Unexpectedly Married
Emily was dashing through the shopping centre, arms full of bags, weaving past people on the escalator. She was furious at her useless boyfriend, Tom, who didn’t even own a car to pick her up and help with all her shopping. She’d had to order a taxi through an app, and of course, it arrived way too fast. Now she was sprinting across the mall in heels, trying to make it to the car park in time.
She was livid. Not only did she have to lug everything herself, but her expensive leather shoes were giving her blisters.
“Watch where you’re going, love!” snapped a woman on the escalator as Emily accidentally whacked her with a bag.
“Maybe you should pay attention instead of daydreaming!” Emily shot back without even turning around.
“Rude cow!” the woman spat, but Emily couldn’t care less.
She burst through the mall doors, finally checking the taxi’s number—only to see the driver had cancelled. The fare had nearly doubled. Fuming, she cancelled the ride and shoved her phone into her pocket. Spotting a free bench, she dumped her bags and flopped down, yanking off the offending shoe.
“Bloody hell! Everything’s against me today!” she muttered, shoving a shopping bag in frustration. It toppled over, spilling its receipt onto the bench.
Emily leaned back and closed her eyes. Lately, it felt like life was just mocking her…
***
Emily had always dreamed big—never settling for second best. If it was a phone, it had to be the latest model. Nails or hair? Only the top salon would do. Shoes? Nothing but the finest. She applied the same standards to her love life, but luck had other ideas. Instead of landing someone handsome, wealthy, and clever, she kept winding up with “rejects”—aging, balding, lazy, or just plain dull. She’d been picky for years, and still, no one met her expectations.
“You’ll wake up one day and realise no one wants you,” her mum warned. “A man’s worth isn’t in his looks or wallet—it’s in his actions.”
“And am I just meant to stare at his ‘actions’ all night? Kind gestures don’t pay the bills,” 25-year-old Emily would snipe back.
Her mum never had a comeback. Emily was too sharp-tongued—always ready with a retort. You’d think she’d trained in debating, but no, she was just a restaurant manager. Three years ago, it all started—well, escalated—when she’d watched wealthy men wining and dining glamorous women at work. “Why not me?” she’d thought. “I deserve that life too.”
But life had other plans. Rich men never glanced her way. Something—maybe her Northern accent, maybe her ordinary background—gave her away as not one of them. She dreamed of a fiancé with status, a high-flying job, a luxury car, and custom-tailored suits.
Time passed, boyfriends came and went, but Mr Perfect never showed up. Eventually, she caved when Tom, a bank clerk four years older with a stable but modest income, started pursuing her. He was average—light brown hair, grey eyes, 5’9″—but owned a spacious two-bed flat (with a mortgage). No car, though; he thought public transport was plenty for London.
Tom was kind but persistent—flowers at work, fancy dinners. After three months, Emily’s mum wore her down. “Good man, treats you like royalty, adores you—what more do you want? A bird in the hand, love.”
Reluctantly, Emily agreed. Truthfully, life with Tom wasn’t bad. He was attentive—paying for her luxuries, taking her abroad (economy, not first class), cooking dinners, bringing her coffee in bed, even funding her shopping sprees. And he was serious about proposing.
A year passed. Emily settled. But she never stopped dreaming—or complaining to her friends about how Tom didn’t measure up. Still… she had little real reason to grumble.
***
“Why’s *everything* against me?” Emily grumbled under her breath.
“Not *everything*,” a smooth voice said right by her ear.
She jolted upright. Standing behind the bench was Andrew—a guy who’d fancied her back in college before she’d publicly shot him down. For a second, she didn’t recognise him. Gone was the scrawny, spotty student. This Andrew had a sharp haircut, designer stubble, broad shoulders, and a leather biker jacket.
“Blimey,” she breathed, forcing a smile. “Look at you. Been ages!”
“Sure has,” he said, eyeing her pile of bags. “Rough day?”
Emily unloaded her taxi ordeal (omitting Tom, of course).
“Let me give you a lift,” Andrew offered, nodding at a gleaming black Range Rover nearby.
She practically melted. Minutes later, he was helping her in, loading her bags, and driving off. As they chatted, she eyed him slyly. This wasn’t the awkward boy she’d rejected—this was a confident, handsome, clearly loaded man. And he was flirting.
“So, what’s your secret?” she purred.
“Right place, right time.” He smirked. “Tell you over coffee? There’s a nice spot nearby.”
She did the maths. “Love to. I missed lunch anyway.”
Half an hour later, over posh sandwiches, Andrew explained: dropped out of uni, retrained in coding, landed a tech startup job, then founded his own AI company. Emily hung on every word.
“You’re brilliant,” she gushed.
He shrugged. “What about you? Married yet?”
She shook her head fast. Suddenly, Tom—still at the same bank job—seemed pathetic next to Andrew.
They talked for hours—his luxury holidays, expensive hobbies. Emily was smitten. *This* was the man she deserved.
After dinner, Andrew paid and stood. “Shame to end this.”
“My day’s wide open,” she said quickly.
“Perfect. Fancy a film?”
They went. Then walked. Laughed. Andrew hinted he was single. When Tom texted, Emily lied: “At a mate’s.” As the April evening turned chilly, Andrew suggested coffee in his car to warm up. She agreed.
Inside, he pulled her close and kissed her. She melted—let things happen.
“That was magic,” she sighed later, fixing her lipstick as they drove. “When will I see you again?”
“I’ll call,” he said, parking near her flat.
They kissed goodbye. Emily floated home, dizzy with triumph.
Next day, she dumped Tom. “I never loved you. I’ve met someone better.”
Tom just clenched his jaw. “Done, then?”
“Done.” She packed, smug. “You were never enough.”
Back at her mum’s, Emily was euphoric. Mum disapproved—but who could argue?
Days passed. A week. No call. Emily tried Andrew’s number—voicemail. Strange. She stalked his socials… and froze.
Photos of him. With a woman. Two toddlers. Holidays, birthdays—a whole family.
“But… he said he was single!”
She called again. He answered, irritated.
“Emily? I’m busy.”
“You promised to call! I thought we had something, but you’re *married*!”
“We had fun. That’s it.”
“I’ll tell your wife!”
“Go ahead. Prove it.” He laughed. “No evidence, love.”
“You *bastard*!” She hung up.
The realisation hit: she’d been used. And crawling back to Tom? Impossible. He’d never forgive this.
Emily threw her phone on the bed and cried. Her dream life had just slapped her in the face—*hard*.
