In the dim glow of a London flat, Edward sat motionless, listening to the hum of the night. A car pulled up outside, its door clicked shut, and the sharp tap of heels faded beyond the corridor. Then—slow, deliberate—the turn of a key in the lock.
He held his breath, straining to catch every whisper of sound. The rustle of fabric, the quiet shuffle of feet. “Afraid to wake me,” he thought bitterly.
The door creaked open. Emily stepped inside, tiptoeing toward the bedroom. Streetlight spilled through the curtains, revealing the untouched bed—empty. She froze, sensing his gaze, and turned.
“You scared me. Why aren’t you asleep?” she snapped.
“Waiting for you.” Edward rose, flicked the switch. Light flooded the room, making her wince.
“Where were you?” He studied her pale face, her smudged makeup.
“Sorry, I forgot to tell you—” Emily stared at the floor.
“Don’t say you were with Sarah. Just tell me the truth. How long has this been going on?”
She flinched, as if ready to bolt. Then, barely a whisper: “Two months.” Her eyes flicked up. “I wanted to tell you. I’ll leave now.” She vanished into the hall. The clatter of hangers followed as she yanked dresses from the wardrobe, tossing them into a suitcase.
“Maybe do this tomorrow when I’m not here,” Edward said. He grabbed a pillow and walked out.
In the living room, he collapsed onto the sofa, still dressed. Sleep was impossible. Rage burned through him—he wanted to smash something, to shake her, wipe away the traces of another man’s touch. He forced deep breaths, gripping the blanket.
—
Years earlier, he’d been at Brighton Beach with mates after exams. They’d dashed into the water, then Tom and Jake went for pints while Edward guarded their things.
A girl emerged from the waves, shaking water from her hair. She was sun-kissed, radiant. His gaze lingered on her wet skin, the sheen of droplets. When she turned, catching him staring, he flushed like a boy. She laughed. By the time his friends returned, they were deep in conversation.
“Go on,” Tom nudged when she left.
“Emily, wait!” Edward tugged on his jeans and sprinted after her.
Home late, his mother was frantic. “Where were you? We nearly called the police!”
“Sorry, my phone died. I’m getting married,” he blurted.
His father chuckled. “Third year, twenty years old—perfect timing.”
“No, I mean—I met someone. I’ll marry her one day.”
His mother gaped. “You just met her?”
“Let him be, love. He’s smitten,” his father said, steering her away.
Two weeks later, he brought Emily home. His mother sniffed. “She lives in a dorm. She’ll want a flat, a visa.”
Edward deflated. “You don’t like her?”
His father clapped his shoulder. “What matters is you do.”
They married after New Year’s. His father handed him keys. “My old flat. Fix it up yourselves.”
—
Now, dawn bled through the curtains. Emily stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand.
“Sorry. I woke you.”
The pain crashed back. He flinched as the door slammed shut.
She never returned. He called, lurked outside her university, only to see her arm-in-arm with another man.
His mother sniffed. “She found someone richer, that gold-digger.”
At the registry office, his world crumbled. Vodka numbed the ache until his father arrived. They drank, talked through the night. His father spoke of loss—his first wife, killed by a drunk driver. How he’d nearly drowned in grief until he met Edward’s mother.
Edward quit drinking.
Months later, his mother announced a visitor. “Alice, my friend’s niece. Show her around London.”
Alice was shy, bookish, blinking behind thick glasses. “And this one thinks she’ll conquer London,” he mused. He helped her find a job, a flat.
“Try her baking,” his mother urged. “A proper homemaker. Unlike that Emily.”
“Fine,” he joked. “I’ll marry her.”
His mother panicked. “Not again!”
Their wedding was quiet, just family. Alice was gentle, nothing like Emily. Yet nights weighed heavy with longing.
A year later, at a shopping centre, he spotted Emily.
“Hello. Your wife?” she asked. “Cute. You look happy.”
He shrugged. “Are you?”
“Nothing worked out. Sneaking around was fun—living together wasn’t.”
His chest ached. “Where are you staying?”
“Renting. Call me.” She vanished into the crowd.
His wife’s voice cut through. “That her?” Alice clutched a teddy bear.
“Ex-wife.” He dragged her away.
—
Days later, he rang Emily.
“Come over,” she purred.
He went. Her flat smelled of roast. She poured wine, clung to him. “We could start fresh.”
“I’m married,” he repeated.
Dawn found him speeding home. Alice was awake.
“Where were you?”
“With Tom.” The lie burned.
At breakfast, she finally said, “I’m pregnant.”
His heart lurched. “Alice—” He lifted her, spinning. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
(He wouldn’t have gone to Emily.)
Emily called as they drove home. “I can’t live without you—”
“Don’t call. We’re having a baby.” He blocked her number.
—
Years later, he watched his son play. Alice had softened, become his anchor.
He pulled over, trembling. He’d nearly thrown it all away.
“Alice,” he whispered into the phone. “I love you. I’ll come tomorrow.”
Her laughter sparkled. “I love you too. No conditions.”
