**Diary Entry**
All girls dream of grand, pure love. The kind that makes your head spin and your heart skip at the gentlest touch. They imagine a man proposing in the most unexpected, picture-perfect moment—something everyone would envy. A wedding straight from a fairy tale: the groom sharp in a tailored suit, the bride delicate in a cloud of white lace, glowing with happiness. Little girls dream of it almost as soon as they can walk. Emily was no exception.
Midway through the school year, a new boy joined Year 9—Daniel Carter. At break, everyone crowded around him, peppering him with questions: Where had he come from? Why switch schools now?
“My father’s in the military,” Daniel explained. “Got reassigned, so we moved here.”
“Can you shoot?” someone asked.
“Had to, once or twice.”
“With what?”
“Standard issue.” The questions flew.
Daniel’s eyes kept drifting to Emily, standing apart like she couldn’t care less. After school, he walked her home—turned out they lived the same way. She told him about school; he shared stories of bases and cities where his father had been stationed.
On Emily’s birthday, he brought a rose to class and gave it to her in front of everyone. The lads would’ve usually laughed, made crude jokes—but they respected him for it. The girls? They seethed.
Emily took the rose like it happened every day. Her look said: *See how the new boy follows me? Jealous? Just wait.* She treated him carelessly, though she liked him well enough.
Before finals, Emily met an older bloke—a rugby player. She’d stopped with a friend to watch a regatta by the River Thames.
“Over here, love,” a handsome lad called. “Better view.”
“You competing?” Emily asked, weaving through the crowd.
“Nah, I do wrestling. Mate’s in, though—see him? Second boat.” His eyes never left her.
Victor—that was his name—walked her home.
“You know what ‘Victor’ means?”
Emily did, but her mind blanked.
“Winner. That’s me in life.”
She fancied him. New feelings tangled inside her, thrilling and frightening her all at once. Daniel? Forgotten. What was he next to Victor Harrington? The whole walk, she wondered if he’d kiss her. At her door, he only wished her goodnight. She felt oddly disappointed.
Next day, as she left school, Victor stepped out of a parked Mercedes, opening the passenger door. Before getting in, Emily glanced around—did her friends see? The girls on the steps gaped. Daniel stood nearby, scowling. Emily slid in triumphantly—but once they drove off, fear crept in. Where was he taking her?
Just a drive through London, it turned out. He talked about places he’d been for matches. His attention flattered her. He behaved, never overstepping. From trips, he brought perfume, fancy costume jewellery. The humble rose was history. Her friends gasped over the gifts, green with envy. Daniel? She didn’t even see him anymore.
After school, she started uni. Victor picked her up most days in his car.
“Where’s your Romeo?” friends teased when she walked home alone.
“Training camp,” she’d smile.
He proposed unexpectedly—right in Trafalgar Square, on one knee, velvet ring box in hand. A tiny diamond, but still. Straight out of a film. A patrol car pulled up; they nearly got nicked for causing a scene.
Emily’s only regret? None of her friends had seen it. No rewind button for glory.
At the registry office, she stood in lace, radiant. Beside her, Victor—strong, handsome, a *winner*. His jacket strained over his muscles. What more could she want?
After the wedding, he took her to his flat.
A month later, she realized—she was pregnant. Terrible timing. What about uni?
“Think of our son. You’ll finish later if you want. Stay home. Money’s covered,” Victor said.
“What if it’s a girl?”
“It’s a son. I’m a winner, remember?”
A son it was. The congratulations faded. Victor trained, traveled for matches. She stayed home. Friends vanished. Her mum hinted she’d call, not visit—son-in-law didn’t want “interference.”
Not that Emily minded much, but happiness feels hollow with no witnesses. Isolated, like she’d caught the plague. Slowly, the dream soured.
When their boy grew older, things eased. She took him to prep classes, mostly sports clubs. Chatting with other mums, she still felt Victor’s presence, even absent. On the street, she’d glance over her shoulder—someone watching? She mentioned it once.
“Paranoid much? I’ve got better things to do,” he snapped.
“Vic, I want to work. Finish my degree. I’m *bored*.”
“Oh? Thousands of women’d kill for your life. Fancy swanning about while I work?” His glare burned. She never brought it up again.
Once, while James was at nursery, she visited a friend. Over tea, Emily admitted she was stifled.
“You’re mad, Em. No bosses, no Mondays? Living the dream.”
“Where were you?” Victor roared when she returned.
“At Sarah’s, just tea—”
He backhanded her. Stars burst behind her eyes.
“Don’t like home? Have a daughter. You’ll be *busy*,” he hissed, shoving her onto the bed.
She stopped going out. Fear moved in. Who *was* this man?
One day, she and James passed a watermelon stall.
“Mum, please?” he begged.
The Uzbek vendor flattered her, weighing a huge melon.
“How’ll I carry it?”
“Very sweet!” He offered to deliver it.
That evening, James told his dad about the melon. She wished she’d warned him to stay quiet.
“Room. Now,” Victor told James.
When the boy left, he hit her so hard she blacked out. Woke on the floor. Victor sat eating watermelon, spitting seeds on the tiles.
“Stooping to migrants? Be grateful you’re alive.”
Next day, the stall was run by a silent old man. She knew Victor had arranged it.
Her face swelled. Sunglasses and a scarf hid it. At nursery, she bumped into an old classmate, Charlotte.
“We’ve just moved here! Fancy a coffee?”
“Can’t. Tooth abscess.”
“Usually they say ‘walked into a cupboard,’” Charlotte mused. “Scared of him, aren’t you? Run. It’ll get worse.”
“I provoked him. He loves me.”
“Suit yourself.” Charlotte pressed a number into her hand. “Call if you need. My cousin’s in the Met.”
Emily forgot the number.
Victor’s rages worsened. He avoided her face now—less visible bruises. The mirror showed a ghost.
“He’ll kill you,” Charlotte said when Emily finally called. “I warned you. Police won’t help—he’ll walk. You need to *go*. Ready?”
They planned through James’s nursery cubby—notes torn after reading.
“Husbands. Always the first suspects,” Charlotte muttered.
Passport? No. “No matter. Britain’s big enough to hide you.”
Emily packed a bag, left it inconspicuous. Days passed—maybe she’d overreacted? She called from a payphone.
“Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“Fine. Let him hit James next.” Click.
That night, Victor noticed her shaking.
“Taking James tomorrow. You’re ill.”
“No, I’ll do it!” Panic edged her voice.
He kissed her—then punched her stomach. Doubled over, gasping, she stopped doubting.
At dawn, she woke James, took the bag, and left. A car waited. They drove for hours—a dying village, an old cottage. The locals shrugged at “holidaymakers.”
Days passed. No Victor. James played with village boys, tanned and strong. A mobile shop brought supplies. She’d done the right thing.
Then nausea hit. Pregnant. *Terrible* timing. But she’d keep it.
One day, fetching groceries, she saw *Daniel*.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said.
“Just a break. You?”
“Visiting my gran. Ninety-four—won’t leave.” He showed off his catch. “Ever fished, mate?”
James shook his head.
“Tomorrow? I’ll fetch you early.”
She fretted all day—what if Victor came? But James returned thrilled, boasting of his two fish. Daniel taught him to clean and fry them, bones and all.
Dawn. A car door clicked. A shadow moved. She bolted up—
The door smashed open. Victor. Two brutes behind him.
“Thought you’d run?” He grabbed James. “Take him.”
“Bitch!” His fist cracked her skull. Darkness.
She woke to water splashed inShe opened her eyes to Daniel kneeling beside her, his voice steady as he whispered, “It’s over—you’re safe now.”
