Betrayal with a View
Emily couldn’t sit still—she paced the flat like a caged animal. Her husband’s recent behavior had set off alarm bells. For days, James had been oddly attentive: helping with chores, cooking fancy dinners, even bringing home flowers. All this unwarranted affection only made her more suspicious. *He’s definitely guilty of something*, she thought, stepping toward the window. Her gaze drifted downward—and her stomach lurched. She jerked back. “No, he wouldn’t…” she whispered, refusing to believe her own eyes.
Just then, a voice spoke behind her. His *real* wife—Charlotte.
James stood by the window, watching their neighbour, Emily, taking her tiny terrier for a stroll. Charlotte joined him, glanced outside, and stiffened immediately.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked, voice icy.
“Work,” he sighed, avoiding her stare. “A colleague botched things, and now I’m cleaning up the mess.”
She studied his face—something in his tone didn’t add up. But she just nodded and walked to the kitchen.
Annoyance prickled under James’ skin. Charlotte had become unbearable lately—snappish, nitpicky. He’d started seeking warmth elsewhere. And he’d found it in Emily. Quiet, warm, living just upstairs.
That evening, a power cut at work sent him home early. After lounging about, he stepped out for air—and there was Emily in the garden. One chat led to another, then a café, then her flat.
Morning brought a crushing weight of guilt. Their wedding photo—young, beaming, *happy*—stared back from the wall. He’d promised her *forever*. Now, the word tasted like ash.
He made Charlotte’s favourite—shepherd’s pie—that night. She praised him, even kissed him, tired but pleased. He smiled stiffly, his mind replaying everything.
Days later, on his day off, James avoided Emily, but the pull was magnetic. The moment Charlotte left for work, he was at the neighbour’s door again.
Charlotte noticed the shift—his sudden helpfulness, his distance. She *knew* he was hiding something. Then, catching him peeking at Emily through the curtains, it clicked.
The row exploded in the kitchen.
“Are you *sleeping* with her?” she spat, jabbing a finger toward the window.
James froze. Spluttered denials, but it was too late. She threw him out without hesitation.
“Go on, then! Perfect, isn’t it—just upstairs. Move in with her!”
He stammered excuses, but Charlotte was done. As he shuffled out, his voice echoed on the landing:
“Em… Can I stay? She kicked me out.”
Emily, clearly stunned, paused—then opened the door.
Tears streaked Charlotte’s cheeks—not from heartbreak, but bitter disappointment. She’d expected *some* fight. Instead, he’d left. No apologies. No remorse.
*Better alone than with someone who betrays so easily*, she decided. Tomorrow, she’d adopt a cat. Or a dog. At least they knew loyalty.
