Amelia pulled up outside her mother-in-law’s house and checked her watch. Half an hour early—bloody typical. “No matter,” she thought, “Margaret always fusses over me anyway.” She fluffed her hair in the rearview mirror and grabbed the Victoria Sponge from the passenger seat. The spring air smelled of freshly cut grass and regret—or maybe that was just the nostalgia from walking these very paths with Oliver back when he still pretended to like picnics.
The key turned silently in the lock (Margaret had insisted she have one, bless her). Amelia tiptoed in, not wanting to interrupt if her mother-in-law was watching afternoon telly. The house was quiet save for hushed voices in the kitchen—Margaret’s clipped tones and—hang on—was that Oliver? Funny, considering he’d sworn he’d be stuck in a boardroom meeting in Canary Wharf till seven.
“—can’t keep lying to Amelia, Oliver. It’s not decent,” Margaret was saying, her voice tight as a poorly pulled corset.
“Mum, I’ve got it handled,” came her husband’s infuriatingly calm reply. “Honestly, the London expansion’s a sure thing. Jessica’s firm’s backing it full stop. We’ll triple our valuation by Christmas.”
“Jessica?” Margaret’s teacup clattered. “That American investor you’ve been sneaking about with? The one who’s convinced you to sell your father’s business and swan off to New York? And what about the divorce papers stacked in your study? Does Amelia even—”
The cake hit the floor with a splat that could’ve been comic if not for the deafening silence that followed.
Oliver skidded into the hallway like a man who’d forgotten his trousers. “Amelia! You’re—early.”
“Am I?” Her voice was steadier than she felt. “Or perhaps right on time.”
Margaret appeared behind him, wringing her hands like a distressed Shakespearean extra. “Love, let’s—”
But Amelia was already out the door. The last thing she heard was Margaret’s crisp parting shot: “See? Karma’s quicker than Royal Mail.”
The car started on the first try—small mercies. Her hands shook, but her mind? Crystal clear. She dialed her solicitor before the satnav could say “recalculating.” If Oliver wanted to play Monopoly with their lives, she’d buy Park Lane right out from under him. “Golden Petals” wasn’t just some high-street trinket shop—Oliver’s father had built it from a borrowed £500 into fifteen upscale boutiques. She’d joined as a junior buyer six years back, fell for Oliver’s terrible jokes, and after the wedding, poured her soul into rebranding. E-commerce? Her idea. That Chelsea flagship store? Her negotiation. Profits had doubled on her watch. And now he wanted to sell to some Wall Street vulture?
“Meet me at one,” she told the solicitor. “Bring the shareholder agreements. We’re discussing Golden Petals’ sudden transatlantic ambitions.”
Hanging up, she grinned. Early? More like perfectly punctual.
Six gruelling months later, the full farce unfolded: Oliver had met Jessica bloody Dawson at a trade show in Paris—some hedge-fund shark who’d flattered him into thinking he could be the next Richard Branson if he’d just abandon “quaint British baubles” for Manhattan skyscrapers. Worse, he’d been shagging her in Mayfair hotels while drafting divorce papers.
The court case was a masterclass in schadenfreude. Oliver’s barrister wheezed on about “family legacy,” until Amelia’s team produced spreadsheets showing her campaigns had boosted profits by 200%. Even Margaret—saintly, scone-baking Margaret—testified with ledgers from 2013 proving the business had been one bad quarter from folding pre-Amelia.
The verdict? A Solomonic split: Oliver kept seven traditional shops (stuck in 2010’s branding, ha). Amelia took eight locations plus the lucrative online arm.
“Your father always said gold only shines when polished,” Margaret murmured afterward over Earl Grey. “You were the polish, dear.”
The tabloids had a field day when Oliver’s American dream imploded—Jessica’s firm bailed post-trial, and last Amelia heard, he’d rebranded as “Artisanal British Craftsmanship” (read: desperation). Meanwhile, at Cologne’s Jewellery Week, she’d met Klaus Bauer—a ridiculously tall German artisan who actually listened when she spoke. Their first collaboration won awards. Their second came with a sapphire engagement ring.
They married in a Rhineland castle, Margaret dabbing her eyes in the front pew. “New Bloom by Amelia Bauer” now graces Bond Street windows and Vogue spreads—traditional English motifs meet sleek European minimalism.
Sometimes, when Klaus brings her coffee in bed, she thinks of that ill-fated Victoria Sponge. Had she been late, she might’ve missed the truth. But life, like good jewellery, often requires proper timing. And—she sips her tea—German engineering.
