The door to the office creaked open, and a tall, sun-kissed man appeared on the threshold, his gaze lingering on Evelyn as he spoke in a smooth, pleasant voice:
“Good afternoon, Evelyn Whitmore. I’m Marcus, your new business partner.”
A shiver ran down Evelyn’s spine, like a spark of electricity. She forced a polite smile and gestured to the chair. “Hello, please sit.” Her hands trembled slightly, but soon they fell into conversation.
Outside, rain tapped against the windows—midnight approached. Evelyn glanced at the clock hanging in the kitchen, then tucked her untouched dinner into the fridge and retreated to bed. Lately, she had stopped calling her husband, Alexander, or waiting up for him. She was tired of torturing herself—perhaps she’d grown used to this hollow existence. There was no point in hysterics.
She loved Alexander. They’d married for love, a flame kindled in their third year at university. A year and a half later, their son, Oliver, arrived. Now he was five.
Her parents had gifted them a flat in a new build for their wedding. They lived there comfortably, though they’d planned to upsize eventually.
Shortly after graduation, Alexander and his friend Nathaniel had gone into business together. Nathaniel had studied medicine, started at a clinic, then opened a private practice. Alexander, an economist, joined as a partner, and soon Nathaniel recruited more classmates. The practice flourished, expanding to two branches across London.
Evelyn stayed home, raising Oliver. She’d wanted to work—she was an economist too—but Alexander had insisted. “Darling, stay with Ollie. I’ll take care of everything.”
She agreed, though boredom gnawed at her.
At first, life was sweet. They vacationed in Spain yearly, and money was never an issue. Alexander even gifted her a car for her birthday. But as his business thrived, his warmth faded. The cheerful student she’d loved grew distant.
Evenings found Evelyn alone, waiting for Alexander’s return long past midnight. Sometimes she fed him; more often, he collapsed into bed. Their conversations dried up like unwatered roses.
“I need to change,” she decided. A makeover—something bold. She visited a salon, slipped into a sleek dress, and surprised Alexander at work.
He blinked at her. “Evelyn? You look stunning. Let’s have dinner tonight.” But his smile was stiff, his fingers twitching.
The restaurant was lovely—flowers, a small gift, Alexander praising her transformation. She basked in the moment, relieved she’d acted.
“Alex,” she ventured, “perhaps we should think about another child?”
“Another?” He frowned. “Hadn’t considered it. We’ll see.”
That night, as she drifted off, the phone jolted her awake. The hospital—no explanations, just urgency. Trembling, she left Oliver with a neighbor and rushed out.
In the sterile light, a gurney held a bloodied face—Alexander. Dead.
She screamed, collapsed, refused to believe it. Fragments echoed: *accident, ICU, a woman…*
After the funeral, Oliver stayed with her parents while she locked herself away, drowning in brandy and old photos. The police said a car had veered into their lane, smashing Alexander and Nathaniel’s vehicle.
“Darling, you must move on,” her mother urged. “For Oliver’s sake. You’ll need to work now.”
Evelyn forced herself to the clinic. A new receptionist sat at the desk.
“Hello. Where’s Lydia?”
“You must be Evelyn Whitmore.”
“Yes. Where is she?”
“I’m filling in. Lydia’s in hospital—didn’t you know?”
Evelyn’s stomach dropped. The fragments returned—*a woman, ICU.* She visited, but they barred her. Days later, Lydia, pale but recovering, turned to her with frightened eyes.
“How’s Alexander? Nathaniel?”
Evelyn’s voice cracked. “Gone.”
Lydia wept, pressing her face to the window. A nurse later mentioned Lydia’s discharge. “Her and the baby are fine.”
“Baby?”
“You didn’t know?”
Evelyn confronted her. “Who’s the father?”
Lydia trembled. “Alexander’s.”
The world spun. Evelyn fled, driving blindly until she stopped at the countryside’s edge. “How could he?” she sobbed. A bitter thought: at least he’d died before leaving her.
She kept Lydia employed until maternity leave, then severed ties.
Months later, a predawn call.
“Lydia died in childbirth. The baby’s fine. You were her emergency contact.”
Evelyn’s throat tightened. Another blow. The child—Oliver’s half-brother—would go to foster care.
No.
She adopted him, naming him Henry. “This is your brother, Ollie. A gift from Daddy.”
At Alexander’s grave, she cradled Henry. “He’s ours now.”
Time passed. Her mother quit work to help. The business grew, though Nathaniel’s brother, Marcus, lingered in Germany.
Then, one day, he strode into her office.
The air crackled. Both froze, thunderstruck. But Evelyn recovered first, offering a chair.
They talked for hours. Marcus settled into the role.
Life unspooled anew—no more blows, she prayed. Marcus, too, was free—his ex-wife and daughter remained abroad.
Life, relentless, marched on.
