Jessica sat alone at the dinner table *again*. The clock read half past eight, and still no word from Daniel. “Stuck at work, I suppose,” she thought, though she didn’t quite believe it herself…
Lately, these “late nights” had become far too frequent. At first, it was once a fortnight—just the odd occasion. Then weekly. And now it felt like he was barely home before midnight.
She remembered how it started. Daniel would blame a tight deadline, an urgent project at the office. She’d wait up, trusting him.
But the excuses grew flimsier. Last Monday, he’d called claiming a snowplough had trapped his car in the car park—never mind that his building had underground parking where no tractor could reach.
On Wednesday, it was a “crucial meeting,” though his firm barely held any in person—most were over video calls, and always in the morning.
Then yesterday—*indigestion*. An hour stuck in the office loo, apparently.
Jessica wasn’t stupid. She knew he was hiding something. Screaming at him wouldn’t pry the truth loose—but *what* was he hiding?
*”Feeling any better?”* she asked, keeping her voice light as Daniel slumped onto the bed.
*”Not great,”* he muttered, rubbing his stomach. *”Must’ve been that dodgy takeaway.”*
*”Awful. Poor love,”* she said, watching him closely. *”I’ll fetch you something for it—”*
*”No!”* He sat bolt upright, then winced. *”I mean… the lads gave me something. Sorted me right out.”*
*”Really? Well, remember the name next time,”* she said lightly. *”God knows what they’ve handed you.”*
*”Yeah. ’M knackered, though. Gonna shower and crash.”*
She stroked his cheek and left. The second the bathroom door shut, she snatched his phone.
Messages. Calls. Apps—nothing suspicious. But then she checked the banking app.
*”Transfer: £1,200 to Emily W.”*
Her stomach dropped. The shower cut off. Hands trembling, she closed the app and slipped the phone back.
*Don’t panic.* Who the hell was Emily W.? A colleague? Someone from accounts?
Sleep never came. The bed felt vast, cold. Daniel snored beside her, oblivious. When she *did* drift off, fragments haunted her—whispers, shadows.
Then—*snap*—she was awake.
*Emily.*
The name seared her mind. Daniel’s ex. The one he’d brushed off as *”just a fling at uni.”*
Now it all made sense: the lies, the “indigestion.” And now—£1,200.
Heart pounding, she crept to the kitchen. Coffee. Notepad. *Plan.*
Confront him? He’d just lie.
Hire a PI? Where did one even *find* those?
Find Emily herself?
She opened his Facebook, scrolled back *years*. And there—young Daniel, arm around a girl.
*Emily.*
The choice was stark: ignore it, or dig—no matter how deep.
—–
That evening, she perched on the sofa, rehearsing her speech—when the door swung open.
*”We need to talk,”* Daniel said, voice hollow.
Her pulse spiked. *”I was about to say the same.”*
He held up a hand. *”Let me… just let me say this.”* He sank onto the hallway bench. *”You won’t like it. Don’t expect you to forgive me, either.”*
Her breath stalled.
*”Remember Emily? First love, uni days.”* His voice cracked.
She braced—for the confession, the knife-twist of *”I never stopped loving her.”*
*”She got pregnant right after graduation. I was a coward. Gave her money for… you know. Then ghosted her.”*
Jessica’s nails dug into her palms. *So there was a child.*
*”It went wrong. Complications. She begged for help—I ignored her.”*
*”She… *terminated* it?”* The hope in her voice shamed her.
*”Yeah. But after that—she never married. Health went to hell. Three ops—lost everything. Now? Cancer. Docs give her three months, tops.”*
The room spun.
*”I lied. I’m sorry. But she’s got *no one*. No family, no partner.”*
Silence.
*”You blame yourself,”* she whispered.
*”Course I do. But that’s not the point.”* He looked up, eyes raw. *”I’m seeing her through this. Even if it costs me you.”*
*”And if I say no?”*
*”Then I’ll keep lying. And we’ll rot from the inside out.”*
Her heart split. She loved him—yet here he stood, a stranger shackled to his past.
*”I don’t know if I can forgive you,”* she said. *”For then. For now. For this.”*
He reached for her—she stepped back.
*”Not asking forgiveness. Just… know I love you. But I *have* to do this.”*
Keys jingled. The door clicked shut.
She didn’t stop him.
Hours crawled. Anger ebbed—replaced by the memory of his face: no lies, no excuses.
*He didn’t betray me. He’s trying to fix what he broke.*
Her phone glowed on the table. She picked it up.
*”I get it,”* she typed. *”I love you. Let’s help her.”*
A pause. Then:
*”Thank you.”*
Tears spilled. She’d chosen right.
