Claire sat alone at the dinner table yet again. It was already nine, and not a word from Edward—no call, no text. “Stuck at work again,” she thought, though she didn’t quite believe it herself.
Lately, those “delays” had become too frequent. At first, it was once every couple of weeks. Then weekly. Now it felt like he’d stopped coming home on time altogether.
She remembered how it started. Edward would say there was a crisis at work—some urgent project, a tight deadline. She believed him, waiting up late. Then the excuses got stranger.
On Monday, he called saying he was trapped in the car park because a snowplough blocked his exit. Claire stayed silent but noted the lie—his office had an underground garage no tractor could reach.
Wednesday’s excuse? A last-minute meeting, though his company rarely held them, and when they did, it was over video calls in the morning.
Yesterday, he claimed he’d been stuck in the office with… stomach trouble. A bad takeaway, apparently.
Claire wasn’t stupid. He was hiding something. But screaming won’t drag out the truth. So what was it?
“How are you feeling?” she asked when Edward finally walked in, keeping her voice gentle. He slumped onto the bed with a sigh.
“Not great,” he mumbled, rubbing his stomach. “Must’ve been that dodgy lunch from the café.”
“Awful. I bet you feel rotten,” she said, watching his reaction. “I’ll grab you some medicine. Works wonders.”
“No!” He nearly shouted, then caught himself. “The lads at work gave me something. Can’t remember what, but it helped.”
“Really? Well, fine.” She shrugged. “But you should know what you’re taking. Could be anything.”
“You’re right,” he forced a smile. “I’ll shower and sleep it off.”
Claire stroked his cheek before leaving. The second the bathroom door shut, she snatched his phone from the nightstand.
Nothing in his messages or calls. But then she checked the banking app.
“£500 transfer to Angelica W.” Her stomach dropped. The shower stopped. Hands shaking, she closed the app and tossed the phone back.
“Don’t panic,” she whispered, pacing. “Who the hell is Angelica W.?” A colleague? Someone from accounts?
Sleep wouldn’t come. The bed felt vast and cold. Edward slept soundly, oblivious. When exhaustion finally pulled her under, her dreams were jagged—flashes of a name, faceless murmurs, a knot of dread.
Then—jolted awake.
“Angelica.” The memory hit like a slap. Edward’s ex. The one he’d mentioned maybe twice, brushing it off as “just a silly uni fling.”
Claire sat up, sweat cooling on her back. The pieces locked together—vanishing acts, weak excuses, sudden “food poisoning.” And now, a hefty sum of money.
She pressed her palms to her temples, trying to steady herself.
“Just a silly uni fling,” echoed in her skull.
Dawn crept in before she gave up on sleep. She studied Edward’s face, calm in slumber, while her mind raced.
Angelica was his past. So why now? And why that money?
Quietly, she slipped out, brewing coffee at the kitchen counter. A notepad lay open. She needed a plan.
**What now?**
Confront him? He’d only shut down.
A private investigator? Too dramatic—where would she even find one?
Hunt Angelica down herself?
Claire knew waiting would make it worse. But how to move without tipping him off?
She started small—scrolling Edward’s socials. Maybe old photos, a mention, a mutual friend…
Her laptop glowed in the dim room. Most posts were recent—holidays, work events, their wedding. But deep in his archives, she found it: a faded photo of a younger Edward with a girl.
Angelica.
Claire exhaled and shut the screen. Two paths stretched ahead—look away and risk worse, or dig for the truth, however bitter.
The choice was clear.
That evening, Claire sat twisting her phone in her hands, rehearsing what to say. The front door opened.
“We need to talk,” Edward said, voice rough. He didn’t even take off his coat.
“I was going to say the same,” she began, but he cut her off.
“Let me speak first.” He sank onto the hallway stool. “You won’t like this. I don’t expect forgiveness. Just… hear me out.”
Claire froze, pulse hammering.
“Remember Angelica? My first proper girlfriend. We were together sixth form through first year uni.” His voice cracked.
Claire felt the axe hovering.
“Right after uni started, she got pregnant.” He swallowed. “I was a coward. Scared stupid. I… paid her off. Made her deal with it alone.”
Claire’s hands curled into fists. She wanted to shake him—no more pauses. But she knew. A child. A secret.
“I ghosted her. She went through with it, but… it went wrong. Complications. She begged for help. I turned her away.”
“She… terminated it?” Claire asked, then winced at her own hopeful tone.
“Yeah. After that, she never married. Kept getting sick—surgeries, infections. Then… cancer. Spread everywhere. Doctors say three months, if that.”
Claire couldn’t move.
“I lied. I’m sorry. But I had to try… She’s got no one. No family, no husband, no kids. And it’s my fault.” He dug fingers into his hair.
Silence thickened. Claire stared at this man she’d known for years, now a stranger. Jealousy clawed at her, but beneath it—something worse: pity.
“You blame yourself?” she whispered.
“God, yes.”
“It was years ago. Just… bad luck.”
“I made the luck.”
“Can anything be done?”
“No. She’s… it’s palliative now. Just pain relief till the end.” He looked up, wrecked. “Claire, she’s alone.”
A beat. Then—understanding. Edward, still in his coat. The car keys in his hand.
“You’re going to her.”
“I have to.”
Claire stepped back, arms crossed tight. “And where does that leave me?”
“I don’t expect you to stay. But I can’t lie anymore.”
Her world split.
“What if I say no?” She already knew.
“Then I’ll keep lying. ‘Late at work.’ ‘Boss meeting.’ And one day, you’ll hate me for it.”
Claire shut her eyes. She loved him. But here he stood—a man who’d buried one mistake until it shattered them both.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” she whispered. “For then. For now. For this.”
Edward reached for her. She sidestepped.
“I’m not asking you to. I just needed you to know—I love you. But I have to do this.”
He turned for the door. Claire let him go.
Hours bled by. She paced, sat, paced again. Anger flared—then faded when she recalled his face. Raw. No excuses.
*(continued…)*
Her phone glowed on the side. She picked it up.
*”I get it,”* she typed. *”I love you. Let’s help her.”*
A pause. Then—
*”Thank you.”*
Claire cried then, quiet in the dark. She’d chosen right.
