**How do you think you’ll live with yourself if your husband’s innocent child, little Daisy, ends up in foster care…**
It was a day off, a chance to lie in. But Eleanor stretched, pushed back the duvet, and got up. She washed her face, brewed fresh tea, then sipped it slowly, staring out the window at the drab courtyard with peeling trees and rain-filled puddles. The sky was a thick, unbroken grey, threatening to spill fine, icy sleet at any moment.
Still, she had to go outside—if only to take out the rubbish. She was tired of sitting at home, wallowing. Nothing would change. Oliver wasn’t coming back. When someone you love dies, it feels like a part of you dies with them. Eleanor felt the hollowness inside, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fill it. Time doesn’t heal; it buries the pain deeper, erases the memories. She was exhausted—by grief, by sorrow, by tears. How do you go on when Oliver is gone? What’s the point?
They’d met at university. On the very first lecture, he sat beside her. A handsome lad, full of curiosity and joy, just like her. Soon, they were racing through corridors together, hunting for the right lecture halls, sprinting to the canteen during breaks.
By their final year, they understood each other without words, like a couple married for decades.
*”How am I supposed to live without you? I can’t even imagine it. Once finals are over, we’ll go our separate ways. Listen… what if we don’t?”* Oliver had asked one day.
*”What are you suggesting?”* Eleanor countered.
*”Marry me,”* he blurted out.
*”Is that a proposal?”* she’d said, suddenly serious. *”I thought you’d never ask. Fine. I’ll say yes.”*
*”Really?”* His face lit up.
*”What are you grinning at? A proposal and wanting to be together isn’t enough for marriage. You need love.”*
*”We’ve grown so close over the years. Who says I don’t love you? And you—do you love me?”*
Eleanor had asked herself that countless times. And every time, the answer was yes. She’d have died if Oliver had fallen for someone else. That August, they married. Eleanor lived with her parents, while Oliver had moved to the city for university from a small town.
Both sets of parents pitched in, buying the newlyweds a small flat. Without even discussing it, they agreed to wait before having children. To Eleanor, it all still felt like playacting. But time passed, they lived together, and they were happy. Two years later, Oliver and his mate, Nathan, started a small business.
Eleanor played it safe, keeping her job. If their venture failed, she’d still have an income. But Oliver and Nathan succeeded. Eventually, Eleanor joined them, handling the books to avoid any nasty surprises.
Two years on, they bought a spacious flat, a car, took trips abroad once or twice a year, returning with stacks of photos and videos. After Oliver’s death, Eleanor deleted all the files from her computer. She couldn’t bear to look at them without breaking down.
She remembered that wretched day in painful detail. It was a weekend. They were having breakfast when Oliver’s phone rang. He rushed to get ready.
*”Where are you going?”* Eleanor asked.
*”Nathan messed up. A client’s pulling their funding. I’ve got to sort it.”* He kissed her cheek at the door and left.
If only she’d known it was the last time she’d see him. No premonition, no warning. Later, she tormented herself for letting him go alone.
An hour later, the police called. Oliver had been in an accident. She needed to come to the hospital. She grabbed a taxi, heart pounding. If he were dead, they’d have said so. She clung to hope—until the officer led her to the morgue.
Oliver’s death was the end of Eleanor’s life. Nathan handled the funeral, telling her not to rush back to work, to take time to grieve…
She changed out of the shorts and vest she’d worn all morning. Oliver loved when she lounged around like that—said she looked sexy.
Two months had passed. Time to crawl out of her shell. Eleanor had to pull herself together. She now owned half of Oliver’s business. Tomorrow was Monday—time to take the first step. If she couldn’t handle it, she’d offer Nathan her share, take a holiday, then find another job.
She grabbed a bin bag and stepped outside. The air wasn’t as cold as it looked from the window. Dumping the rubbish, she decided to walk. Chilled, she ducked into a shop and emerged with a cornflower-blue dress. She couldn’t resist. She needed something to wear to work—her old clothes hung off her like sacks.
Her friend Rebecca once said that if *she* had died instead of Oliver, he wouldn’t have buried himself alive. Eleanor had agreed. Oliver would have grieved but kept working—the business needed attention. Men were different, less sensitive.
The next day, the office welcomed her with sympathetic glances and hushed whispers. The pile of paperwork was endless. At first, she read carefully, but soon she skimmed, her signature growing sloppy.
She took the bus home. Oliver’s car had been unsalvageable. Overheated, she got off two stops early, deciding to walk. A light blue scarf fluttered in the breeze. The park ahead would lead straight home.
*”Look at her, all dressed up. Swimming in her husband’s money, why not? Doesn’t care if a child starves,”* a voice sneered behind her.
Eleanor stopped. On a bench sat a woman in her seventies, glaring.
*”Are you talking to me?”*
*”Who else?”* The woman scoffed. *”You’re Eleanor Victoria, aren’t you? Oliver Victoria’s widow. That’s who I’m talking to.”*
Eleanor recoiled. *”What child is starving?”* She should have walked away—but curiosity won.
*”Your husband’s child,”* the woman said smugly.
*”That’s impossible. Oliver and I didn’t have children.”*
*”Not yours. His.”* The woman patted the bench. *”Sit down before you faint.”*
Eleanor obeyed, perching on the edge.
*”Your precious husband was carrying on with my neighbour, Daisy. Got her pregnant, promised to support her. Sent money, never visited. I babysat little Alfie sometimes. Daisy’s got no family. Now he’s gone, she’s got nothing. Thought you should know. You’re a woman—childless, but still. You’ve got the flat, the money. The boy’s innocent.”*
She shoved a scrap of paper into Eleanor’s hand—an address, a phone number.
*”Oliver wouldn’t. He’d have told me…”*
*”I saw him at Daisy’s with my own eyes,”* the woman insisted. *”Don’t let it go to court. Think how you’ll live, knowing your husband’s child’s in care.”*
Eleanor couldn’t listen anymore. Shoving the paper into her pocket, she stumbled home, shivering.
That night, she replayed the woman’s words. *It can’t be true.* She’d have noticed a change in Oliver. She thought of calling Daisy but couldn’t. Instead, she rang Rebecca, who came straight over.
*”What do I do?”* Eleanor asked after explaining.
*”The wife always finds out last,”* Rebecca mused. *”Still, I can’t believe Oliver cheated. Don’t call Daisy—she’ll humiliate you. These women will do anything for money.”*
Rebecca rang an ex-police officer turned private investigator—Paul. Soon, a dishevelled man in wrinkled trousers arrived, smelling faintly of whisky.
*”Sorry, didn’t have time to shave,”* he said briskly. *”What’s the situation?”*
Eleanor repeated everything.
*”Here’s expense money.”* She handed him a thick envelope. *”Don’t worry—I’ll have more. I’m selling my half of the business to Nathan.”*
Paul’s eyes sharpened. *”You haven’t told him?”*
*”No.”*
*”Good. My gut says Nathan’s behind this. If he doesn’t know your plans, he’ll push you to sell—or force you out.”*
*”Nathan? They were partners. Friends!”*
*”Money changes people. Don’t sign anything. Pretend you’re ill. Better yet, leave town.”*
*”I won’t talk to Nathan, but I’m not running away.”*
*”Suit yourself.”* Paul stood. *”I’ll call when I know more.”*
Days crawled by. Eleanor jumped at unknown callsEleanor stormed into the office the next morning, slapped the paternity test in front of Nathan, and watched his face crumble as the truth unraveled—just before the police walked in to arrest him for Oliver’s murder.
