James made a mistake when he walked out.
When James returned home on Friday evening, the flat smelled of fried potatoes and something sour. He wrinkled his nose—Emily had cooked Brussels sprouts again, even though she knew how much he despised them. Slipping off his expensive suit jacket, he hung it neatly on the hanger and headed to the kitchen.
“Evening,” he muttered.
“Already eaten at work, I suppose?” she asked, not smiling.
“There was a reception after the meeting. Client from the oil sector—big corporate do. But I landed the contract. Two hundred grand.”
Emily stayed silent. She stood by the stove in her old dressing gown, hair pulled into a messy bun. Exhaustion lined her face. She didn’t care—not about two hundred grand, not about a million. Money wouldn’t bring back what they’d lost two years ago.
James sat at the table, cracking open a bottle of sparkling water. Something flickered in his wife’s eyes—accusation, maybe.
“Even the way you look at me is different now,” she said.
“How?”
“Like I’m beneath you. As if I’m the help. None of this—the suits, the deals—feels like *us*. You’ve changed, James.”
“Seriously, Em? I’m slogging my arse off! Everything we have is because of me. This flat, the new car, the holidays. And what do you do? You don’t even work anymore.”
“I don’t work because *you* insisted!” Her voice wavered. “‘Stay home, relax, I’ll take care of it all,’ you said. Now you look at me like I’m some kind of freeloader.”
James pushed his plate away.
“You’re just jealous. I’m moving forward, and you’re stuck. That’s not my fault.”
“I’m stuck because you won’t let me move.”
He stood, shoving the chair back.
“If it’s not good enough, you’re free to live however you like. Just don’t come crying to me later.”
Their marriage had begun beautifully. Back then, James was an account manager at a small advertising firm, Emily a secondary school English teacher. They rented a tiny flat, saved bit by bit, picked modest gifts for each other. Happiness had been simple—evening walks along the Thames, picnics in the park, nights in with old films.
Everything changed when James was headhunted for a director role at a bigger agency. Triple the salary. Overnight, his career took off—business trips, bonuses, networking. They bought a two-bedroom flat in a new build. Emily left her job at his urging: *”Why bother with teaching? I’ve got this.”*
At first, it felt like a dream. Then Emily began to notice a third presence in their home—an icy distance. It arrived with James in his tailored suits, the scent of fine whisky, talk of markets, trends, and ROI. He was evolving; she stayed the same. And it irritated him.
“I keep thinking,” Emily confessed to her friend Claire over coffee, “maybe I should go back to teaching?”
“Do it. You loved it. Or find online tutoring—you’re brilliant, Em. It’s just a rough patch.”
“It’s not about the job. James feels like… a stranger. He’s not cruel. I’m just part of the furniture now. Cook, clean, look presentable. No one asks how *I* am anymore.”
Claire sighed. “Classic story. Money reveals character. And not everyone likes what they find.”
One afternoon, James came home midweek in high spirits, a boutique bag in hand.
“Got you something. Try it on.”
Emily unfolded the dress—sleek, black, slit up the side. Expensive. Stylish. Nothing like her.
“This isn’t me.”
“You’re overthinking. We’ll go out. Actually, there’s a company do on Friday. Come with me—show everyone what a stunning wife I have.”
“Like an accessory?” she said quietly.
He didn’t hear. Or pretended not to.
The event was at a countryside manor. Everyone in designer labels. Emily felt out of place. She sipped champagne, tuning out conversations about stocks, forex, luxury cars.
When she returned from the terrace, James sat close to a woman in red—young, polished, perfectly poised. Emily saw her touch his wrist. He didn’t pull away.
In the car, she waited until they were home.
“Who was she?”
“Just PR for a client project.”
“And you let her paw at you?”
“Don’t be dramatic. She’s just chatty. Are we really doing this?”
“Do you even remember you’re married?” Emily turned to him. “Or am I just part of the portfolio now?”
“Here we go again. What do you want, Em?”
She had no answer. Respect, maybe. Interest. Love. How do you explain that to someone who measures everything in figures?
On Sunday, she left for her mum’s.
“What’s happened?” her mother asked.
“He doesn’t see me anymore, Mum. Like I’m invisible.”
“Then tell him. Fight for it.”
“Is it worth it? He’s married to his career.”
“If you don’t try, you’ll never know.”
She returned. Tried to talk.
“James, I’m tired of being a ghost. I want to work. To matter—not just be the ‘plus one.’”
“Work, then. No one’s stopping you. Just don’t expect me to hold your hand. I’ve got enough on my plate.”
“You could at least care.”
“And you could stop turning every talk into a row.”
A month later, Emily started online tutoring. Modest pay, but it gave her purpose again.
James drifted further. More distant. Later nights, fewer questions about home.
One day, she glanced at his phone—left behind, ringing. Messages from *her*.
*”You were amazing today.”* *”Loved being close to you.”* *”Can’t stop thinking about you.”*
No scene. Just a bag packed, and she was gone.
The divorce was quiet. He didn’t resist.
“If you truly think this is best, Em… fine.”
“It’s not best. It’s just honest.”
Two months later, he spotted her in a café. Emily clutched a folder, focused.
“Hi. How are you?”
“Working. Living. Okay.”
“You look… well.”
“Because I’m happy again. And you?”
He shrugged. Tired.
“Got everything I wanted. Just… hollow. Everyone wants something—connections, favours. I thought *she* loved me. Not for what I could give. Turns out I was wrong.”
“Not everyone knows how to love, James. Or how to cherish someone else’s. I’ve got to go.”
He watched her leave. Regret settled heavy in his chest. Too late to undo what he’d lost.
