Run Away from Him: A Gripping Tale of Friendship, Control, and a Chilling Secret in Modern London

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 7 minViews 2

Run From Him

Oh, hello, friend! Julia plopped down onto the stool next to Emily, her tone bright, but her eyes probing. Havent seen you in ages. Hows life?

Hi, Jules, Emily replied sluggishly, her gaze lingering on the crumbs of her half-eaten scone. Everythings fine.

Is it though? Julia raised an eyebrow, not fooled for a second. Youre not meeting my eyes. Has Tom been up to his old tricks again? Whats he done this time?

Oh, dont make a drama out of nothing, Emily huffed, already regretting coming into the café today. I said Im fine. Tom and I are great truly. Hes a good man, Jules. Honestly. Can we just leave it?

Ignoring her friend’s protests, Emily hastily gathered her things and left, abandoning both her coffee and Julias concern behind. She was tired of peoples opinions, convinced it was nothing but envy.

Tom he was amazing. Handsome, affluent, so caring. Of course, sometimes he made peculiar demands. Like when he forbade Emily from ever dying her hair blonde.

That was their first big argument, nearly ending it before it really began and all over something so trivial.

Shed visited her stylist, just intending a trim. But everyone said she would look stunning as a blonde she couldnt resist. She returned home with silvery waves, feeling brand new.

The moment Tom saw her, he went white with rage. He hurled a paperback across the room, shouting things shed never heard him say before. He insisted she fix her hair immediately. Some men might fancy blondes, but not in his house. Never.

Choking back tears, Emily rushed to a nearby salon. They tried to talk her out of it saying the platinum suited her but she dissolved into sobs, so they darkened her hair again right away.

When she returned, Tom just nodded, pleased, saying nothing. By morning, he presented her with a costly bracelet, as though buying her silence.

There were other rules, of course. No white clothes, ever. Red, blue, green anything but white. Once shed joked about her future wedding dress colour, and the odd glance Tom shot her had silenced her instantly.

Youve got to get out, Julia had pleaded, desperate. Leave him now, Emmy dont wait! Today its dont wear white, tomorrow itll be dont leave the flat. I dont care how good you think he is, you need a normal bloke.

We all have our quirks, Emily shrugged. Tom and I were serious. Weve even talked about having children. He wants a girl, already picked out a name: Holly. And you say I should run?

She should have listened to her friend.

The warning signs were there Julia was right about Toms peculiarities. And soon, Emily would discover something that made her blood run cold.

There was, in Toms flat, a single locked room to which Emily had never been granted access. It was always kept under key, off-limits. Once, shed tried to ask, joking,

Youre not related to Bluebeard, are you?

He only smirked. Dont worry, Em Im not keeping any ex-wives bodies in there.

That was the last they spoke of it until, by chance, Emily came home early from uni one day. Last class cancelled, she let herself in, knowing Tom was supposed to be around, yet he was nowhere to be seen.

Walking past the forbidden door, Emily heard a hushed voice from inside. Gently, she nudged it open a crack. What she saw made her heart thud against her ribs.

A life-sized portrait of a woman covered the far wall. Tom knelt before it.

The girl in the painting smiled, arms outstretched, and her likeness to Emily was unnerving except this woman was blonde.

Just a little longer, Holly. Well be together soon, Tom kept repeating, eyes fixed on the portrait. Anger and fear welled up inside Emily, and she was about to burst through the door until Tom spoke again.

Shell give me a daughter, I know she will. Then your soul can live in that tiny body, and youll be with me. Forever. Ill care for you; when you grow up, Ill love you again.

Lunatic, Emily thought, fighting down panic. Julia had been right, painfully right. But now what? How does one escape a madman? And the worst part was Emily was actually pregnant. It was early, too soon to tell anyone, but it was true.

Her parents lived miles away, and apart from Julia, there was no one. That was where Emily fled.

I never imagined Tom was so unhinged, she whispered, wringing her hands. If I hadnt seen it, I wouldnt have believed it.

Breathe, Julia urged, pressing a glass of water into Emilys trembling hands. She drank, eyes swollen. Now, what are you going to do? Stay?

Never! Emily shook her head fiercely. Hes insane, Jules. Im scared for me, for the baby. She allowed herself a bitter laugh. Now I get why I couldnt dye my hair or wear white It made me too much like her.

At least you learned the truth before the wedding, Julia said bluntly. He doesnt know about the baby, right?

Id planned on a surprise

Good. Then just say youve met someone else and go. Julia sighed. I think you ought to move home. Transfer to the local uni, finish your degree there. Just get far away.

I think youre right.

******************************************

The next six months were a trial for Emily, more emotionally than physically. She moved back in with her parents. Breaking the news to them was tough. She left university she couldnt go through with an abortion, the baby was innocent. When the time came, she gave birth to a beautiful little girl, just as Tom always wanted.

Surprisingly, Tom let Emily go with barely a word. He only hinted that she shouldnt make a fuss. He never even asked where she was moving as if none of it mattered to him.

Sometimes Emily wondered if shed made a mistake, leaving Tom and keeping the babys existence a secret. Even now, nursing her baby girl little Ellie at night, she found herself lost in thought, shadowed by doubt.

One evening, the doorbell chimed; a deliveryman with her usual takeaway. Cooking was still her nemesis. After a quick meal, Emily sat at her desk, determined to focus on her studies.

But the words blurred before her eyes and her head swam. She reached for her phone to dial for help, but her limbs wouldnt obey. She collapsed, paralysed, as darkness closed in and just before everything slipped away, she saw Tom, cradling her newborn daughter.

********************************************

She awoke in a hospital bed; her mother, visiting by pure chance, had saved her.

The police searched for Ellie, but it was hopeless. Tom had vanished with the child as if hed never existed at all.

Years later, the only sign of her daughter would be a single photograph. In it, Tom beamed, holding a radiant, golden-haired girl in his arms.

Keep Your Distance! I Never Promised to Marry You—And Besides, How Do I Even Know That Child Is Mine? Maybe She Isn’t Mine at All? That’s what Victor—who was only in their village on business—told a stunned Valentina. She couldn’t believe her ears or eyes. Was this really the same Victor who had once declared his love and treated her like a princess? Once, he’d called her “Valyusha,” promised her the world, but now he looked like a sullen stranger… Valentina wept for a week after waving Victor goodbye forever. At thirty-five, plain and resigned to the unlikelihood of finding happiness, she made the decision to become a mother. When her time came, Val—now on her own—gave birth to a noisy little girl she named Mary. Mary grew into a quiet, undemanding child, almost as if she knew that crying would get her nowhere… Val cared for her daughter, made sure she was fed, clothed, and had toys—but real motherly affection seemed absent. A hug, a cuddle, a walk—these simple acts rarely happened. Little Mary would reach for her mother, but Val would brush her aside: busy, tired, a headache… Maternal instinct just never woke in her. When Mary was seven, something unexpected happened—Val met a man and even brought him home! The village gossips were shocked: “Has Val lost her mind?” Her new partner, Igor, was an outsider, didn’t have steady work, and nobody really knew anything about him. Maybe a rogue… Val didn’t listen to the whispers. She seemed to know this was her last chance at happiness. Soon, though, opinions shifted: Igor, it turned out, was handy and kind. He fixed the porch, patched the roof, raised the fallen fence—every day he improved their tired old house. People started to seek his help, and he’d tell them, “If you’re poor or old, I’ll help for free. Otherwise, pay with cash or food.” Sometimes money, sometimes homemade jam or eggs or ham. Val had a vegetable patch but no livestock—until Igor, and soon their fridge had fresh cream and milk. Val even softened—she smiled more, became gentle, and started showing Mary little acts of love. Mary, now in school, thrived under Igor’s quiet care: he cooked, told her stories, bandaged her knees, taught her to fish, and bought her first bike. At Christmas, he gave her white skates and carved a patch of ice on the river for her to learn. He held her hand every time she fell. She learned to stand and glide, and one day, overjoyed, she hugged him and whispered, “Thank you, Dad…” Igor brushed away tears so she wouldn’t see. Even as Mary grew up and moved to the city, he was always there—at her graduation, carrying groceries to her student flat, walking her down the aisle at her wedding, and cradling his grandchildren with boundless love. When Igor was gone, at his graveside, Mary and her mother mourned deeply. Throwing a handful of earth and sighing, Mary whispered, “Goodbye, Dad… You were the best father in the world. I’ll always remember you.” And in her heart, Igor lived on—not as stepfather, not as ‘Uncle,’ but as her true Dad. Because a Father isn’t always the one who gives life, but the one who raises you, who shares your sorrows and joys, and who’s always by your side. A Touching True-Life Story: Thank you for reading—don’t forget to follow for more incredible stories!

Hang On Just a Little Longer “Mum, that’s for Anna’s next term.” Maria set the envelope on the battered vinyl tablecloth. A hundred thousand. She’d counted the money three times—at home, on the bus, at the doorstep. Each time, exactly enough. Elena put her knitting aside and peered over her glasses at her daughter. “Maria, you look awfully pale. Shall I make you a cuppa?” “No thank you, Mum. I can only stay a minute—I have to make my second shift.” The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—either joint cream or those drops Maria bought her mother every month. Four grand a bottle, which lasted three weeks. Plus blood pressure tablets, plus quarterly check-ups. “Anna was so thrilled when she heard about the work placement at the bank,” Elena took the envelope as carefully as if it were fragile glass. “She says there are good prospects.” Maria said nothing. “Tell her it’s the last money for her studies.” The final term. Maria had kept this up for five years. Every month—an envelope for Mum, a transfer for her sister. Every month—calculator in hand, subtracting bills, medicine, groceries for Mum, Anna’s university costs. What was left? A rented room in a shared house, a winter coat that was six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own flat. Once, Maria had wanted to visit London. Just for a weekend. To see the National Gallery, stroll along the Thames. She’d even begun saving—then Mum had her first serious health scare and all the savings went on doctors. “You ought to take a break, love,” Elena stroked her hand. “You look done in.” “I will, Mum. Soon.” Soon—as in, when Anna found a job. When Mum stabilised. When she could finally breathe and think of herself. Maria had been saying “soon” for five years. Anna graduated as an accountant in June—a first, no less. Maria went to the ceremony, taking leave from work, and watched her little sister cross the stage in her new dress (a present from Maria, naturally) and thought: that’s it. Now everything will change. Anna will get a job, start earning, and Maria would finally stop counting every penny. Four months passed. “You don’t get it, Maria,” Anna sat curled up on the sofa in fluffy socks. “I didn’t spend five years studying to slog for peanuts.” “Fifty thousand a year isn’t peanuts.” “Maybe not for you, but for me it is.” Maria clenched her jaw. She made forty-two on her main job. If she was lucky with extra shifts, another twenty. Sixty-two thousand a year, and lucky if she kept fifteen for herself. “Anna, you’re twenty-two. Time to start working somewhere.” “I will. Just not as some nobody in a dead-end office for fifty grand.” Elena fussed in the kitchen, banging pots—pretending not to hear. She always did when the daughters fought. She’d disappear, hide, and later—before Maria left—she’d whisper, “Don’t be cross with Anna, she’s young, she doesn’t understand.” Doesn’t understand. Twenty-two and still doesn’t understand. “I’m not immortal, Anna.” “Oh stop being dramatic. It’s not like I’m asking you for money, is it? I’m just looking for a proper job.” Not asking. Technically—no. Mum did: “Maria, Anna could do with English lessons.” “Maria, Anna’s phone broke, she needs to job hunt.” “Maria, Anna would like a new coat, winter’s coming.” Maria sent the money, bought the things, paid the bills. Silently. Because that’s always how it was: she shouldered the burden and everyone else treated it as a given. “I’ve got to go,” she stood up. “Night shift tonight.” “Wait, I’ll pack you some pasties!” Mum called from the kitchen. Cabbage pasties. Maria took the bag and stepped out into the cold, musty stairwell, smelling of damp and cats. Ten minutes to the bus. Then an hour’s ride. Then eight hours on her feet. Then, if she caught extra work, four more hours at the computer. Meanwhile Anna would be at home, browsing jobs, waiting for the universe to deliver her an ideal position—one that paid one-fifty a year and let her work from home. Their first big row broke out in November. “Are you doing anything at all?” Maria snapped after seeing Anna in the same position on the sofa as the week before. “Sent off even one application?” “Three. This month.” “Three applications? In a month?” Anna rolled her eyes and retreated into her phone. “You don’t understand the job market. It’s brutal now. You have to choose the right posts.” “What’s right—a job that pays you for lying about on the sofa?” Elena peered out, nervously rubbing her hands with a tea towel. “Girls, shall I make tea? I baked a cake…” “No, Mum,” Maria massaged her temples. Third day running of headaches. “Just tell me, why am I working two jobs and she’s not working at all?” “Maria, she’s young, she’ll find her way…” “When? In a year? Five? I was already working at her age!” Anna bristled. “Well, sorry, I don’t fancy ending up like you! Like a carthorse, always working and nothing else!” Silence. Maria grabbed her bag and left. On the bus home, she stared at the darkness and thought: a carthorse. So that’s how it looks from the outside. Mum called the next day, asking Maria not to be upset. “Anna didn’t mean it like that. She’s just going through a lot. Just hang on a little longer, she’ll get a job soon.” Just hang on. Mum’s favourite phrase. Hang on until Dad sorts himself out. Hang on until Anna grows up. Hang on until things get better. Maria had been hanging on all her life. Rows became routine. Every visit ended the same: Maria tried to get through to Anna, Anna got stroppy, Elena ran between them pleading for peace. Then Maria left, Elena rang to apologise, everything started again. “You have to understand, she’s your sister,” Mum said. “And she needs to understand I’m not a cash machine.” “Maria…” In January, Anna rang first. Her voice was bubbling with excitement. “Maria! I’m getting married!” “What? To who?” “Dima. We’ve been dating three weeks. He’s… he’s perfect!” Three weeks. And getting married. Maria wanted to say it was madness, say at least get to know the guy—but she kept quiet. Maybe it would be a blessing. Anna would have a husband to support her, and Maria could finally exhale. That fragile hope lasted just until the family dinner. “I’ve got it all sorted!” Anna beamed. “Hotel reception for a hundred guests, live band, and I’ve found the perfect dress in Selfridges…” Maria lowered her fork. “And how much is all that?” “Well,” Anna gave a disarming smile, “About five, maybe six grand. But it’s a wedding, once in a lifetime!” “And who’s paying?” “Oh Maria, you know… Dima’s parents can’t help, their mortgage is huge. Mum’s nearly on the pension. You’ll probably need to get a loan.” Maria stared at her sister. Then her mother. Elena looked away. “You’re serious?” “Maria, it’s her wedding,” Mum spoke in that syrupy tone Maria knew from childhood. “Such an event, only once in a lifetime. You can’t skimp…” “You mean I should take a five-grand loan to pay for the wedding of someone who hasn’t even bothered to get a job?” “You’re my sister!” Anna slammed the table. “You have to!” “I have to?” Maria got up. Inside, everything went weirdly quiet and clear. “Five years. I paid for your studies. For Mum’s medicine. For your food, clothes, bills. I work two jobs. I’ve got no flat, no car, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight and haven’t bought new clothes for myself in eighteen months. “Maria, calm down…” began Elena. “No! Enough! I’ve supported you both for years, and you think it’s just my duty? That’s it! From now on, I’m living for myself!” She left, grabbing her coat just in time. It was minus five outside, but Maria didn’t feel the cold. Inside, there was a strange warmth, as if she had finally shrugged off the bag of stones she’d carried all her life. Her phone buzzed with calls. Maria hung up and blocked both numbers. Half a year passed. Maria moved into her own small flat, something she could finally afford. That summer, she visited London—four days, the National Gallery, riverside walks, long white nights. She bought a new dress. And then another. And shoes. She only heard about her family by accident, through a friend who worked near her mum. “So, is it true your sister’s wedding got cancelled?” Maria froze mid-sip of her coffee. “What?” “Oh, rumour is the groom bailed. Found out there was no money and legged it.” Maria drank her coffee. It was bitter, but somehow delicious. “No idea. We’re not in touch anymore.” That evening, sitting by the window in her new flat, Maria realised she felt no malice. Not a hint. Only a quiet, deep contentment—the contentment of someone who had finally stopped being a beaten carthorse…

“You Never Truly Loved Me. You Married Me Without Love—Now That I’m Ill, Will You Leave Me?” “Never!,” said Marina, wrapping her arms around Igor. “You’re the best husband—I won’t leave you for anything.” He couldn’t quite believe it was true. Igor’s mood was heavy… Marina had been married for twenty-five years, and throughout it all, she’d continued to attract men. In her youth, she was the girl all the boys in school wanted to date, even though she wasn’t considered a classic beauty. She hadn’t divorced her first husband, Vadim, despite his complicated nature. Marina stayed by Vadim’s side until the very end. Together, they raised their daughter, Dasha, who eventually married and moved to Italy with her husband. They even invited Marina to visit, sending cheerful photos. Marina considered going, but Vadim never even had the chance—he died in a tragic car accident after apparently becoming unwell behind the wheel. In shock, Marina leaned on her best friend Elena, a doctor, who helped arrange the funeral. Marina was left alone in their large, lovingly-built family home, wrestling with loneliness and memories. Dasha visited for the farewell to her father and gently suggested selling the house and moving Marina to Italy, but Marina flatly refused. “I didn’t build this house just to sell it. I’m not interested in Italy—I’ve seen plenty of it,” she said with a teary smile. Marina reflected on her marriage: Vadim could be loving and attentive, but he also often wore on her nerves when in a bad mood, only to later apologize. She’d learned, after twenty-five years, not to get stuck on his flaws. After Dasha left, Marina only stayed lonely for a short while: within half a year she discovered a new circle of admirers. Even her mum had marvelled: “What is it about you? The men just fall at your feet! You’re hardly a classic beauty…” Marina shrugged: “A woman should be charming and charismatic—that’s enough.” Years later, approaching fifty herself, Marina’s life repeated this pattern. While others lamented the lack of available men over forty, she found herself with two suitors—Dmitry, charming but impractical, and Igor, quiet, steadfast, and handy with everything around the home. Marina chose Igor, knowing in her heart he was the right man despite their different kind of connection. Igor was overjoyed, though he wondered if Marina had married him for practical reasons, not love—especially when he fell gravely ill. He feared she would leave him now that he wasn’t strong and capable. But Marina never left. Through Igor’s illness and slow recovery, she stayed, organised his birthday party alcohol-free, lifted his spirits, and showed that love is not always about grand speeches or passionate beginnings. Sometimes, it’s about quiet loyalty, gentle care, and growing together through all of life’s seasons. On a starlit evening, as they sat together on the porch, happiness finally settled into Igor’s heart. “Everything’s good,” he told her, and for the first time in months, it was true. Friends, if you enjoy our stories, please leave your comments and don’t forget to like—it inspires us to write more!