**Diary Entry – October 12th**
That evening split my life into “before and after.”
“You see, Natalie, I’ve met someone else. We just click—romance, passion. Not like us, where it’s once in a blue moon,” declared Victor, sliding off his wedding ring. He said it with mockery, as though the fault lay entirely with me. I listened in silence—no begging, no tears, no desperate pleas. I let him go.
“We won’t be splitting anything. The flat’s mine—bought before we married—and so’s the car. I’m keeping Winston, too. Even if we got him during the marriage, he’s my comfort,” I told him later.
“Couldn’t care less about that mutt. Keep him. But the car and flat? I’d want a share.”
“If you’d ever contributed,” I cut in. “But you didn’t, so don’t complain.”
Victor tried to argue but stormed off. I stayed—with Winston, my golden retriever, and a simmering need for vengeance. For everything.
The betrayal cut deep.
“I don’t think I’ll ever trust anyone again,” I confided to Sophie, my closest friend.
“I don’t know how you just let him walk away. You should’ve taught him a lesson.”
“How?”
“Drag him back, make him miserable, then dump him.”
I shrugged. “Revenge is a dish best served cold. Just wait—he’ll come crawling.”
“You think?”
“We were together seven years. This new girl, Emily? Some fling from his gym, fifteen years younger. He’ll realise his mistake.”
And he did.
Within three months, Victor reappeared.
“You home? I was passing by—need to pop in.”
“Why?”
“Left my favourite umbrella there. Autumn’s here—need it back.”
“Fine. Take it.”
I didn’t argue, letting him rifle through cupboards, pretending he’d forgotten things. I watched him fidget, almost *searching* for excuses to visit.
Once every last sock was gone, he conjured another reason.
“Natalie, I’m coming over. Wait up.”
“Forgot something else?” I rubbed my hands, amused—just as Sophie predicted.
“Miss Winston. Bet he misses me too.”
“Winston? Miss *you*? Dogs—and women—don’t wait for those who betray them.”
“I’m coming anyway. Emily’s locked me out—gone to some fitness retreat. Need a place to crash till tomorrow.”
“There’s a Travelodge down the road.”
“But… can I at least come for dinner?”
“Fine,” I relented.
He arrived, wolfing down my roast beef like a starved man.
“Christ, this is good. Emily’s cooking is so… bland. Always on some diet. Asked for chips once—she screeched, called me fat…”
I chuckled. Pathetic. Three months of his “passionate” romance had left him gaunt, hollow-cheeked, aged a decade.
“Eat up. You’ve lost weight.” I tossed a chunk of beef to Winston. Victor watched, realising my dog ate better than he did.
“Time to go,” I said, catching him lounging on the sofa—just like old times.
“Let me relax! Been ages since I had a decent evening.”
“Got plans. Sorry.”
“What? *You*?” He squinted, baffled. His loyal Natalie, stepping out?
“A date.” I savoured his reaction.
“With *who*?”
“None of your business. Clear out. We’ll need the sofa.”
His face fell. He’d hoped I’d “offer” more than the sofa—love, warmth, *forgiveness*.
“You’re lying,” he muttered on his way out. “No one’s coming.”
“Oh?”
“A real man would’ve fixed that leaky tap. No decent bloke leaves his woman’s home like *this*.”
“My men come for *pleasure*, not plumbing. Go fix Emily’s taps. Though I doubt she’d let you—that tap’s been dripping since *your* time. Never lifted a finger.”
“Not my skill. But I’ve got *other* talents.”
“Pale in comparison.” I shut the door.
Through the peephole, I relished his dazed shuffle.
He called days later.
“What now?”
“Just… miss you. Seven years, Natalie. Force of habit.”
At first, his whinging about Emily thrilled me. His dependence felt like victory. But soon, his neediness grated. The hatred faded—even revenge lost its taste.
“What do I do? How do I shake him?” I asked Sophie.
“Strike now. It’s time.”
“Honestly? I think he’s suffering enough. Miserable with Emily, but I won’t take him back just to dump him.”
“Then ghost him. Block his number, bar the door.”
I tried. It backfired.
Suddenly, Victor *needed* me—calls from unknown numbers, lingering by my office with roses.
“Vic, stop. I’ve moved on.”
Six months ago, I’d have laughed at the idea. Now, I walked Winston three streets over to avoid him.
“Stay with me,” Sophie offered.
“What about the flat?”
“Rent it. My colleague’s looking—just for a month.”
“Fine. Bring her Saturday.”
“Fair warning—she’s *particular*. The type who straightens microwave clocks and triple-checks taps.”
We laughed. I finally called a plumber—couldn’t risk losing a tenant over a drip.
The doorbell startled me. Not Victor, thankfully—a stranger.
“Afternoon. Plumbing job?”
“Come in.”
Michael was young, disarmingly handsome, and fixed the tap in minutes.
“Mind checking the bathroom sink? And that wobbly shelf…?”
Two hours later, my flat was pristine.
“You’re a lifesaver, Mike.”
As I paid him, the doorbell rang again. Victor, like a bad penny.
“Bloody hell—”
“Husband? Don’t fret—I’m in uniform. He’ll think nothing of it,” Mike joked.
“Actually…” I flushed. The knocking grew insistent.
“Need me to—?”
“My ex. Won’t take the hint.” I stared at the floor. “Sorry—this isn’t your problem.”
“Seen it all. You’d be surprised what clients ask.”
“Really?” My cheeks burned hotter.
“If you need *more* help, just say the word.” He winked, pulling on his jacket.
I locked up behind him. Victor loitered, spotting the “handsome stranger” leaving.
Later, Sophie called.
“Bad news—my colleague found another place.”
“Oh well. Couldn’t move in with you anyway—Winston’s fur would set your son’s allergies off.”
“Right—forgot about him. So, Plan B?”
“I’ve got an idea,” I mused. “Young, attractive… and I *do* need that shelf fixed.”
Sophie demanded details. I promised to spill later.
Mike answered straight away.
“Be there tonight. Wait up.”
He arrived out of uniform—jeans, a tee, and… flowers.
“What’s this?”
“For you. Not for the sink—for *you*.”
“Well then—here’s beef stew. Fancy some?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
We were mid-laugh when Victor called.
“Natalie! Been chasing you for days!”
“Busy. *Living*.”
“Living? It’s work and telly with you! Enough lies! I’m coming over—need my old curtains. Just rented a place near you. Bare as a bone. Figured you’d help…”
“Not happening, Vic. I’ve got company. Beef stew for two.”
Silence. Mike played along.
“Don’t believe you!” Victor hissed.
“Let him come,” Mike said loudly.
Victor heard.
“If that’s how it is—I’m on my way.”
I slumped, hands over my face.
“Don’t worry.” Mike grinned. “I’ll handle it.”
“Could you… pretend to be my boyfriend?”
“Easy.”
He was a better actor than plumber.
When Victor barged in, I was laughing in the kitchen. Mike stood by the stove, flour-dusted.
“You made it! We’re doing dumplings. Beef and mushroom.”
“Who’s *this*?” Victor sneered.
“Mike. Her fiancé. You’re the ex, yeah? The one harassing my girlfriend? Nice to meet you.” He rolled up his sleeves—muscles flexed.
“I— You— She’s *lying*! Who’d want her? She’s—”
“Clearly *you* do. Next time I see you near her…” Mike grabbed a wrench. “I’ll tighten something *else*.”
VictorAs Mike and I shared dumplings that evening, I realised sometimes the best revenge isn’t spite—it’s simply moving on and finding happiness without them.
