Oliver pulled up to the petrol pump and rolled down his window.
“Premium unleaded, fill it up,” he said to the attendant before stepping out and heading towards the station.
As he pushed through the door, he nearly collided with a man who barely glanced at him before turning back to his phone. “Greg?!” Oliver almost called out but stopped himself in time. He walked inside, watching through the glass as his old friend climbed into a sleek Mercedes. Heart racing, Oliver hurried to the till and fumbled with his card as he paid.
Outside, the Mercedes was already merging onto the main road. Without thinking, Oliver sprinted to his own car—a modest Honda—and took off after it.
“Small world. Looks like Greg’s done well for himself. Lucky marriage, maybe? Well, I’ll find out soon enough,” he muttered, keeping the Mercedes just in view.
The car turned into an upscale gated estate. Oliver slowed, parking a short distance away and watching through his rearview mirror as the gates swung open. He noticed the security camera above and sank lower in his seat to avoid being seen.
Peering through the wrought-iron fence, he saw Greg park in front of a detached garage. A young woman stepped onto the porch, and even from a distance, Oliver recognized her instantly.
“No way,” he whispered.
She descended the steps and embraced Greg warmly. Arm in arm, they disappeared inside.
“Married. Living here. Unbelievable. How did this happen? Revenge? Bloody hell, Emma—quiet little Emma—landed on her feet, didn’t she? And Greg? Some friend. Could’ve been me in his place…”
***
The club was packed, the air thick with bass and sweat. Strobe lights cut through the dimness, flashing across flushed faces on the dance floor.
Oliver lounged at the bar, swirling his cocktail with disinterest as he watched the crowd. A tall woman in a tight red dress caught his eye. “Not bad,” he thought before turning away.
Before he could take another sip, a familiar voice made him stiffen.
“This is my mate, Oliver.” Greg appeared beside him, arm around the very woman in red. “Oliver, meet Melanie, my girlfriend.”
Oliver gave her a slow once-over. Up close, she was even more striking—sharp cheekbones, full lips, glossy blonde waves spilling over her shoulders. The kind of woman dreams were made of.
“Like what you see?” Greg smirked.
“What are you drinking?” Oliver asked, still staring.
“I’m driving. Why don’t you both come back to mine? This place is unbearable,” Melanie said, tossing her hair.
“You in?” Greg nudged him.
Oliver knocked back the rest of his drink and stood.
Outside, the noise faded.
“Nice wheels, yeah?” Greg gestured to the sleek Audi parked nearby. “Mel’s dad gave it to her for her birthday.”
Oliver glanced from the car to his friend, who winked as if to say, “Best is yet to come.”
“How the hell did he land her?” Oliver couldn’t wrap his head around it. Greg wasn’t half as handsome. “Kept this quiet, didn’t he?”
“Where’s Emma? I invited both of you,” Greg asked once they were moving through the city.
“Not feeling well. Morning sickness,” Oliver muttered, his mood souring at the mention.
“You’re joking! Keeping the wedding under wraps?” Greg laughed.
Oliver stayed silent.
The Audi stopped at a high-rise. The lift to the sixteenth floor was lined with mirrors.
“This yours?” Oliver took in the penthouse. “Where’d you even find her?” he whispered.
“In the street,” Greg chuckled. “Nearly ran me over.”
Oliver poured him drink after drink until Greg was slurring. Melanie guided him to bed, then returned to find Oliver studying a painting.
“That’s mine,” she said, appearing behind him.
“Yours?” He turned. “Ever painted a portrait?”
“Paint, not draw,” she corrected. She stepped back, assessing him. “You’ve got good bones. Ever posed nude?”
“Right now?” he stammered.
“In my studio, under proper lighting. Leave your number—I’ll call when I’m free.”
Home late, Oliver found Emma red-eyed on the sofa.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Just a few with Greg.”
“Dinner?”
“Not hungry. Off to bed.” He shut himself in the bathroom.
How had he gotten into this mess? Emma was sweet, but the timing was all wrong. Melanie, though—she was different. Emma had to go. But how?
Under the shower, he pictured Melanie. It wasn’t fair Greg got her. But Emma was in the way.
He’d grown up poor. A wealthy heiress like Melanie was his ticket up. All he had to do was cut ties.
Two days later, Melanie called with an address.
Her studio was airy, lined with canvases. She gestured for him to undress.
“So sudden?”
“I’ve only got the space for two hours. Change your mind?”
He stripped. Melanie adjusted him like a mannequin before sketching.
“Need a break,” he finally groaned.
“Coffee?” She left.
Sneaking into the kitchen, he grabbed her from behind. She turned, wrapping her arms around his neck…
Oliver returned home smug. He’d expected resistance.
Emma sat crying.
“You’ve fallen out of love with me.”
“Don’t start,” he snapped.
“You’re never here!”
“Working my arse off. The baby’s coming. Need to save for the wedding too.”
“Wedding?” Her face lit up.
“Course. Kid deserves both parents.”
She flung herself at him, oblivious to his grimace.
“Why not visit your gran? Save on rent—I’ll stay with Greg. Call every day. Fetch you in a few months.”
“Really?”
Too easy.
He played doting until her train left, waving until it vanished.
Then, straight to Melanie’s. No calls. A new phone.
Greg confronted him once, but Oliver sent him packing.
Three months later, he married Melanie.
But reality bit. Mel’s father refused him a job. They fought. One night, he hit her.
Next day, her dad waited in their flat. “Pack your things. Lawyers will handle the rest. Cause trouble, and you’ll regret it.”
Back to square one.
But Oliver wasn’t beaten. He set his sights on wealthy, husband-free women. He’d scroll gossip columns, track them, “accidentally” step into their path. A lonely heiress would patch him up, then take him home…
Soon, he had a new car. A flat, too—though just a one-bed in the suburbs.
***
Now, outside Greg and Emma’s home, Oliver puzzled over how they’d ended up together. Maybe she’d called Greg when he vanished. Revenge? Or love?
He remembered their embrace on the porch. His child, raised under another man’s name.
“I’ll think of something,” he muttered.
Then his phone rang.
“Where *are* you, darling? I’ve missed you terribly,” crooned an older woman’s voice.
He forced cheer. “On my way, sweetheart.”
He tossed the phone aside.
His wife—old enough to be his mother—had bought him everything. But she’d drop him in a heartbeat if she caught him straying.
“You’ve dug your own grave,” he sighed, driving away.
But he smiled.
“Nothing lasts forever. Just gotta play it smart.”
