Oh, I’ve got this story to share with you—it’s a bit of a rollercoaster, honestly.
“Second Chance”
“Jean, are you heading home?” Her colleague, Sophie, tapped impatiently on the desk with her perfectly manicured nails.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s picking me up,” Jean lied without batting an eye.
“Alright, suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” With a sway of her hips, Sophie left the office.
One by one, the employees trickled out. The corridor echoed with hurried footsteps and the click of heels. Jean picked up her phone and sighed. “Probably already had a pint, sprawled in front of the telly, belly up.” She dialled Victor’s number. After three long rings, the background noise of a football match crackled through before his voice finally came on.
“Yeah?”
“Vic, it’s pouring out here, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Sorry, love, didn’t know you’d call—had a drink. Grab a cab, yeah?”
“Typical. Should’ve known. You swore you’d carry me in your arms when you proposed, remember?”
“Jean, sweetheart, the match—” The roar of the crowd cut him off, and she hung up.
Those days when he’d wait outside her office were long gone. Back then, he didn’t even have a car, but he’d still find a way. Jean sighed, shut down her computer, and headed out.
The empty hallway startled her with the sharp tap of her heels. Everyone had left. Downstairs, by the security desk, stood Daniel Montgomery, the deputy director, phone pressed to his ear. Tall, impeccably dressed in a long black coat, he looked more like a Hollywood actor than a corporate suit. The office gossip mill insisted he was single.
Jean had always been sharp-tongued. “Something must be wrong with him if he’s still available,” she’d once quipped.
“Seen with some model—can’t remember her name. Always in magazines,” Sophie had chirped, the office’s very own tabloid.
Victor hadn’t been bad-looking in his youth. Used to do thirty pull-ups on the playground bars every day. Then… well, then came the beer, the belly, the couch. Every evening, the same sight: Victor lounging, telly blaring, a half-finished lager on the floor.
She was nearly at the door when a smooth baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Jean Elizabeth, working late?”
“Thought my husband was coming, but he bailed,” she said, turning with a smile.
Daniel slipped his phone into his coat pocket and stepped closer.
“Let me give you a lift.” He held the door open.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—I’ll just call a cab,” Jean protested, stepping outside. The rain had left puddles everywhere. Her suede boots weren’t going to survive this.
“Consider your cab already here.” Daniel guided her gently by the elbow toward his Range Rover. How could she refuse? Shame none of the girls saw—they’d be green with envy. Plenty of them fancied him.
He disabled the alarm and opened the door. Jean hopped in, giggling as she smoothed her skirt. Daniel shut the door, rounded the car, and slid into the driver’s seat.
“I’ve noticed you. Firm but fair—never lets anyone slack. You’d make a brilliant head of marketing.”
“What about Margaret?” Jean blinked, caught off guard.
“Time for her to retire. Solid worker, but struggling with the new systems.”
Jean shifted uncomfortably. Poor Margaret—she’d trained her. But turning down an offer like this? No way.
“She’s saving for her grandson’s flat. Wanted to work a bit longer,” Jean said softly.
“That’s not your concern. If that’s the issue, she’ll get a generous package. So, what do you say?”
She felt his eyes on her profile. For a second, she stared ahead, weighing it. When she turned, he was looking at the road.
Jean realised they were about to miss her turn. “Right here—that’s my building. Just there.”
The Rover stopped, but Jean lingered, fumbling for the right words.
“Fancy lunch sometime?” Daniel’s velvet voice was magic.
Her heart raced. “Maybe,” she teased, flashing a smile before stepping out onto the wet pavement.
“Till tomorrow,” he beamed.
His voice alone made her dizzy. The Rover rumbled off, bouncing over potholes—typical British roads.
The next day, they lunched together in full view of the office. Then came dinners. And then… well, you can guess.
What woman wouldn’t crumble for a man like that? If any resisted, it’s only because their husbands hadn’t yet become complete couch potatoes.
Jean floated, feeling desired, youthful, alive. Life wasn’t so dull anymore. But seeing Victor on that sofa? Pure irritation.
Today was no different. There he was, TV remote in hand, half-drunk lager on the floor. She eyed the bottle, tempted to kick it, spill her frustration along with the beer. But she’d be the one cleaning it. Sighing, she changed, ignoring his stare.
“You’ve changed. You’re all… ” Victor trailed off, searching for words.
(“Finally noticed, did you?” she thought bitterly.)
“All what? Normal,” she said coolly.
“You look like you did when we first met. Found someone else?”
“Maybe I have. You barely glance at me these days. The telly and your beer matter more.”
“I noticed! You changed your hair,” he ventured.
“Had this cut for three years.” Another sigh. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Or a nice dinner. I work too, but I don’t just flop—I cook!” Her voice turned petulant.
“Your cooking beats any restaurant,” Victor said lamely. “What’s got into you?”
Jean studied him. His voice, his clumsy compliments, his very appearance—nothing but boredom and annoyance now. (“Maybe I should leave. But where would I go? Where would he go…?”)
“You’ve been different lately,” Sophie murmured when they were alone. “Glowing. Seeing Daniel, are you? Lucky you. Husband still in the picture?”
“As if.” Jean shrugged. “You sound just like him.”
“Two men! Vicky’s got fifteen years on you, and yet Daniel’s hooked.”
Jean stayed silent, but jealousy prickled. Vicky was younger, unmarried, gorgeous—men loved that.
“Hey, Soph, that woman who does spells—got her address?” Jean whispered.
“Who’s the target? Daniel? Or the competition?”
“My husband. The reverse kind. Yes or no?” Jean glanced at the door.
“Fine, sent it. That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Victor’s cheating?!” Sophie gasped.
“Wish he was.”
“And Daniel’s just a fling, right? Not proposing?”
“Not the point. Thanks, gotta work.” Jean buried herself in her screen.
No time to waste. That evening, she knocked on a door. A plump woman in a pricey dress answered, scrutinising her with sharp eyes. Jean shivered.
“Here to ditch the husband?”
“No! Just… ” She spilled it—well, most of it.
“Small bottle. One drop in his tea daily. No more—it’s strong. Overdo it, and his heart might give out. Or use it on the other one,” the woman suggested.
Jean paid and fled the incense-heavy flat.
At home, she hid the vial in the kitchen cupboard. Victor and their daughter never rummaged there. Just in case, she tucked it behind the tea bags. She hadn’t decided when—or if—to use it. Should’ve asked if it worked in beer.
She found Victor on the sofa, TV on, half-empty lager beside him. Jean blocked the screen.
“What?” He blinked up.
“Just lying there. Help with dinner for once.”
“Don’t know how, love.” He groaned upright.
“Learn. What’ll you eat when you’re alone?” She marched off.
“Alone? What about you? And Emily?” He scrambled after her.
“I’m leaving.” She spun, and his belly bumped her. She wrinkled her nose.
Then it all poured out. Maybe the potion’s influence, maybe twenty years of pent-up resentment. She couldn’t stop, barely letting him breathe.
When she finally ran out of steam, Victor stammered, “What about me?”
“Keep rotting on that sofa.”
“And Emily?”
“She’s grown. Let her choose.”
Jean wasn’t actually leaving—not yet. But the vial taunted her, pushing her to provoke him. Maybe wounded pride would snap him out of it, make him storm off. Save her the guilt.
“Enough.” She turned to go.
Victor grabbed her arm. “Wait—Jean, I love you. I can’t—” His voice cut off with a gasp.
Victor clutched his chest, collapsed, and in that terrifying moment Jean realized no potion was needed—love, flawed as it was, had always been enough.
