When Edward returned home on a Friday evening, the flat smelled of fried potatoes and something sour. He wrinkled his nose—Helen had been cooking cabbage again, though she knew how he loathed it. Hanging his expensive jacket neatly on the coat stand, he strode into the kitchen.
“Evening,” he muttered.
“Had your dinner at work, I suppose?” she asked flatly, without glancing up.
“Client dinner. Oil and gas bloke—lavish affair. Sealed the deal, though. Two hundred grand.”
Helen said nothing. She stood at the stove in her worn dressing gown, hair pinned back, exhaustion etched into her face. She truly didn’t care—not even if it were a million. Money couldn’t recover what they’d once had, not even two years ago.
Edward sat at the table, twisting open a bottle of mineral water. His wife’s gaze flickered with something like reproach.
“You look at me differently now,” she said.
“Differently how?”
“Like I’m beneath you. As if I’m the help. This—none of this is us anymore. You’ve changed, Edward.”
“Are you serious, Helen? I’m working myself to the bone! Everything we have comes from me—this flat, the new car, holidays. And what do you do? Not even working anymore.”
“I stopped working because *you* insisted!” Her voice wavered. “You said, ‘Stay home, relax, I’ll take care of it all.’ Now you look at me like I’m a burden.”
He pushed his plate aside.
“You’re just jealous. I’m moving forward, and you’re standing still. Don’t blame me for that.”
“I’m standing still because you won’t let me move.”
He stood abruptly, chair scraping. “If it’s so unbearable, do as you please. Just don’t come complaining later.”
Their marriage had begun beautifully. Edward had been a marketing manager then, Helen an English teacher. They rented a modest flat, saved where they could, chose thoughtful little gifts for one another. Their joy was in simple things—evening walks along the Thames, picnics in the countryside, nights in with films.
Everything changed when Edward was headhunted for a director’s role—triple the salary. Success came swiftly: business trips, bonuses, high-powered connections. They bought a two-bedroom flat in a new development, and Helen left her job at his insistence. “Why bother with that school? I’ll provide.”
At first, it felt like a fairy tale. But soon, Helen sensed a third presence in their home—coldness. It arrived with Edward’s tailored suits, the scent of fine cigars, the endless talk of markets and KPIs. He was evolving; she remained the same. And somehow, that irritated him.
“Sometimes I think,” Helen confessed to her friend Victoria over coffee, “perhaps I should go back to teaching?”
“Do it. You loved it. Or find an online course. You’re brilliant, Helen. It’s just a rough patch.”
“It’s not even about work. Edward feels… like a stranger now. He isn’t cruel. But I might as well be furniture—cooking, cleaning, existing. No one asks how I *am*.”
Victoria sighed. “Money does things to people. Reveals what’s underneath. And not everyone likes what they find.”
One afternoon, Edward came home midweek, buoyant, clutching a boutique bag.
“Bought you a dress.”
She unfolded it—black, fitted, slit at the thigh. Expensive. Stylish. Nothing like her.
“This isn’t me.”
“You’re just self-conscious. We’ll go out. Actually, there’s a company do on Friday. Come with me. Show everyone what a stunning wife I’ve got.”
“Like a trophy?” she murmured.
He pretended not to hear.
The event was held at a country house. Everyone dripped designer labels. Helen felt out of place, sipping sparkling wine as conversations swirled around investments and luxury cars.
Returning from the terrace, she saw Edward beside a woman in red—young, polished, effortlessly glamorous. Her fingers brushed his arm. He didn’t pull away.
The car ride home was silent. At their door, Helen finally spoke.
“Who was she?”
“Just a PR liaison. We’re collaborating.”
“And you let her paw at you?”
“Don’t be absurd. She’s just flirty. Must you always create drama?”
“Or perhaps you’ve forgotten you have a wife?” Helen turned to him. “Would you prefer me silent, framed on the wall?”
“Not this again. What do you want, Helen?”
She had no answer. Respect, perhaps. Interest. Love. But how to explain that to a man who measured worth in figures?
That Sunday, she left for her mother’s.
“What happened?” her mother asked.
“
