Oliver married Beatrice deliberately—to hurt Margaret. He wanted to prove he wasn’t broken after her betrayal.
Oliver and Margaret had been together nearly two years. He adored her, ready to move mountains and reshape his life for her dreams. He assumed marriage was next, but her constant evasion of the topic grated on him.
“Why rush into marriage now?” she’d say. “I haven’t even finished uni, and your business is barely scraping by. No decent car, no house of your own. And honestly, I refuse to share a kitchen with your sister. If you hadn’t sold that house, we’d be fine.”
Her words stung, but Oliver couldn’t deny the truth in them. He and his sister Lucy lived in their parents’ flat, the business was just finding its feet, and he was still finishing his degree. He’d taken charge early—debts piled up, and selling the house had been the only way to save their parents’ shop. It cleared the debts, restocked inventory, and left a little savings.
Margaret, cushioned by her parents’ support, believed in living for the moment. Oliver, though, had grown up overnight—responsibilities to Lucy, the business, daily life. He trusted things would improve: a house, a car, a garden.
Then, disaster struck.
They’d arranged to meet at the cinema, but Margaret insisted on coming alone. Oliver waited at the stop, only to watch her step out of a luxury car. She handed him a book. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I’m getting married,” she said, turning back to the car.
Oliver stood frozen. How could everything change in just a few days? Back home, Lucy took one look at him and sighed. “You know, then.” He nodded. “She’s marrying some rich bloke. Asked me to be a bridesmaid—I refused. She’s a cheat, Oliver. She’s been seeing him behind your back.”
He hugged Lucy, patting her head. “Let her be happy. We’ll be happier.” Then he locked himself in his room for a day. Lucy pleaded, “At least eat something. I made pancakes.”
By evening, he emerged, eyes blazing. “We need to prepare.”
“For what?” Lucy frowned.
“I’m marrying the first woman who says yes,” Oliver said coldly.
“Don’t be ridiculous! This isn’t just about you!”
“Then come with me, or I’ll go alone.”
The park was crowded. One woman tapped her temple at his proposal, another fled. But the third—a stranger—met his gaze and agreed.
“What’s your name, love?”
“Beatrice.”
“Let’s celebrate the engagement!” He dragged her and Lucy to a café.
The table was painfully silent. Lucy fidgeted; Oliver’s mind churned with revenge. Their wedding would be on the 25th—just like Margaret’s.
“I suppose there’s a reason you proposed to a stranger,” Beatrice finally said. “If it was a whim, I’ll leave without hard feelings.”
“No. You gave your word. We’ll file the papers tomorrow and meet your parents.” Oliver winked. “First-name terms, yeah?”
For the month before the wedding, they met daily, talking, learning.
“Care to tell me why you did this?” Beatrice asked once.
“Everyone’s got skeletons,” Oliver deflected.
“As long as they don’t haunt us. Why did you say yes?”
“I fancied the fairy tale—the princess handed to the first suitor. ‘Happily ever after’ and all that. Wanted to test it myself.”
Truthfully, it wasn’t so simple. A past heartbreak had left her wary. She’d scare off admirers with a glance. She didn’t seek perfection, but she recognized a man who was sharp, independent, and decisive. In Oliver, she saw determination. If he’d been with mates instead of Lucy, she’d have walked on.
“Then who are you, princess?” Oliver mused. “Tragic maiden, fairytale beauty, or the frog princess?”
“Kiss me and find out,” she teased.
But there were no kisses—nothing beyond practicality.
Oliver planned every wedding detail. Beatrice merely chose between his options—even her dress and veil were his picks. “You’ll be the most beautiful,” he’d say.
At the registry office, they bumped into Margaret and her fiancé. Oliver forced a smile. “Congratulations,” he said, kissing Margaret’s cheek. “May you and your walking wallet be happy.”
“Don’t make a scene,” Margaret hissed.
She scrutinized Beatrice—elegant, striking, every inch a queen. Margaret paled in comparison, jealousy gnawing at her.
Oliver turned to Beatrice. “It’s fine,” he muttered.
“We can still stop this,” she whispered.
“No. We see it through.”
Only during the ceremony, seeing Beatrice’s sad eyes, did Oliver grasp what he’d done.
“I’ll make you happy,” he vowed, almost believing it.
Married life began. Lucy and Beatrice grew close, balancing each other—Lucy’s impulsiveness tempered by Beatrice’s quiet efficiency. A skilled accountant, Beatrice streamlined their finances. Within months, they opened a second shop, then a team for renovations. Profits soared.
She was his fairy-tale sage, subtle in her wisdom, making him think her ideas were his. But Oliver missed the dizzying highs of his time with Margaret. This felt predictable, dull. “Just routine,” he told himself. “A swamp trapping me.”
When they built their dream home, Oliver’s pride swelled. “Look at my car now! The house—a bloody palace!” Yet Margaret haunted his thoughts. “What if…”
Beatrice noticed his torment. Love couldn’t be forced, but hope lingered—her name demanded it. Lucy warned him, too. “You’ll lose more than you gain,” she said, catching him on Margaret’s social media.
“Stay out of it!”
“You’re a fool. Beatrice loves you, and you’re playing games.”
Margaret’s messages poured in—her marriage failed, her husband left her penniless. She hadn’t finished uni, had no job, and rented a flat in Manchester.
Oliver wavered. When Beatrice left to visit her ailing grandmother, he arranged to meet Margaret.
Reality was harsh.
“You look posh!” Margaret flung herself at him, reeking of unwashed skin and cheap perfume. Her short skirt, garish makeup—she was a stranger.
“People are staring,” Oliver muttered, recoiling.
“I don’t care!” She giggled, downing lager.
“Give me some cash, and I’ll thank you properly,” she purred.
He left, tossing money at the waiter. “Keep her within this limit.”
Driving home, Oliver cursed himself. “Lucy was right. What was I thinking?” Then it hit him—he hadn’t once called Beatrice his wife.
Her face filled his mind—bright blue eyes, her smile, the way she tousled his hair.
“I promised to make her happy.”
He turned the car around, speeding toward her grandmother’s village.
“A week was too long,” he said when Beatrice ran out to meet him. “I couldn’t last two days without you.”
“You’re mad,” she laughed, tears in her eyes.
“Beatrice, my love,” he whispered, dizzy with happiness.
