**Diary Entry – 4th June**
Ten years I’d been married to Edward when everything changed.
When we first wed, he was a driven man—full of big ideas, working late into the night to build his small electronics firm into something substantial. I stood by him through every lean year, every missed holiday, every moment when success seemed just out of reach. And eventually, it paid off. The business flourished. But so did his ego.
Somewhere along the way, Edward stopped seeing me as his equal. I became background noise—reliable, expected, unnoticed. At dinner parties, he’d talk over me. When I offered an opinion, he’d wave it off. Introductions became perfunctory: “This is my wife, Eleanor,” spoken to the air rather than to me.
I stayed, not because I had no choice, but because I still believed in the man I’d married—somewhere beneath the expensive suits and boardroom bravado.
Then came the evening he brought *her* home.
It was a damp Thursday. I’d just taken a beef Wellington out of the oven when the front door clicked open. Edward’s voice floated down the hall, oddly animated. Then another voice—lighter, younger.
They stepped into the kitchen. Edward, in his Savile Row finest, rested a hand on the shoulder of a woman barely older than a girl. Soft blonde hair, porcelain skin, a hesitant smile.
“Eleanor,” he said breezily, “this is Gemma. She’s going to be my second wife.”
I nearly dropped the dish.
“Your *what*?”
“My second wife,” he repeated, as if announcing a merger. “It’s time we modernised. Gemma will live with us, and I expect you to welcome her. You’ll want for nothing, Eleanor. This is for the good of the family.”
I set the tray down carefully, knuckles white. He spoke as if granting me a favour, as though my consent were irrelevant.
That’s when something in me snapped.
I studied Gemma—she wouldn’t meet my eye—then turned back to Edward. “Fine. But on one condition.”
He smirked, expecting a weak protest. “Go on.”
“Every asset—the house, the business, the investments—goes into all three of our names, split equally. For one year, if any of us leaves, their share passes to the other two. No exceptions.”
He chuckled. “Always the pragmatist. Very well—I accept.”
Gemma fidgeted. “I don’t—”
“It’s just a formality,” Edward cut in. “Sign it.”
So, the papers were signed.
**The Year That Changed Everything**
Edward assumed life would carry on as before—him at the helm, us orbiting his ego. I let him think it. Publicly, I played the dutiful wife. I smiled at parties, made polite conversation with Gemma, never caused a scene.
Privately, I chose a different path. I decided Gemma wasn’t my rival—she was my ally.
At first, she kept to herself. I broke the ice by inviting her to Borough Market. We wandered past stalls of artisan cheeses and fresh blooms, and I told her stories—how the fishmonger’s father had taught me to pick the best cod, how the florist still remembered Edward buying daffodils when we were penniless.
Slowly, she relaxed. She laughed at my dry jokes, helped me cook Sunday roasts, even joined my morning walks along the Thames.
Soon enough, she saw what I had: Edward’s condescension, his habit of deciding without listening, his need to dominate every conversation.
One night, after he dismissed her in front of guests, I found her in the kitchen, staring into her tea.
“He does that to you too?” she whispered.
I nodded. “It’s not you, Gemma. It’s who he’s become.”
For the first time, she really looked at me—not as the woman she was meant to replace, but as someone just as trapped.
Three months before the year ended, Edward left for Manchester on business. That night, Gemma knocked on my door.
“I need to tell you something,” she said. “I didn’t marry him for love. My parents were drowning in debt. He offered to clear it—if I agreed. I thought maybe I could bear it. But I can’t.”
I squeezed her hand. “You have options, Gemma. More than you think.”
After that, we talked openly. And slowly, an idea took shape—quiet at first, then solidifying into a plan.
**The Reckoning**
The anniversary fell on a drizzly morning. Edward sat at the breakfast table, smug as ever.
“Well,” he said, sipping his Earl Grey, “we made it. Told you there was nothing to fret over, Eleanor.”
I smiled. “You’re right. Which is why Gemma and I have something for you.”
She slid an envelope across the table. Inside were two divorce petitions—one from me, one from her.
Edward paled. “What the devil—?”
“The condition, remember?” I said calmly. “If any of us leaves, their share goes to the other two. We’re leaving. Together. That means the house, the business—everything—is ours now.”
For once, Edward was speechless.
**Aftermath**
I didn’t take it all. I kept enough to start fresh, gave Gemma the rest to rebuild her life. We sold the Kensington townhouse, split the company, and moved on.
Edward kept his pride—cold comfort, that. He’d underestimated us both.
These days, Gemma’s like a sister. We still laugh about the “condition” that set us free.
Looking back, it was never about the money. It was about reclaiming power. About proving that dignity and solidarity can turn even the most unequal situation into one of triumph.
Sometimes, the best revenge isn’t fury—it’s walking away with your chin up, your spirit whole, and an unexpected friend beside you.
