The bus halted at a crossroads in the heart of a Yorkshire town when Edward spotted her lips. A girl brushed a tuft of dandelion from her sleeve. That delicate motion, as if kissing the breeze, struck him like a sudden beam of sunlight in a dim room:
“You’ll be my wife,” he blurted to the stranger, not quite grasping why his entire life suddenly flickered in her hazel eyes.
She turned slowly, her gaze not startled but cool, as though appraising not a man but a cracked canvas:
“You’re mad.”
“I’ll be the best husband. Say yes.”
She laughed, revealing slightly uneven teeth:
“Why on earth would I? I don’t even know you.”
“Then let’s fix that. Meet me again,” he gave a theatrical bow, cutting off any protest. “Edward, engineer with grand ambitions. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Charlotte,” she replied, as if in a dream. “Artist. Maybe famous someday, maybe not.”
“Perfect pair: the pragmatist and the dreamer,” he grinned. “We’ll balance each other.”
“No, thank you,” she said flatly. “I’m already whole.”
“That’s why I’ve fallen for you,” Edward felt his pulse quicken. “Tomorrow, eight o’clock by the fountain in the park. I’ll give you an evening you won’t forget.”
Charlotte didn’t like him. Had no plans to go. But the next morning, bragging to her mate, she recounted how a stranger had proposed marriage, swearing undying love.
“And you said no?” gasped her friend. “Are you daft? Take advantage when someone falls head over heels! He might be loaded. Let him spoil you.”
“He’s expecting me tonight,” Charlotte shrugged. “Fancy coming along? See how generous he is. I’ll die of boredom alone.”
“Absolutely, let’s go!”
One evening wasn’t enough. Edward clung to them like a shadow. Spared no expense for the two art students. Knew what young women wanted: cinema tickets, cosy cafés, pricey paints, fine brushes. A seasoned engineer in a tech firm, he could afford it.
Charlotte made no secret of her indifference. Said outright she was only passing time with him until real love came along. With someone else. In short, doing him a favour.
Edward watched her like a wilful child, ending every date with:
“You’ll be my wife.”
She’d laugh. Who’d want a wife who eyed other men? But he didn’t relent. He didn’t woo—he laid siege.
Met her after lectures, took her to galleries, bought jewellery, memorised her habits. Tracked down her admirers and “removed” them (one “accidentally” roughed up in an alley). Phoned her mum: “Your daughter deserves better than those boys.”
Charlotte fumed, shouted she wasn’t his property, that this was the 21st century. Spitefully dated classmates. Fancied one poor bloke from her course. A posh literature student eyed her with disdain. A musician next door loved fiercely—then chased another girl within a week.
After each disappointment, Edward materialised like a spectre:
“Told you they weren’t right.”
Her mother soon took his side. When Charlotte rebelled and cut contact, she sighed: “You’re being stubborn. Marriage isn’t about passion. He loves you, and with a man like him, you’ll want for nothing.”
“Jazz tonight,” he’d say, handing her tickets as she prepped for another date.
“He’s not worthy,” he’d remark a week later when that suitor vanished.
Charlotte never asked how he managed it. Somewhere, his obsession moved her—like an old novel where the heroine’s worth fighting for.
“Marry me,” he said for the hundredth time, offering a sprig of blooming hawthorn, her favourite. “I’ve land. We’ll build a house. You’ll have a studio.”
“I don’t love you,” she exhaled. “I can’t. Sorry.”
“You haven’t tried. I’ll make myself lovable.”
Suddenly, fatigue washed over her—not from him, but herself. From chasing someone who, by twenty-six, she suspected didn’t exist. Every “option” crumbled like sand. Maybe her mother was right. Time to surrender?
“Fine,” she said. His face lit up as if he’d seen dawn after a long night.
He was the perfect husband. Brought flowers, never criticised, built shelves, renovated their home to her sketches, carried her in his arms before guests. But the bedroom became duty (“Come here, love, I’ve missed you”). No children came.
Charlotte didn’t live. She endured his love. Couldn’t adjust to his sudden kisses on her neck while she chopped salad.
Friends envied her. She wanted to scream: “Take him!” Their marriage was a stage where she played the happy wife.
They never argued—nothing to argue about. Once, Charlotte hurled her mother-in-law’s figurine at the wall. Edward didn’t flinch:
“Don’t worry, darling. We’ll glue it.”
She knew then: he’d never let go. Bought a train ticket, packed a bag. But Edward brought home a Siamese kitten she’d once mentioned:
“You’ve been so down… Thought he might help.”
Charlotte stayed.
Years later, he found the ticket tucked in a book. Understood everything. At dinner, he asked:
“Why are you still here? If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Because…” she hesitated, “loneliness scares me more.”
Edward smiled, mistaking it for love.
But Charlotte knew the truth: she’d grown used to his care—and feared he was the only one who’d ever love her.
