Peter Ellington adored his balcony. Especially on Friday mornings, when the city below was still dragging itself through the final workday slog, and he—free, successful, and smugly single—was already savouring the weekend. The air smelled of rain from the night before and the sweet pollen of blooming lindens. Peter took a sip of his cooling coffee and eyed the neatly stacked fishing gear in the corner. A brand-new rod, a shiny reel, a tackle box brimming with lures—his little pride and joy.
His phone buzzed. Mum.
“Yes, Mum, hello,” he answered, grinning.
“Petey, are you coming round today? I’ve made your favourite—sausage rolls.”
“Course I am. Just for a bit, though. Lads’ weekend at the lake.”
“Another fishing trip?” Her voice held that familiar mix of warmth and gentle reproach. “Couldn’t you at least bring a girl along? Thirty-two, love.”
“Mum,” he sighed, “not this again. When it happens, it happens. Love you, see you soon.”
He hung up and exhaled. This “fishing trip” was a sacred tradition. Paul’s cottage by the lake, barbecues, the pub, long talks by the fire. Paul and Greg, his uni mates, had been happily married for years. Paul had a daughter; Greg’s wife was expecting. And every time, their “lads’ weekend” began the same way.
“So, last bachelor standing—ready to surrender?” Greg winked as they loaded bags into Peter’s Range Rover.
“Our lone wolf, fighting the good fight,” Paul laughed, clapping him on the back. “Scared off every eligible bird in London.”
Peter just smirked. He wasn’t running. He was waiting.
“I’ll marry, lads—but only for love,” he said seriously as they left the city. “The real deal. One look, and you just know. Like breathing the same air.”
“Ah, Pete, you’re a romantic,” Greg drawled from the backseat. “That’s fairy-tale stuff. Happens in books, not real life.”
“I believe it does,” Peter said stubbornly, watching the road unwind ahead.
***
At the cottage, after the pub and the first round of burgers, the debate flared up again. Local girls from the village strolled past their gate, casting glances at the trio of city blokes.
“Let’s test your ‘one true love’ theory,” Paul suggested slyly. “Game of stares. First to blink or look away from a passing beauty loses.”
“And the penalty?” Peter took the bait.
“The loser,” Greg rubbed his hands, “drives to the motorway and proposes to the first florist he sees. On the spot.”
Peter was confident. But whether it was the beer or the sun, he lost. When a tall blonde passed by, he caught her eye, grinned, and glanced away. His mates roared with delight.
A bet was a bet. Half an hour later, they were cruising down the motorway. Peter’s heart pounded with equal parts shame and ridiculous adrenaline. A few miles from the village, they spotted a lone figure at a roadside stall—herbs in bundles, jars of jam. A petite woman in a plain cotton dress and a scarf tied low over her face.
“Go on, then, groom!” his friends nudged.
Peter stepped out and approached. She looked up—frightened but clear-eyed, a startling blue. Her hands, sorting berries, were scarred with burns. When he greeted her, she didn’t speak, just pulled out a notepad and pencil.
*What do you need?* she wrote.
Peter faltered. His rehearsed joke vanished. He felt like a right prat.
“Sorry—this is daft,” he began gently. “Lost a bet. Now I’ve got to… propose to you.”
He expected anger, tears, scorn. Instead, she paused, then nodded. She wrote: *I accept.* Then tore out the page—an address.
The next day, guilt-ridden, Peter drove there. A tidy cottage, geraniums in the windows, peonies by the fence. An older woman sat knitting by the gate, eyeing him sharply.
“You’re here for Sarah?”
“Yes. I’m Peter.”
“Margaret. Her gran. What’s your game, lad? She came home shaken.”
Peter sat, shamefaced. “I acted like an idiot. A stupid bet—”
Margaret sighed. “City boys. Life’s a joke to you. Hers hasn’t been easy. Saw her hands? Fire took her parents. I pulled her out. Face, too. Lost her voice from shock.”
Sarah stepped out then, clutching her notepad.
“I came to apologise,” Peter said. “And… if you haven’t changed your mind, I’ll honour it. Paper marriage. We’ll divorce later. I’ll help however I can.”
He didn’t know why he was saying it. Something in her—her quiet strength, her fragility—got to him.
Sarah wrote, showed Margaret, who studied them both.
“Fine. But hurt her, and you’ll answer to me.”
***
The registry office was quiet—just them, Paul, Greg (bewildered witnesses), and a clerk. Sarah wore a cream dress, a veil. Lifting it, Peter kissed her. She trembled. He felt a strange, aching tenderness.
Back at Margaret’s, fried potatoes and salad. More warmth than any posh restaurant.
That night, Sarah smiled—not with lips, but eyes. Bright blue, glowing. Peter’s breath caught. He didn’t want to leave.
***
His empty flat felt wrong. Next morning, he confessed to his mum, Eleanor, a GP.
“You stirred this pot,” she said sternly. “Now be a man. Fetch your wife.”
***
Margaret agreed easily—Sarah’s eyes lit up at the sight of him.
Alone, Sarah hesitated, then removed her scarf, unbuttoned her collar. Scars, angry red. She watched, braced for disgust.
Peter kissed her forehead, gently, above the worst mark. A tear rolled down her cheek.
Meeting Eleanor went smoothly. “We’ll fix this, love,” she promised. “Best doctors. You’ll speak again.”
Dinner that night—Peter saw Sarah smile, properly. Part of a family. His doing.
***
Months of treatment followed. Surgeons softened her scars. Therapy, speech lessons—progress slow but steady. Still, she communicated with her notepad.
New rituals: weekends at Margaret’s, tea in the garden, plans. Sarah, leaning into Peter, happy.
***
One Sunday, walking in the park, they bumped into Paul, Greg, their wives and kids.
“Pete? Is that… Sarah?” Paul gaped.
“The one and only,” Peter grinned, arm around her. “My wife.”
Greg whistled. “That’s a glow-up.”
Paul’s wife, Kate, handed Sarah her baby. Sarah hesitated, then took him—and Peter saw such tenderness in her eyes, his own heart clenched. He wanted her holding *their* child.
***
A year later, Sarah was pregnant. During labour, a miracle: after years of silence, she screamed.
“Mum!”
Then again—her voice, raw but hers. She could speak.
Their son arrived—a squalling, perfect bundle.
“Peter,” she whispered when he entered. “We have a boy. I love you.”
He cried.
***
Another year. Their flat, evening quiet. Little Thomas (after Peter’s dad) slept. Sarah chatted with Eleanor in the kitchen. Margaret knitted booties by the fire.
Peter stood on his balcony, where it all began. The city glittered. He’d found love where he least expected—on a motorway, in a stupid bet. In a silent, scarred woman. Through shame, pity, duty—to real, hard-won joy.
Arms wrapped around him.
“What’re you doing out here?” Sarah murmured.
“Thinking,” he said, turning to kiss her. “Thinking how lucky I am.”
Her blue eyes shone. That storybook love he’d prattled about? It existed. But sometimes, to find your fairy tale, you’ve got to grow into the man who deserves it.
