**Diary Entry – 16th March**
The thoughts in my head are a tangled mess—jealousy and resentment bubbling inside me. Why would they do this to me? Haven’t I loved my husband? Was I such a terrible wife, an unfit mother to our son?
But what happened next was beyond comprehension.
Emma had always believed she and James were destined for each other. Ten years of marriage, a stable life—she thought it was proof enough.
Today, she’d returned home early from a business trip—one she hadn’t wanted to take in the first place. Just two days ago, her boss had summoned her, insisting she was the only one who could handle an issue at their Leeds branch.
*”It’s just three days’ work, no more. Pack your things, Emma, and don’t even think of making excuses. You leave tomorrow.”*
She’d had her own plans—time with James and their son, Oliver. But arguing was pointless.
*”James, I’m off to Leeds. Should be back in three days. Make sure Ollie actually studies with his tutor—he’s been slacking lately. And for God’s sake, feed him proper meals. The fridge’s stocked with lasagne and shepherd’s pie, not crisps and biscuits.”*
*”Yeah, sure. Don’t worry,”* James muttered, barely looking up from his phone.
*”That’s it? Not even a ‘I’ll miss you’?”* Emma scoffed. *”Honestly, put that thing down for once!”*
*”You’ll be back in three days. We’ll manage,”* he said, finally glancing up with a dismissive smile. *”Why send you, though? Thought you’d done your time with business trips?”*
*”Apparently, they needed someone ‘experienced and firm’. His words,”* she’d replied, pride flickering despite her irritation.
In Leeds, she’d worked hard, wrapping things up early—just to come home a day sooner. She’d imagined the bliss of an empty flat: a hot bath, a face mask, maybe even a nap. James would be at work, Oliver at school. The rare luxury of solitude.
She even stopped at Marks & Spencer, buying a bottle of Merlot and James’s favourite Victoria sponge. A romantic evening—God knew they needed one lately. Work had consumed her; James was glued to his phone. They barely spoke anymore.
But stepping inside, her plans shattered.
A pair of unfamiliar boots sat in the hallway. A cream trench coat hung in the closet, reeking of sickly-sweet perfume—so strong it turned her stomach.
Or maybe it wasn’t the perfume. Maybe it was the cold realisation of betrayal.
Laughter drifted from the bedroom. Her bedroom.
Emma’s hands trembled. She needed composure—no tears, no screaming. She’d face them head-on.
*”God, how did I not see this?”* she whispered to herself. *”How did James drift this far?”*
Steeling herself, she moved toward the door—until her foot caught on the lamp cord. It crashed to the floor.
Silence. Then the door flew open.
A woman wrapped in a sheet stood there.
*”Sophie?!”* Emma choked out, hysterical laughter bubbling up. *”You?! Of course—I *knew* that godawful perfume smelled familiar!”*
*”Emma! I—I thought you were away!”* Sophie stammered.
*”Clearly. Where is he? James, get out here!”* Emma snapped.
Sophie paled. *”Emma, you’ve got this all wrong—”*
*”Oh, *he* should be saying that. Come out, James! Face me like a man!”*
*”It’s not James,”* Sophie blurted.
Emma froze. *”…What?”*
*”It’s not him. I swear.”*
For a second, hope flickered—maybe her marriage wasn’t ruined. Maybe—
*”Who, then? ANSWER ME!”*
Sophie swallowed. *”…It’s Daniel.”*
Daniel. James’s *brother*.
Emma shoved past her.
There he was—sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, staring at the floor like a scolded child.
*”What the hell is this?!”* she hissed. *”Oliver could’ve walked in! You turned our home into a—a *brothel*?!”*
In the kitchen, over tea neither wanted, Daniel confessed: they’d met at James’s birthday last year. He’d been fighting with his wife, Lydia—she’d mocked his job, his ambitions. Sophie was just… there.
*”And you?”* Emma glared at Sophie. *”Divorced, no strings—I get it. But *you*?”* she turned back to Daniel. *”I *admired* your marriage!”*
*”Guess I’m not as perfect as you thought,”* he muttered.
*”Why *here*? Hotels exist!”*
*”Small town. Everyone knows me—I work at the council,”* Daniel admitted. *”This was… easier.”*
Emma kicked them out. Then she scrubbed the flat raw, her mind racing. She and James had grown apart. She needed to *talk* to him, to listen. No more criticism, no more distance.
And she’d teach him a lesson.
She called James, voice trembling theatrically: *”I’m back early—and there’s *burglars* in the flat! I’ve called the police!”*
*”Emma, wait—I’m coming home!”* he shouted, panic clear.
*”No, they *must* be arrested!”*
*”DON’T! I’m on my way!”*
By the time he burst in, sweating, she was calm. Smiling.
*”Daniel says hi. Don’t *ever* do this again,”* she said softly. *”Our home is sacred.”*
James sagged with relief. *”Understood.”*
*”We’re having a romantic dinner tonight. And you’ll tell me *exactly* what’s on your mind—no lies.”*
He blinked. *”Really?”*
*”Really.”*
*”…You won’t tell Lydia?”*
*”Not my circus,”* Emma smirked.
James pulled her close. *”You’re brilliant.”*
*”Oliver’s home,”* she laughed, pushing him away—but not far.
Thank God James had been at work today. Thank God she’d come home early.
And thank God they still had a chance.
