*”You’re Not the Marrying Kind, Love”*
“Listen, Charlotte, you must understand—women like you aren’t the marrying kind,” Edward said coolly. “There are women for fun, for romance, and then there are the ones you take home to Mum. You, unfortunately, aren’t the latter.”
Charlotte blinked. “What’s wrong with me, Eddie? I cook, I keep the flat spotless, I look good—I’m everything a man could want!”
“That’s the problem. You’re *spoiled*, don’t you see? No one marries a woman like you. They might date you, but a wife? She’s pure, untouched, the sort who’d drink the water she’d washed her husband’s feet in, as the saying goes.” Pleased with himself, Edward turned over and began snoring.
Just a week ago, Charlotte had been in a café with her girlfriends, gushing about her bright future. Thirty wasn’t young, but she had her career, her flat in Kensington, a nice car—she was ready for marriage. And Edward? Perfect on paper. Forty, never married, handsome, well-groomed, a high-flying job in the City. They’d met at her dental practice—he’d come in for a check-up, left with a date.
He’d wooed her properly—peonies in February, dinners at The Ivy. But two years in, no ring. Her friends nudged her to hurry him along. So she did. And got *that* answer.
“*Spoiled*?!” she hissed to her friends the next day over tea. “He wants some virginal saint! I’m ‘third-rate goods,’ apparently.”
“Bollocks,” scoffed Katherine. “You’re brilliant, successful—what more does he want?”
“Drop him,” Lily cackled. “Before he ruins your self-esteem forever.”
Katherine grinned. “Bring him to our anniversary do in Surrey. Let him see what real marriage looks like.”
Edward agreed—odd, since he hated socialising. At the country house, kids ran wild, a corgi named Biscuit zipped about like it was battery-powered. The party stretched into the evening, the conversation turning to marriage. Edward pounced.
“Katherine, tell me—why *aren’t* you single like Charlotte? You married young, didn’t you?”
Katherine shrugged. “We were daft kids. Charlotte was focused on her career.”
“Ah, but—forgive me—were you *pure* when you wed?”
Her husband Michael slammed his pint down. “Bloody hell, mate! Yes, she was *pure*. Now shut it.”
“Exactly! A proper wife. But Charlotte? Who knows how many men she’s had? Would *you* marry tainted goods?”
Lily snorted. “What, are you royalty? Who even thinks like this?”
Edward smirked. “Lily, you’re *divorced* with a kid. You’re practically unmarriageable.”
Michael hauled him up by his collar. “Get out. Before I thump you.”
Edward turned to Charlotte, wounded. “Are you coming?”
She was wheezing with laughter. He stormed off.
Life went on. Then, one day, an ornate wedding invitation arrived—Edward was marrying some girl.
“Don’t go,” Katherine warned.
“Oh, I *have* to,” Lily insisted.
Charlotte went. Edward stood proud beside a blushing bride in a frilly white dress. “Meet my *pure* wife, Amelia,” he gloated.
“Truly untouched?” Charlotte asked.
“*Naturally*,” Edward said.
Then the father of the bride stood up. “Welcome to the family, son!” he boomed, ushering forward two little boys. “Meet your *stepsons*!”
Edward recoiled like he’d been burned. His mother shrieked, “You said she was *pure*!”
“*Divorce!*” Edward howled. “I’ll file tomorrow!”
Amelia stammered, “Mum said not to let you near me before the wedding—two blokes already *ran off*!”
Edward collapsed. Charlotte slipped out, stifling laughter.
Karma, that.
He divorced quickly. Tried crawling back to Charlotte. She laughed him off.
Why settle for second-best? Especially when a handsome colleague—recently divorced—had started bringing her coffee every morning.
