The Second Chance
“Jane, are you heading home?” Her colleague Lucy impatiently tapped her polished nails against the desk.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s supposed to pick me up,” Jane lied smoothly.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” With a sway of her hips, Lucy left the office.
One by one, the employees trickled out. The hurried clicks of heels echoed down the corridor. Jane picked up her mobile and sighed. “Probably had a few pints already, sprawled in front of the telly, belly up.” She pressed the call button. After three long rings, the muffled noise of a football match filled the line before Victor’s voice came through.
“Hello?”
“Vic, it’s pouring outside, and I’m wearing suede boots. Come get me.”
“Sorry, love, didn’t know you’d call—had a couple already. Grab a cab, alright?”
“Typical. Should’ve known. Remember when you proposed? Said you’d carry me in your arms.”
“Sweetheart, the match—” The roar of fans drowned him out. Jane ended the call.
Those days were long gone—when he’d wait outside her workplace, even without a car. She sighed, shut down her computer, and grabbed her coat.
Her heels clacked sharply in the empty hallway. Downstairs by the security desk stood Daniel Whitmore, the deputy director, tall and trim in his long black overcoat, more leading man than office manager. Rumour had it he was single. Jane had once joked he must be ill—how else was a man like that still free?
“Dates a model, I hear. Can’t recall her name. Always in magazines,” Lucy had chimed in, ever the gossip.
Victor hadn’t been so different in his youth—thirty pull-ups a day at the park. Now? Beer gut, sofa, telly. Every evening, the same scene: Victor lounging, a half-finished lager on the floor.
She’d nearly reached the exit when a deep, smooth baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Jane Elizabeth, working late?”
She turned with a practised smile. “Thought my husband would collect me. He couldn’t make it.”
Daniel tucked his phone into his coat and stepped closer. “Let me drive you.” He held the door open.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—I’ll call a taxi,” she protested, stepping into the rain. Puddles glistened on the pavement; her boots would be ruined.
“Consider your taxi here.” He took her elbow, guiding her to his SUV. How could she refuse? A pity none of the girls saw—they’d be green with envy.
He unlocked the car, and she slid onto the high seat with a playful gasp, smoothing her skirt. Daniel shut her door, rounded the bonnet, and settled beside her.
“I’ve noticed you. Firm but fair—never lets anyone slack. You’d make an excellent head of marketing.”
“What about Margaret?” Jane blinked, startled.
“Time she retired. Reliable, but she struggles with new systems.”
Jane fidgeted. Poor Margaret—she’d trained her. Yet the offer was too good to pass up.
“Her grandson’s getting married. She wanted to save for his flat.”
“Not your concern, Jane Elizabeth. If that’s all, she’ll have a generous severance. Well? Agreed?”
His gaze lingered on her profile. She hesitated, then turned—only to find him staring ahead.
The car nearly passed her street. “Turn right here. That’s my building.” She broke the silence. “Just there, by the entrance.”
The SUV halted, but Jane didn’t move. Words of thanks stuck in her throat.
“Perhaps lunch someday?” Daniel’s velvety voice curled around her.
Her pulse jumped. “Perhaps,” she said lightly, flashing a smile before stepping into the damp evening.
“Tomorrow, then.” His grin dazzled.
Her head spun as the SUV bounced over potholes and vanished.
The next day, they lunched together—under everyone’s gaze. Then came dinners. Then…
Needless to say, what followed. What woman wouldn’t falter before such a man? If one resisted, her husband hadn’t yet sunk to being a mere sofa cushion.
Jane floated, desired, ten years younger. Life wasn’t dreary anymore. Yet each day, Victor’s inert form grated more.
Tonight was no different—him on the sofa, telly blaring, a half-drunk lager on the floor. She itched to kick it over, spill her fury with the beer. But she’d have to clean it. Sighing, she changed, ignoring his stare.
“You’ve changed. Become so…” He faltered.
*Finally noticed, have you?* she thought savagely.
“How so? I’m the same.”
“You look like when we were dating. Fallen for someone?”
“And if I have? You barely glance my way. The telly’s your true love.”
“I noticed! You changed your hair.”
“Had this cut three years.” Another sigh. “We haven’t been to the pictures in ages. Could’ve dined out. I work too, but I don’t just flop—I cook.” Petulance crept into her voice.
“Your cooking beats any chef’s,” he offered lamely. “What’s got into you?”
She studied him—his voice, clumsy compliments, his very form—now only bred boredom and irritation. *Maybe leave him? But where? He’s got nowhere either…*
“You’ve been odd lately,” Lucy murmured when they were alone. “Glowing. Daniel Whitmore, eh? Giving hubby the boot?”
“Wish it were that simple.” Jane shrugged. “You sound just like him.”
“Lucky you. Husband *and* a lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, yet he’s mad for you.”
Jane stayed silent, but jealousy gnawed. Veronica *was* pretty, unattached—just the type men adored.
“Listen, give me that witch’s address. The one with the love spells.”
“Who’s the target? Daniel? Or removing the competition?”
“My *husband*. Well?” She glanced at the door.
“Fine, sent it. That bad?”
“Worse.”
“He’s cheating?” Lucy gasped.
“Wish he were.”
“Better than this fling. Daniel won’t marry you, surely?”
“It’s not about him. Enough—I’ve work to do.” Jane buried herself in her screen.
No point delaying. That evening, she visited the address. A plump woman in an expensive dress eyed her sharply, making Jane shiver.
“Here to ditch the husband?”
“No, nothing so harsh. Just…” She spilled most of it.
“One drop in his tea daily. No more—it’s potent. Overdo it, his heart gives out. Or use it on the lover,” the witch suggested.
Jane paid and fled the incense-choked flat.
At home, she hid the vial in the kitchen cabinet, behind the tea. Victor never rummaged there. Still undecided, she wondered—would it work in beer?
Entering the lounge, she found Victor as usual—sofa, telly, half-drunk lager. She blocked the screen.
“What?” He blinked up.
“Lazing again. Help with dinner for once.”
“Can’t cook, love.” He groaned upright.
“Learn. What’ll you eat alone?” She turned to leave.
“Alone? You’re leaving? And what of Emily?” He hurried after.
“I’m done.” She whipped around—he collided with her, belly first. She grimaced.
Then it burst out—maybe the potion’s influence, maybe twenty years of pent-up resentment. She raged, unstoppable, leaving him speechless.
Exhausted, she finally paused.
“What about me?” he whispered.
“Keep rotting on that sofa.”
“And Emily?”
“She’s grown. Let her choose.”
Jane wasn’t truly leaving—not yet. But the vial gnawed at her, spurring recklessness. Wounded pride might shake him awake, send him storming out. No sin on her soul then.
“Had enough.” She walked off.
He scurried after. “Wait—Jane, I love you. I can’t—” A groan cut him short.
She turned. He slid down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Stop faking.” But his head lolled.
She dropped beside him, shook him, checked his pulse—nothing.
“Emily! Your father!”
Their fifteen-year-old rushed in, gasped, and ran for the vial.
Jane pried his mouth open, spilling most of the liquid down his shirt.
“God, what am I doing?” She leapt up. “What did you give him?”
“The vial, like you said.” Emily held up a pharmacy bottle.
“Then why isn’t he—? Call an ambulance!” Jane yanked open the cabinet, scattering its contents, grabbing the unlabelled vial—still sealed. She hurled it into the bin.
By the time paramedics arrivedVictor recovered with a renewed vigor, trading his lazy evenings for brisk walks with Jane, who now smiled more often, realizing that love, when tended to, could bloom anew without the need for potions or second chances.
