Where Is the Love?
Emily was lively, charming, and pretty—men always buzzed around her like bees to honey. She took her time, weighing her options. But the older she grew, the higher her standards climbed.
Raised by a single mother, Emily knew the sting of pinching pennies. She lacked the luxuries her friends and classmates had. She decided then—she’d only marry a man who could give her everything.
Then she met him: handsome, clever, successful, flush with cash, a flat in London, and a sleek car. What more could she want? A prince, truly. Of course, she fell for him. Emily was lovely, but she had nothing to her name except her youth and beauty. Youth and beauty are currency too—she just didn’t realize it yet.
How could she not fall? He doted on her, fulfilled her every whim, and envy followed them everywhere.
She took him home to meet her mother, certain he’d win her over. What mother wouldn’t want this for her daughter? A life of comfort—no, luxury. A dream match. But once he left, her mother’s face darkened.
“He’s a catch, no doubt. But what does he see in *you*? You’re young, pretty—but so are thousands of girls. Why you? Oh, love, I’d rather you picked someone simpler. You’re from different worlds. And he’s much older—divorced, no doubt, with children. Don’t roll your eyes. These things matter, mark my words. You won’t be happy with him.”
“We’ll see about that,” Emily shot back. “He divorced years ago. His son lives abroad.”
“You’ll bend over backward trying to meet his expectations. Remember Cinderella? The prince fell for her at the ball, all dolled up. Fairy tales end at the wedding. What will you talk about? Him with his board meetings, you with your housework? Your worlds won’t mesh. One day, society will nudge him toward his own kind. He’ll grow critical. You don’t fit.” Her mother sighed. “He’ll tire of you eventually.”
“I expected better from you, Mum. Should I never marry, then? Live in fear of being left?”
“It’s not that, only—” Emily cut her off.
“Marry some bloke like me—would *that* guarantee happiness? Don’t argue. I’ve made my choice. Let me have this, even if it’s just for a while. Just once, I want to stop counting pennies.”
Her mother relented. “Maybe you’re right. I pray your happiness lasts.”
Emily basked in the envious glances women threw at James. He’d pick her up from work, and colleagues would gawk. *He chose me. That’s love.* Love smoothed over every crack, didn’t it? What did Saint Paul say about love?
James proposed with a diamond ring—not some tiny speck, but a seven-carat dazzler. Emily’s head spun with joy. No, it wouldn’t be like her mother feared. She was sure of it.
Then came wedding dress shopping. She’d dreamed of this, scrolling through bridal sites, but the prices made her balk. They planned a boutique visit, but last-minute business held James back. He handed her his card. “Buy the most beautiful one. Don’t spare a penny.”
She left her mother behind—too frugal, too prone to gasping at price tags. No close friend to help either. So Emily went alone.
Rows of ivory gowns left her breathless. This was her fairy tale. The price tag on the first dress? More than three months’ wages. She felt like an impostor, unworthy of such opulence.
The shop assistant’s condescending smile stung. Emily straightened, stammering her dream dress into existence. The assistant brought out creations so exquisite they stole her breath. Emily ignored the tags—James had told her not to. But choosing proved agony. Each gown transformed her. The staff’s smirks melted into deference.
How glorious, spending without a care. If only James were here, sipping espresso like in the films while she twirled in masterpiece after masterpiece, waiting for his approving nod…
She found *the* dress—snug, radiant, too perfect for pre-wedding eyes. She left it at the boutique, sparing her mother a fainting spell.
The wedding was a countryside estate affair—fireworks, a live orchestra under the stars.
“Lucky girl,” sighed her work friends. “What a catch.”
“Oh? Because he’s rich? Handsome? He’s so much more,” Emily laughed, floating on cloud nine.
Disillusionment struck almost immediately. Gone were their nightly outings. James buried himself in work, grumbling about fatigue.
“Dinner out tonight?” she’d ask.
“Too tired. Your cooking’s splendid anyway. Restaurants are overrated.”
She missed dressing up for him, feeling desired. Now? Home from work, apron on, cooking. On lazy nights, she ordered takeaway. James devoured it, oblivious or polite.
When she got pregnant, the doting returned. He offered a housekeeper. She refused, glowing with pride. But after the birth, her curves lingered. James frowned at her worn robe.
“Easier for nursing,” she mumbled.
His gaze grew colder. Work kept him later. “Meetings,” he’d say. “Trouble at the office.”
“You lost interest after the baby,” she finally accused.
“I offered help.”
“There’s someone else.”
“*You* said it, not me. But yes. You let yourself go. I provide plenty—you could at least *try*.”
“Our son needed me. I’m breastfeeding—no diets, no time for makeup!”
It worsened. Absences stretched. Emily’s jealousy festered. One sleepless night, she packed a bag and called her mum.
“Can I stay with you?”
“Why? Renovations?”
“Something like that.”
Her husband came home to emptiness. He called, alternating between pleas and threats.
“Fine. The flat’s mine. You’ll get nothing but child support.” Click.
Emily wept in her mother’s cramped flat.
“I warned you. We’ll manage,” Mum sighed.
Divorce papers arrived by post. No court summons. No warning.
Time passed. Her son started nursery. Emily returned to work, slim again, drawing male attention like flies. She ignored them—her heart needed mending.
Her mother nagged. “A boy needs a father. You’re too wrapped up in your career.”
Emily climbed the corporate ladder, bought her own flat.
“This isn’t living. You’re alone. Thomas needs a dad,” Mum fretted.
“No one wants *me*. Just what I can give them. I won’t settle for that. Where *is* love?”
Then William joined her firm—young, attractive, educated abroad. He pursued her relentlessly. She laughed him off. What would a boy want with her?
But nature wins. Colleagues warned him—”She rejects everyone.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
One rainy evening, he offered her a lift. At her door, he kissed her. She trembled—it had been so long. She set rules: no commitments, no gossip, or he’d be sacked. Then invited him for coffee. Her son was at Mum’s.
They met occasionally. Against her will, she fell for him.
Then, at dinner, William waved at someone.
“Look—my father. I’ll introduce you.”
Before she could protest, he was gone. His *father*? Just what she needed.
“Emily, this is Charles Whitmore. Dad, this is—”
Her gaze snapped up. Older, but still striking. Recognition flashed in his eyes.
“*You*? This is revenge?” Charles snapped.
“Dad, what? You *know* each other?”
“You never mentioned a son,” Emily said coldly.
“My first marriage. Young and stupid. We divorced.” Charles glared. “Leave him be. He’s just a boy.”
“Ask about your other son.”
“You have a son?” William gaped.
“Your brother. Nearly ten.” She held Charles’ stare. “I gained weight. He found other women. I got divorce papers in the post. Never once visited his child.”
“You’ve changed,” Charles sneered. “You and my son—it’s unthinkable.”
“Says who? I’ll take what I want.” The line surfaced from some forgotten tale. “But you’re right. This is too much.” She stormed out.
William chased her. Charles yanked him back.
“She’s out of your league.”
A cab, tears. “*Why*?” She liked William. But Charles was right—this was madness. She’d end it before it grew.
Next day, Charles appeared at her door—Mum had given the address, hoping for reconciliation. Seeing his son, he froze. The boy was his double. He’d brought a toy, not realizing he’d outgrown it.
Then William arrived. The air turned toxic.
“Enough! Both of you—*leave*!” Emily shouted.
Al**”Years later, when Emily walked into her new office in Edinburgh, she wondered if love had been hiding in the quiet moments all along—the mornings with her son, the peace in her own company, the freedom to choose herself first.”**
