**Second Chance**
“Janet, are you heading home?” Her friend Charlotte drummed her manicured nails impatiently on the desk.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s supposed to pick me up,” Janet lied without hesitation.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” With a sway of her hips, Charlotte left the office.
One by one, the employees filed out. The corridor echoed with hurried footsteps and the click of heels. Janet picked up her phone and sighed. *Probably already had a few pints, sprawled in front of the telly, belly-up.* She pressed the call button. After three long rings, she heard the muffled chatter of the TV before Victor’s voice crackled through.
“Hello?”
“Vic, it’s pouring outside, and I’m wearing suede boots. Come get me.”
“Love, I had a couple—didn’t think you’d call. Grab a cab, yeah?”
“Typical. Should’ve known. You swore you’d carry me in your arms when you proposed.”
“Janet, sweetheart, the match is on—” The roar of the crowd swallowed his words, and she ended the call.
Those days were long gone—when he’d wait outside the office, car or no car. She powered down her computer, shrugged on her coat, and stepped into the empty corridor.
Her heels shattered the silence. Everyone had left. In the lobby, the deputy director, Daniel Whitmore, stood by the security desk, phone pressed to his ear. Tall, impeccably dressed in a long black coat, he looked more like a Hollywood star than a mid-level executive. The office gossip claimed he was single.
Janet had once scoffed. *Must be something wrong with him if he’s still unattached.*
“Seen with some model—can’t remember her name. She’s in all the magazines,” Charlotte had said, ever the source of society whispers.
Victor hadn’t been so different in his youth—thirty pull-ups daily on the playground bars. Then… he’d let himself go. Beer belly, evenings glued to the telly. Every night, the same sight: Victor on the sofa, a half-drunk lager on the floor.
She’d nearly reached the door when a rich baritone sent a shiver down her spine.
“Janet Whitaker, working late?”
She turned, forcing a smile. “Thought my husband would fetch me. He couldn’t make it.”
Daniel slipped his phone into his coat pocket and stepped closer. “Let me drive you.” He pushed the door open, holding it for her.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—I’ll call a cab,” she protested, stepping into the rain.
“Consider this your cab.” He took her elbow, guiding her toward his Range Rover.
How could she refuse? Pity no one saw—plenty of women would’ve envied her.
He disarmed the alarm, opening the door. She climbed in with a playful gasp, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Daniel shut the door, circled the car, and slid into the driver’s seat.
“I’ve noticed you. Firm but fair. You could head the marketing division.”
“What about Margaret?” Janet blinked.
“Retirement’s calling. She’s reliable but struggles with new systems.”
Janet shifted uncomfortably. She owed Margaret—the woman had trained her. But refusal wasn’t an option.
“Her grandson’s getting married—she wanted to save for his flat,” Janet said softly.
“That’s not your concern. If it’s just the money, she’ll get a generous severance. So—do we have a deal?”
His gaze lingered on her profile. She hesitated, then turned—only to find him staring ahead.
Her heart lurched—they’d almost missed her street.
“Turn right. That’s my building—stop there.”
The car halted, but she didn’t move. Words tangled in her throat.
“Perhaps dinner sometime?” His velvet voice was magic.
Her pulse fluttered. “Maybe,” she said, flashing a coy smile before stepping into the drizzle.
“Till tomorrow,” he called, grinning.
Her head spun. The Range Rover bounced over potholes—plenty of those in their neighborhood—and vanished.
The next day, they lunched together, under everyone’s watchful eyes. Then came dinners. Then…
Needless to say, what came next. And what woman could resist a man like that? If one could, her husband hadn’t yet sunk to being a human cushion.
Janet floated, giddy, desired, ten years younger. Life wasn’t dull anymore—only Victor’s slouched form on the sofa chipped at her joy.
Tonight was no different. A half-empty beer bottle stood on the floor. She nearly kicked it—spilled frustration and ale onto the carpet. But she’d be the one cleaning it.
“You’ve changed,” Victor muttered, studying her.
*Finally noticed, have you?*
“Changed how?” she deadpanned.
“You look… like when we first met. Found someone else?”
“And what if I have? You barely glance my way. The telly and your beer matter more.”
“I noticed. Your hair’s different.”
“Had this cut for *three years*.” She exhaled sharply. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Or a proper restaurant. I work too, but I still cook—”
“Your cooking’s better than any chef’s,” he cut in. “What’s got into you?”
She stared. His voice, his clumsy compliments—none stirred anything but boredom. *Maybe I should leave. But where would he go?*
“You’re different lately,” Charlotte whispered at work. “Glowing. Having an affair? Rumor is, it’s Daniel Whitmore. Bold. So—served the hubby his papers?”
“Wish I could.” Janet shrugged. “You sound just like him.”
“Lucky you. Husband *and* a lover. Vicky’s fifteen years younger, and he’s smitten.”
Jealousy gnawed at her. Vicky *was* younger, prettier, unattached. Men loved that.
“Give me that woman’s address—the one who does love spells,” Janet whispered.
“Who’s the target? Daniel? Or the competition?”
“My *husband*. Just give it.”
Charlotte scrolled through her contacts. “Sent. That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Victor’s cheating?”
“I *wish*.”
“Daniel’s temporary—not proposing, is he?”
“It’s not him. Forget it.” Janet turned to her screen.
That evening, she knocked on a door. A plump woman in an expensive dress answered, piercing eyes making Janet shiver.
“Here to ditch the husband?”
“No! Just…” She spilled everything. Almost.
“One drop in his tea daily. **One.** Any more, his heart gives out. Better use it on the lover,” the woman advised.
Janet paid and fled the incense-heavy flat.
At home, she hid the vial in the kitchen cabinet—behind the tea. Victor and their daughter never rummaged there. But had she the nerve?
She stepped into the living room. Victor lounged, TV blaring, beer bottle half-empty. She blocked the screen.
“What?”
“Get up. Help me cook.”
“I can’t, love.” He groaned, sitting up.
“Learn. What’ll you eat alone?”
“Alone? Where’re you going?”
She whirled—he collided with her belly-first. She recoiled.
Then it erupted—years of neglect, resentment, rage. Words poured out, unstoppable. When she finally paused, Victor stammered:
“What about me?”
“Keep rotting on that sofa.”
“And Emily?”
“She’s grown. Let her choose.”
It wasn’t truly a plan—but the vial’s presence taunted her. Maybe wounded pride would jolt him awake.
“Enough.” She marched out.
He trailed her. “Wait—Janet, I *love* you—” A gasp. A thud.
She turned. Victor slid down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Don’t fake it.” But his head lolled.
She rushed over, shaking him. No pulse.
“Emily! Your dad—!”
Their teenage daughter sprinted in.
“The vial—kitchen cabinet—water—!”
Emily dashed back. Janet forced Victor’s mouth open, spilling most of the liquid down his shirt.
“God, what am I *doing*?!” She leaped up. “What did you give him?”
Emily held up a pharmacy-labeled bottle. “This one. Right?”
“Then why isn’t he—? Call an ambulance!” She tore through the cabinet, grabbing the unmarked vial.
Tightly sealed. Untouched. She hurled it into the bin.
The paramedics arrived as Janet wrung her hands. “I poisoned him.”
“With *this*?” The doctor sighed. “Not a chance. Heart attack. To hospital.”
She paced the ward corridors, sobbing until sedated and sent home.
For days, she visited, guilt gnawing at her. DanielBy the time summer arrived, Victor was back on his feet—lighter, brighter, and finally looking at her the way he used to, as the doctors removed the last of the monitors and handed him a second chance he’d never take for granted again.
