knowing how much he detested it. Hanging his expensive suit jacket neatly on the hook, he made his way to the kitchen.
“Evening,” he muttered.
“You’ve eaten already, I suppose?” she asked flatly, not bothering to smile.
“There was a reception after the meeting. Client from the oil sector, lavish spread. At least I secured the deal—two million quid.”
Emily said nothing. She stood by the stove in her faded dressing gown, her hair hastily tied back. Exhaustion lined her face. Genuinely, she didn’t care—not a hundred million would change what they’d lost two years ago.
Richard sat at the table, twisting open a bottle of mineral water. His wife’s gaze flickered over him—something reproachful in her eyes.
“Your look’s different now,” she said.
“Different how?”
“Arrogant. Like I’m the hired help. None of this is *us*. You’re a different man now, Richard.”
“Seriously, Em? I’m breaking my back every single day! Everything we have—our flat, the new car, the holidays—it’s *my* work. And what do you do? Not even a job anymore.”
“I don’t work because *you* insisted!” Her voice trembled. “*You* said, ‘Stay home, relax, I’ll take care of everything.’ Now you look at me like I’m some freeloader.”
Richard 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 abruptly, the chair scraping back.
“If you don’t like it, live however you want. Just don’t complain later.”
Their marriage had begun beautifully. Richard used to be a manager at a marketing firm, Emily a schoolteacher. They rented a modest flat, saved pennies for small gifts, found joy in simple things—evening walks by the Thames, picnics in the countryside, cosy nights in with films.
Then everything shifted when Richard was headhunted for a director role. Triple the salary. Suddenly, he was soaring—business trips, bonuses, high-profile contacts. They bought a two-bed flat in a modern development, and Emily quit her job—*his* idea. “Why bother with teaching? I’ll provide.”
At first, it felt like a fairy tale. But slowly, Emily realised something cold had crept into their home. It arrived with Richard, wrapped in tailored suits, the scent of Cuban cigars, endless chatter about markets, trends, and bonuses. He was changing. She stayed the same. And now, that irritated him.
“I’ve been thinking,” Emily said to her friend Sophie over coffee, “maybe I should go back to teaching.”
“Do it. You loved it. Or look for online courses—you’re brilliant, Em. It’s just a rough patch.”
“It’s not just work. Richard feels… *foreign*. He’s not cruel. I’m just part of the furnishings now. Stay home, cook, clean. The perfect picture. Nobody asks how I *feel*.”
Sophie sighed. “Classic story. Money warps people. Shows what’s really inside—and not all of it’s pretty.”
One afternoon, Richard came home midweek, buoyant, carrying a bag from a high-end boutique.
“Look what I got you.”
Emily unfolded the dress—black, fitted, slit up the side. Expensive. Chic. *Not her.*
“Where would I even wear this?”
“You’re just insecure. We’re going out—firm’s gala this Friday. Show you off a bit.”
“Like a trophy?” she whispered.
He didn’t hear. Or pretended not to.
At the gala, surrounded by sleek suits and designer gowns, Emily felt alien. She nursed a glass of champagne, half-listening to debates about investments, forex rates, luxury cars.
Stepping back inside from the terrace, she spotted Richard—close to a woman in red. Young, polished, effortless. Her fingers brushed his wrist. He didn’t pull away.
Emily stayed silent until they got home. “Who was she?”
“Just PR for a project. Don’t make a scene.”
“Scene? She was touching you!”
“She’s a flirt. Grow up. Or—wait—is this because you’ve forgotten you’re my wife?”
She turned sharply. “Or have *you* forgotten?”
He exhaled. “Here we go again. What *do* you want, Em?”
She had no answer. Respect? Attention? Love? How to explain that to someone who measured everything in numbers?
That Sunday, she went to her mother’s.
“Well? What happened?”
“He doesn’t *see* you now, does he?” her mother murmured.
“Then *make* him see. Fight for it.”
Emily returned. Tried.
“Rich, I can’t be your shadow anymore. I want to work. Be *someone*.”
“Fine. Just don’t expect me to hold your hand. I’ve got a company to run.”
“Support would be nice.”
“And you could stop turning every chat into a tragedy.”
A month later, Emily found remote work—teaching English online. Modest pay, but the pride of reclaiming herself was priceless.
Yet Richard withdrew further. Late nights. Silent dinners.
Then, one day—his phone. Left behind, buzzing. Messages from *her*:
“Stunning tonight.”
“Loved being near you.”
“Can’t stop thinking about you.”
Emily packed a bag. No shouting. She was done.
The divorce was quiet. He barely protested.
“If you think this is best,” he said.
“Not best. Just honest.”
Months later, he spotted her in a café. Fiercely focused over some papers.
“Em. You look… good.”
“Life’s fine now. And you?”
He shrugged. Tired.
“Got everything I wanted. Just—people turn hollow. Everyone wants something. Thought she’d love me *without* reasons. But… I was wrong.”
“Not everyone knows how to love. It’s an art. Like valuing someone properly. Sorry—I’ve got to go.”
He watched her leave. Aching for what he’d lost—and realising too late.
