**A Second Chance**
“Janet, you heading home?” Her colleague Lucy tapped impatiently on the desk with manicured nails.
“No, I’ll stay a bit. My husband’s picking me up,” Janet lied smoothly.
“Alright, suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” Lucy strutted out of the office with an exaggerated sway.
One by one, the staff trickled out, the corridor filling with the clicking of heels and rustling coats. Janet grabbed her phone and sighed. “Probably already had his pints, sprawled on the sofa like a beached whale.” She dialed, listening to the endless ringing before Victor’s voice finally crackled through, half-drowned by the telly.
“Yeah?”
“Vic, it’s pouring, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Love, didn’t think you’d call—had a couple already. Just grab a cab?”
“Typical. Should’ve known. Weren’t you the one who swore you’d carry me over puddles when you proposed?”
“Sweetheart, the match—” The roar of football fans drowned him out, and Janet hung up.
Those days were long gone—when Vic would wait outside her office rain or shine, even without a car. She powered down her computer, wrapped herself in her coat, and stepped into the empty hall, her heels echoing like gunfire.
At the lobby, Deputy Director James Whitmore stood by security, phone pressed to his ear. Tall, trim, in a sleek black overcoat, he looked more like a Hollywood star than a mid-level manager. Office gossip insisted he was single—though Janet had once snarked he must’ve had some tragic flaw to still be available.
“Been modelling with some cover girl. Can’t recall her name,” Lucy had whispered knowingly.
Vic hadn’t always been like this. Back in the day, he’d done thirty pull-ups on the park bars without breaking a sweat. Now? Now it was pints and a gut, sprawled nightly in front of the telly with a can of lager at his feet.
She’d nearly reached the door when a smooth baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Janet, working late?”
“Thought Vic was coming. He… couldn’t make it.” She turned with a practised smile.
James pocketed his phone. “Let me drive you.”
“Oh, no—I’ll just call a cab.” But the moment she stepped outside, the drizzle turned her suede boots into a ticking time bomb.
“Consider your cab here.” He guided her to his gleaming SUV, holding the door as she slid in, knees brushing the skirt she quickly smoothed.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said as they pulled away. “Tough but fair. You’d run Marketing brilliantly.”
“What about Margaret? She’s—”
“Retirement’s calling. Solid worker, but she can’t keep up with the new systems.”
Janet shifted uncomfortably. Poor Margaret had trained her. But the offer was irresistible.
“Her grandson’s getting married. She’s saving for his flat,” Janet murmured.
“Not your concern. She’ll get a generous package. So?”
She felt his gaze linger. By the time she glanced back, he was watching the road.
“You just missed my turn!” she blurted, breaking the silence.
The SUV stopped, but Janet hesitated, scrambling for the right words.
“Fancy lunch sometime?” His voice was velvet.
Her heart skipped. “Maybe,” she said, flashing a coquettish smile before darting into the rain.
“Till tomorrow,” he called after her.
By the next day, they were lunching together—boldly, in front of everyone. Then came dinners. Then… well.
Needless to say, what came next. What woman wouldn’t cave to a man like that? If any resisted, their husbands hadn’t yet dissolved into sofa-shaped lumps.
Janet floated through weeks, glowing, years younger. Life wasn’t dull anymore—except for Vic, whose very presence on the sofa now grated.
Tonight was no different: him supine, a half-finished beer by the rug. She itched to kick it over but didn’t fancy cleaning the mess.
“You’ve changed,” Vic said suddenly, squinting at her.
*Finally noticed, have you?* She smirked inwardly. “How?”
“You look… like when we first met. You in love or something?”
“What if I am? You’ve got the telly and your ale. That’s all you care about.”
“I noticed! You changed your hair.”
“Three years ago, Vic.” She exhaled sharply. “We haven’t been to the cinema in forever. Or a proper dinner. I work too, but I still cook. You just… exist.”
“Your cooking’s better than any restaurant,” he offered lamely.
She stared, struck by how little his voice or presence stirred her now. Just weariness. *Maybe I should leave. But where would he go?*
“Something’s up with you,” Lucy hissed at work. “You’re radiant. Is it James? Word is you’re shagging him. Hubby know?”
“Wishful thinking,” Janet shrugged. “You sound just like him.”
“Lucky cow. Married *and* a toyboy. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, and he’s still after you.”
Jealousy prickled. Veronica *was* stunning. And free.
“Listen… that woman who does love spells. Her address?” Janet whispered.
“Who’s the target? James? Or eliminating competition?”
“Vic. Just… unhex him.”
Lucy obliged, and that evening, Janet stood in a dim flat reeking of herbs, handed a tiny vial.
“One drop in his tea daily. No more—it’s strong. Or use it on the toyboy,” the woman winked.
At home, Janet hid it behind the tea bags. She wasn’t sure she’d use it—until later, finding Vic glued to the telly, another beer on the floor.
“Get off your arse and help with dinner,” she snapped.
“I can’t cook!”
“Then learn. What’ll you eat when you’re alone?”
“Alone? What about you? About Emily?” He scrambled after her.
“I’m leaving.” She spun abruptly, recoiling as his belly bumped her.
And then it all spilled out—every grievance, every disappointment. Vic just stood there, shell-shocked.
“Keep rotting on that sofa,” she finished wearily.
“But—Emily?”
“She’s grown. She’ll choose.”
She hadn’t truly planned to go—but the vial’s presence emboldened her. Maybe wounded pride would shock him into action.
Vic’s face crumpled. “I can’t—I love—” He gasped, clutching his chest, sliding down the wall.
“Pathetic,” she muttered—until his head lolled forward.
“EMILY!” She shook him, checked his pulse—nothing. “The vial! In the cupboard—quick!”
Her daughter returned with a glass. Janet pried his mouth open, spilling most of the liquid down his shirt.
“God, what am I *doing*?” She grabbed the vial—untouched, still sealed. “CALL AN AMBULANCE!”
The paramedics found her hysterical. “Poisoned him!”
“With *this*?” The doctor eyed the harmless medicine. “It’s a heart attack. Ma’am, couples fight. We’ll take him.”
At the hospital, she paced until sedated and sent home.
Days passed in a blur of guilt. James and his dazzling smile faded to irrelevance. By the time Vic could walk the ward halls, she was a wreck.
“Forgive me. I was terrified I’d lose you,” she choked out.
“*Me?* I thought *I* lost *you*. I’ll do better. Just… give me another chance.”
Three weeks later, Vic came home. No beer by the sofa. No gut. By summer, he was back at the pull-up bars.
James eventually took up with Veronica. Janet didn’t care.
She only regretted wasting years letting Vic stagnate. No potions needed—just a wake-up call.
Love, it turned out, thrived on second chances.
