**The Door to Betrayal**
After three long months on the rig, Ethan Blackwood returned home weary but proud, eager to see his wife again. The sky over Manchester hung heavy with clouds, but his heart was light—his pay packet was thick, and he couldn’t wait to surprise Lillian, his fiery, strong-willed wife. They’d just bought a two-bed flat in a concrete tower block on the city’s edge. He’d spent sleepless nights plastering walls, laying laminate, fitting the kitchen—all to make it perfect for her.
*”Ethan, love, I won’t settle for rubbish. I want our place to be just as nice as Olivia and Jack’s. Top-notch, alright?”*
He’d nodded, swallowed his exhaustion, and worked himself ragged on the rig—freezing in that metal container, missing the smell of tea in the mornings, aching for the sound of her voice. But when she called, it was always demands, never tenderness.
At the station, he lingered by a flower stall, thumbing through roses until he found the freshest. A dozen blood-red blooms in hand, he hailed a cab. Fifteen minutes later, his heart pounded as he stood outside their building. He climbed to the fourth floor, too giddy to use his key—knocked instead.
Silence.
Then the door swung open.
A stranger stood there—tall, broad-shouldered, bare-chested, wrapped in Ethan’s own dressing gown.
*”Who the hell are you? Lost, mate?”* the man sneered.
The world tilted. Ethan’s grip on the flowers slackened.
*”Seems I’m not the only one who got the wrong door.”*
The door slammed. He stood frozen, pulse hammering in his ears. The wallpaper he’d hung. The kitchen tiles he’d scrubbed. The debt he’d taken on. And now—some bloke in his bloody house.
The roses hit the nearest bin. He called another cab, detoured to Tesco for whiskey, pickled herring, crisps. His best mate, Mike, greeted him with a laugh.
*”Look what the cat dragged in! Cheers, then!”*
Two drinks in, Ethan cracked. Mike—half-Irish, all temper—shot up.
*”IN YOUR FLAT?! I’d have his head—”* His fist slammed the table.
Ethan grabbed his shoulder. *”Easy. But… we’re squaring this, yeah?”*
*”Damn right.”*
Drunk and furious, they hailed a cab back to the flat. Vengeance was a blur.
The bedroom light was on. Ethan roared: *”You’re done!”*
Mike hammered the door. *”Open up, you rat! You steal a man’s wife, you face him!”*
The door flew open—a fist followed. Mike staggered back, clutching his nose.
*”Welcome home,”* he spat, wiping blood.
Ethan exploded. One kick sent the door crashing inward. They stormed the flat like madmen, shouting, turning over furniture.
*”Where is he?!”*
Lillian shrieked in the kitchen, fumbling with her phone. Mike charged down the hall—*”Did the coward jump?!”*
Then a groan.
Pinned under the broken door, the lover writhed—dressing gown twisted, face bloody, arrogance crushed to whimpers.
*”Reckon that’s vengeance served,”* Mike smirked, nudging him with his boot.
Then—a shrill voice from the stairwell.
*”HELP! THEY’RE KILLING HIM!”*
Lillian’s mother.
Sobered instantly, they bolted before the law arrived. By morning, Ethan filed for divorce. He wouldn’t live in a home that humiliated him—where another man wore his clothes.
A week later, he packed for the rig again. Mike saw him off, bruises fading, knuckles wrapped.
*”Still. Went out with a bang.”* He grinned. *”Next wife—not a Lillian, eh? But call me. I’ll sort it.”*
