A Second Chance
“Joanne, are you heading home?” her colleague Jessica drummed impatiently manicured nails against the desk.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s supposed to pick me up,” Joanne lied shamelessly.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” With a sway of her hips, Jessica left the office.
One by one, the staff filed out—quick footsteps and the click of heels echoed outside. Joanne picked up her phone and sighed. “Probably neck-deep in beer, sprawled in front of the telly, belly up.” She hit the call button, and after three long rings, the murmur of the television filled the line before her husband Victor finally answered.
“Y’alright?”
“Vic, it’s pouring, and I’m wearing suede boots. Come get me.”
“Jo, love, I didn’t think you’d call—had a few pints. Just grab a cab, yeah?” he said.
“Typical. Should’ve known better than to expect anything else. You promised to treat me like a queen when you proposed, remember?”
“Jo, sweetheart, the match is on—” Crowd cheers drowned him out, and Joanne hung up.
Gone were the days when he’d wait outside her office—back when he didn’t even own a car but still came for her every day. With another sigh, she shut down her computer, grabbed her coat, and stepped out.
Her heels tapped sharply against the empty corridor—everyone had left. In the lobby, the deputy director, Daniel Maxwell, stood by the security desk, phone pressed to his ear. Tall, fit, wrapped in a long black coat, he looked more like a Hollywood lead than a corporate middle manager. The office gossips whispered he was single—some even joked he must be secretly ill if a man like him stayed unattended.
“He’s seeing some model. Can’t remember her name—she’s always in the glossies,” Jess had once quipped, the office’s unofficial gossipmonger.
Victor hadn’t been so different in his prime. Back then, he’d knock out thirty pull-ups at the park every evening. Now? Now he lazed about, nursing a beer gut. Every night, Joanne came home to the same sight—Victor sprawled on the sofa, telly blaring, an open lager on the floor.
She was nearly at the door when a smooth baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Joanne, working late?”
“Thought my husband would pick me up. He couldn’t make it,” she replied, turning with a practised smile.
Daniel pocketed his phone and stepped closer. “Let me drive you.” He held the door open.
“Oh no, I couldn’t—I’ll just call a cab.” She stepped outside, hesitating at the sight of the rain-puddled pavement.
“Consider this your cab.” He took her arm and steered her toward his Range Rover.
How could she refuse? A shame none of the girls saw—plenty of them fancied him.
Daniel disarmed the alarm and opened the passenger door. Joanne slid onto the plush seat with a playful gasp, smoothing her skirt over her knees. He shut the door, circled the car, and settled beside her.
“I’ve noticed you—firm but fair. You could run the marketing department.”
“But what about Margaret?” Joanne blinked, thrown.
“Past retirement age. Reliable, but she struggles with new programs.”
Joanne shifted uncomfortably. She pitied Margaret, her old mentor—yet turning down the offer seemed foolish.
“Her grandson’s about to marry—she wanted to keep saving for his flat.”
“That’s not your concern, Joanne. She’ll get a generous severance. So—interested?”
She felt his gaze linger on her profile, then flicker back to the road. A moment later, she realised they’d nearly missed her street.
“Turn right—that’s mine.” She pointed. “Just there.”
The car stopped. Joanne hesitated, grappling with gratitude.
“Fancy lunch sometime?” Daniel’s velvet voice worked its magic.
Her heart raced. “Maybe,” she said, flashing a coy smile before stepping out into the drizzle.
“Till tomorrow.” His grin dazzled.
Dizzy from his charm, she watched the Range Rover vanish over potholes—London roads were riddled with them.
The next day, they lunched together, under everyone’s watchful eyes. Then came dinners. Then—
Well, the rest was predictable. What woman wouldn’t crumble for a man like that?
Joanne floated through her days, feeling adored, alive, a decade younger—until Victor’s presence on the sofa chipped at her patience.
That evening, he lay there again, an unfinished beer on the floor. She itched to kick it over. Instead, she ignored his stare as she changed.
“You’ve changed. You’re all…” He trailed off, searching for the word.
*Finally noticed, have you?* she thought bitterly.
“How so?” she said flatly.
“You look like you did when we first met. Fallen for someone?”
“What if I have? You barely notice me. It’s always the telly, the beer—”
“I *have* noticed! You changed your hair.”
“This hairstyle’s three years old.” She exhaled sharply. “We never go out. I work too, but I don’t just flop on the sofa—I cook!”
“Your cooking’s better than any restaurant,” he offered lamely. “What’s got into you?”
Joanne stared at him—his voice, his clumsy compliments, his very existence—and felt only weariness. *Maybe I should leave. But where would he go?*
“You’re different lately,” Jess murmured when they were alone. “Glowing. Is it true about you and Daniel? What does Victor say?”
“Hardly.” Joanne shrugged. “You sound just like him.”
“Lucky you—husband *and* a lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, but he’s smitten with *you*.”
Joanne stayed silent, jealousy gnawing at her. Veronica *was* younger, prettier—and single.
“Jess, give me that witch’s address.”
“Who’re you hexing? Daniel? Or the competition?”
“Just the address.”
Jess scrolled through her contacts. “Sent. That bad?”
“Rock bottom.”
“Victor’s cheating?”
“Worse.”
“So what’s missing? Daniel’s a fling—he’s not proposing, is he?”
“It’s not about him.” Joanne turned to her screen.
That evening, she visited the address. A plump woman in designer clothes eyed her sharply.
“Here to ditch the husband?”
“No—just…” She spilled most of it.
“One drop in his tea daily. No more—or his heart might give out. Better use it on the lover,” the witch advised.
Joanne paid and fled the incense-heavy flat.
At home, she hid the vial in the kitchen cabinet, behind tea bags. Later, she found Victor as usual—beer in hand, telly on.
“Help me cook,” she snapped.
“I don’t know how.”
“Learn. What’ll you eat alone?”
“Alone? What about you? About Emily?” He scrambled after her.
“I’m leaving.” She spun—his belly hit her. She wrinkled her nose.
Then it all spilled out—years of resentment, disappointment. Victor stood frozen, gaping.
“Just keep rotting on that sofa,” she finished wearily.
“What about Emily?”
“She’s grown. She’ll decide.”
She hadn’t *really* planned to leave—but the vial gnawed at her. Maybe wounded pride would spur him to change.
“Enough,” she said, marching off.
Victor dogged her heels. “Jo, I love you—I can’t—” A groan cut him off.
She turned. He slid down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Don’t *fake* it—” But his head lolled.
“Emily! Your dad—!” She shook him, checked his pulse—nothing.
“The vial—in the cabinet—” she babbled.
Emily brought water. Joanne forced his mouth open, spilling most of it.
“God, *what am I doing?*” She leapt up. “What did you give him?”
“From the vial, like you said.” Emily held up a pharmacy bottle.
“Then why isn’t he—? *Call an ambulance!*”
In the kitchen, she yanked open the cabinet—pots clattered. She grabbed the unopened vial, staring in horror. It hadn’t been touched. She hurled it into the bin.
When paramedics arrived, Joanne babbled about poisoning him.
“With *this*?” The doctor eyed the harmless bottle. “It’s a heart attack. Did you argue?”
At the hospital, Joanne paced until they barred her from ICU. A sedative later, a cabbie dropped her home.
“All that beer, the fags—heart just gave out,” he tutted.
She knew then, watching Victor reclaim his health and happiness, that love—when given a second chance—could rewrite even the darkest chapters of their lives.
