The car sped through the quiet streets of London under the cover of night. Inside sat a man and a woman. To any passerby, they might have looked like a married couple rushing home to their waiting children.
“Can’t you drive faster?” the woman asked, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap.
“It’s not safe. The roads might seem empty, but they aren’t. When are you going to tell him about us? How much longer will we keep sneaking around like this? If you’d just say something, it would be better for everyone,” the man replied, gripping the wheel tighter.
“Better? For who? For us, maybe—but what about little Emily? She loves her father. And he loves her. What happens to them when they find out? It’s cruel.” Her voice wavered.
“And lying to him for months isn’t cruel? Do you really think he doesn’t suspect? I’m tired of sharing you. If you won’t tell him, I will. Man to man.”
“Please, don’t. Just give me time. I *will* tell him,” she pleaded, reaching over to clutch his forearm. “I love you, truly. But don’t pressure me. I promise, soon.”
He turned to face her, their eyes locking in the dim light before he leaned in—
A black SUV tore around the bend, slamming into them with a force that shattered metal and drowned her scream in crushing silence.
***
The shrill ring of his phone pulled James from the haze of sleep. For a moment, he hovered between dreaming and waking before reality snapped into place.
Charlotte had called at eight last night, saying she’d be late—a friend was in trouble, needed her. She’d explain later. He hadn’t asked which friend. He could’ve called around, checked, but pride had stopped him.
He’d known something was wrong for months. The late nights, the sudden weekend disappearances, all those “emergencies” with friends he’d never met.
His hand fumbled for the phone on the nightstand. An unknown number. His stomach twisted.
“Hello?” His voice was rough with sleep.
“Detective Harris. Are you James Whitmore, husband of Charlotte Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“Your wife was in an accident. She’s been taken to St. Mary’s in critical condition—”
“Is she alive?” His voice cracked.
“Yes, but—”
“Daddy, is that Mummy?”
James turned to see ten-year-old Emily standing in the doorway, her wide eyes filled with fear. He swallowed the lump in his throat.
“No, sweetheart. Mummy’s… in hospital. There was an accident.”
“Is she dead?”
“No! No, she’s alive,” he rushed to say, pulling her into a hug so tight he could barely breathe. “We’ll see her in the morning. You need sleep—we both do.”
Emily nodded and shuffled back to her room. James collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was half two in the morning. His pulse hammered in his chest like a trapped bird.
By dawn, they were on their way to the hospital. He left Emily in the corridor as he entered the doctor’s office.
“You’re the husband?” the doctor, a man his age, asked.
“Yes. How is she?”
“We’ve operated. Severe head trauma, multiple fractures… She’s in a coma.”
“How did this happen? She doesn’t drive.”
The doctor shrugged. “All I know is the car she was in collided with an SUV. Both drivers died on impact. Your wife was lucky. I won’t lie—her condition is grave. But she’s young. There’s hope.”
“Can we see her? My daughter’s outside.”
“It’s your call. She’s not… pleasant to look at right now, but family presence can help.”
As they walked toward the ICU, James asked, “Who was she with?”
“The police can answer that. But don’t stay long.”
Inside, he barely recognized Charlotte. Bruises mottled her swollen face, bandages wrapped around her head. Her wedding ring glinted on a limp hand.
“Mummy?” Emily whispered, touching her fingers. “Is she asleep?”
“Yes. We can’t stay.”
The drive home was silent. He called Charlotte’s mother, Margaret, and asked her to stay with Emily. He needed to clear his head.
Margaret arrived with red-rimmed eyes. “Maybe I should take Emily for a while. You’ve enough on your plate,” she said, sniffling. “Want to come to Nana’s, love?”
Emily nodded.
“I *warned* her,” Margaret suddenly choked out, then froze under James’s sharp look. “I—I told her this wouldn’t end well.”
“Warned her about what?”
She wiped her eyes. “Forgive me, James. I scolded her, told her she was being reckless. She just kept saying, *‘I love him, I can’t live without him.’* Like a madwoman. Oh, God, I—I wish *she* could tell you—”
A cold ache spread through his chest. He’d noticed the changes—the distance, the excuses. He’d ignored it, refused to believe.
“Who is he?”
“Daniel Reeves. He’s fancied her since school. Went abroad for years, then came back, and… well.”
*Reeves.* James had seen him once. He sometimes picked Charlotte up from work, waiting in the car park. She’d run to him, glowing like he was Christmas morning.
Two months ago, he’d gone to fetch her himself. There she was, talking to a man, their gazes locked in something far more intimate than friendship.
He’d approached. Charlotte had paled, then forced a smile. *”James, this is Daniel—an old schoolmate.”* The men had sized each other up, silence thick between them. No handshake. Just instant, mutual disdain.
*”How lovely you came! I was just looking at birthday presents for Emily…”* She’d dragged James away, babbling nervously the whole drive home.
*All those nights with ‘friends’—she was with him. In his bed. How long? Did they laugh about me? Plan a life without me?* The thoughts tore through him, ragged and furious.
*”Will they let us visit tomorrow?”* Margaret’s voice snapped him back.
James exhaled. “The doctor said we can talk to her. Might help.”
But what would he say? Spill his rage while she lay helpless? What if she died with his anger as her last memory? No. He’d wait. If she lived, they’d face it. *For Emily.*
The next day, during his lunch break, he returned to the hospital. Emily and Margaret were already there, murmuring to Charlotte. When they left, he studied his wife’s battered face.
*”I’m trying to forgive you,”* he forced out, the words sticking in his throat. *”Just come home to us.”* He wanted to say he loved her. The words wouldn’t come.
The following morning, the hospital called. *She’s awake.* He left work in a rush, but as the building neared, dread coiled in his gut. *What if she looks at me and I see regret? Grief for him?*
His legs felt unsteady as he walked in. The doctor warned him—*She’s weak. Don’t upset her.*
James approached the bed. *”Charlotte.”*
Her eyes opened, finding his.
*”I was so scared when I heard,”* he managed. *”I’m glad you’re awake. Margaret’s bringing Emily soon.”*
She stared, unblinking, her gaze a storm of pain and something he couldn’t name.
*”Don’t torment yourself. I know. The doctor says you’ll recover.”* He couldn’t look at her. *”That’s all that matters. We need you. *I* need you. Do you hear me?”*
Her eyelids fluttered shut, then open again.
*”Daddy!”* Emily burst in, rushing to the bed.
James stepped into the corridor, collapsing onto a chair. *She’s alive.* What did grudges matter now? He’d forgiven her. So why did his chest feel like it was caving in?
Days later, Charlotte could speak. The bandages came off; she was moved to a regular ward.
*”I have to tell you—”* she began, voice frail.
James took her hand. *”Don’t. I don’t want to know. Let the past stay there. We’ll start fresh. If that’s what you want.”*
*”Forgive me,”* she whispered.
*”I already have.”*
Two months later, she came home. Still on crutches, she moved through the flat like a stranger, relearning the spaces. James cooked, cleaned, shopped—Margaret helped.
Tension hummed between them. Words went unspoken, truths buried to keep the peace. James often wished he could scrub his mind clean, erase the images that haunted him.As the days passed, their footsteps slowly fell into a familiar rhythm, and though the scars of the past would always remain, they learned to walk forward together, hand in hand.
