**Neighbour Uncovered the Fiancé’s Secret, and I Got My Revenge**
Oliver was heading towards the gate of his cottage in the outskirts of Bristol, arm in arm with a stranger.
“Oliver, hello!” called out his neighbour, Margaret Wilkins, peering over the fence. “And who’s this with you?”
“Afternoon, Mrs. Wilkins,” Oliver grinned. “Decided to get married. Brought my future wife, Eleanor, to see the place.”
Eleanor worked tirelessly in the cottage garden while Oliver kept pace, eager to help. One afternoon, when he drove into town, Margaret leaned over the fence.
“Fancy a cuppa, neighbour?” she asked, a sly glint in her eye.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Eleanor nodded.
She spent nearly two hours at Margaret’s before returning just as Oliver arrived back.
“You seem deep in thought,” he remarked.
Eleanor only smiled. She already knew the truth.
“Oliver, hello! Who’s this then?” Margaret’s curiosity was obvious as she eyed the newcomer.
Oliver, steadying his companion, raised an eyebrow.
“Mrs. Wilkins, always keeping watch, eh? Planning to marry. This is Ellie, my future missus. Cottage is big—wanted to see if she’s up to it.”
“Eleanor, is it?” Margaret nodded approvingly. “Lovely name. Oliver’s quite the catch round here—handy, hardworking. You staying long or just for the summer?”
“Don’t distract us,” Oliver waved her off, opening the gate for Ellie to step through.
“Ellie, pop by for tea sometime!” Margaret called after them, laughter trailing behind.
“Odd woman,” Eleanor murmured, stepping inside. “What did she mean by ‘just for the summer’?”
“Pay her no mind,” Oliver dismissed. “Locals hire seasonal help sometimes—just her way of talking. A bit simple, that one. Best not chat too much with the neighbours. Margaret’s the worst gossip around.”
The cottage gleamed, only a whisper of dust from the winter months lingering. Eleanor admired the neat curtains, embroidered tablecloths, and delicate napkins. In the kitchen, linen towels hung with finely stitched designs.
“Oliver, did you do all this yourself?” she asked, pointing at the handiwork.
“Course not,” he scoffed. “Plenty of women tried to win me over before you. Handsome, single bloke like me? They were relentless. But I waited for you. And here you are.”
Eleanor flushed. Oliver *was* attractive—strong, with silver threading his thick hair and a cunning spark in his eyes. Plus, he had a flat *and* a cottage.
They’d met at a market in Bristol. Oliver was picking out raspberry canes, while Eleanor searched for dill seeds to grow on her windowsill.
“Take three packets, love—I’ll give you a discount,” the vendor urged.
“What would I do with so many?” she laughed. “I’m on my own; one’s plenty.”
“I’ve got space in my garden going spare,” Oliver winked beside her. “What do you say—team up?”
“And what would your wife think?” Eleanor teased, glancing at him. Well-dressed, handsome—clearly older than her.
“Widower,” he sighed. “But you’ve thawed this old heart.”
That’s how it began. A week later, Oliver confessed:
“Ellie, you make everything easier. I don’t want to say goodbye. Heading to the cottage for the summer. Why not come along? We’ll commute together—it’s not far.”
Eleanor agreed.
“Why not? Kids are grown, only call when they need money. No husband, not even a cat. Maybe you’re my fresh start?”
At the cottage, they quickly grew close. Oliver’s talk of marriage thrilled Eleanor and amused Margaret.
All summer, Eleanor tended the garden—rows of greens, tomatoes ripening in the greenhouse, weeds given no quarter. Oliver dug, hauled water, chopped wood. To passersby, they seemed a couple in perfect harmony.
One day, with Oliver away, Margaret called out:
“Coming for tea? Or has Oliver forbidden it?”
“Why would he?” Eleanor frowned. “I’ll come.”
She returned just before Oliver, lost in thought.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
“Just thinking how hard it is to lose someone,” she said, meeting his gaze. “One day they’re here, the next—gone.”
“Enough of that,” he brushed off. “If you’re on about my late wife, that’s ancient history. I’ve got you now. Don’t know what I’d do without you!” He hugged her, winking.
Weeks passed, the harvest thriving—cucumbers, carrots, berries, tomatoes. But Oliver’s mood soured. He nitpicked over nothing, wedding talk vanished.
“Why didn’t you shut the greenhouse?” he grumbled one morning.
“Oliver, it was warm last night—the plants would’ve died!”
“Since when are you the expert?” he snapped. “As if you’ve farmed your whole life! Only thing you’ve grown is windowsill dill!”
“Unfair,” she retorted. “My parents had a garden—I know what I’m doing. Fine, I won’t touch a thing.”
“Alright, alright,” he relented. “But check with me first. And—can you make jam? Berries won’t wait.”
Eleanor nodded, thinking, *Here we go.* While she stirred jam, Oliver was all charm. But once the jars were stored, his criticisms returned. She began planning how to take part of the harvest, determined not to leave empty-handed.
“Oliver, what’s going on?” she finally demanded.
He bristled, but his phone rang. His face shifted—shock, then dread.
“What’s happened?”
“They’re draining my accounts!” he gasped, frantic with notifications. “Bank’s calling—need to reset my password.”
“Oliver, it’s a scam!” she warned. “Don’t give the code, or you’ll lose everything!”
“Since when are you the expert?” he sneered.
“Seriously—don’t.”
“Back off!” he barked. “Go pick tomatoes.”
She stepped away, hearing him recite the code. Moments later, a cry erupted:
“Bloody thieves!”
Oliver sat crimson-faced, heaving.
“You knew!” he roared. “You’re in on it! They’ve cleared me out! I was saving for a car!”
“I warned you,” she said coolly. “But you thought me stupid.”
“That’s not all—they took out a loan!” he groaned. “How will I repay that?”
“How much?”
He named a sum. Manageable for her, but she wouldn’t hand it over freely. Remembering Margaret’s words, she hatched a plan.
“I’ll cover the loan… if you sell me the cottage for that amount.”
“Are you mad?” he exploded. “It’s worth three times that!”
“Good luck, then.” She shrugged. “By the time you find a buyer, interest will pile up. Bank’ll take the cottage *and* your flat.”
She was bluffing, but Margaret’s revelation had changed everything: *”You’re decent, Ellie. Oliver won’t marry. He lures women here, promises weddings, works them all summer, then picks fights and chases them off. You’re his latest mark. Time he got his comeuppance.”*
“So—selling, or am I leaving?” Eleanor repeated, lifting a basket of vegetables.
“At least raise your offer!” he pleaded.
“Good luck.” She turned away.
“Fine! Done!” he spat.
At the solicitor’s, they sealed the deal. Eleanor transferred the funds at the bank, clearing his debt. Back at the cottage, she packed Oliver’s things, leaving a basket of veg and a jar of jam on the porch—”for memories.” She changed the locks, knowing he might return.
“Ellie, fancy a cuppa?” Margaret called, watching her fit the new key.
“Better yet—you come to mine!” Eleanor smiled. “We’ll celebrate the new owner. I’m the lady of the house now!”
