My name is Anna Smith, and I live in a quaint town in the heart of England. The moment I fell into the arms of my colleague, James, my heart sang with joy. I dreamed of becoming his one and only, the love of his life. But as it happened, reality came with a bitter taste — I had to share him with his wife, Mary.
I had just started working at our company when I was sent on a business trip to London with James. We were tasked with closing an important deal. We succeeded splendidly, and afterwards, James suggested, “Shall we have a drink? You don’t sign contracts like this every day.” I happily agreed. We sat in the hotel bar, ordered whiskey, and the drinks loosened our tongues. Conversation flowed as smoothly as a river, and suddenly, he kissed me. I was taken aback but didn’t pull away. In the elevator, he held me with such passion that I couldn’t resist—his breath was more intoxicating than the whiskey. The night in his room was magical, unforgettable, and full of fire.
Back home, I couldn’t keep it to myself and confided in my colleague, Lisa—who I trusted like a sister. “Don’t fall for him!” she abruptly warned. “Why not?” I asked, surprised. “He’s married.” Those words hit me like lightning. James was only 27, and I couldn’t believe he was already married—these days, men don’t often marry so young. I asked him directly, and he didn’t dodge it: “Yes, I’ve been married for a year.” But that didn’t stop us. We became lovers. Our meetings in the flat he inherited from his grandparents became a secret ritual. With each day, I drowned deeper in him.
One Sunday morning, lying beside him, I took a brave step: “James, get a divorce. You’d be happier with me than with her.” He looked at me with sorrow: “I love you, but I can’t.” “Why?” I asked. “She’s seriously ill.” I froze. “What’s wrong with her? Why didn’t you tell me?” my voice trembled. “She has breast cancer; we just found out. I can’t leave her now.” His words cut deep, but I understood: she needed him at such a time. I felt sorry for Mary. When he told me she was having surgery on Thursday, I prayed for her the entire day, sincerely and tearfully. After her surgery, James and I stopped seeing each other—I knew his place was with his wife.
Four months passed. James hadn’t called to meet even once. I asked what was going on. “Mary is still not well, she might need another surgery,” he replied wearily. “I understand your pain, but consider my feelings too,” I pleaded. He nodded, “You’re right, let’s plan something for the weekend.” On Saturday, we met at the same flat. The night was intense, full of passion. But before leaving, I brought up divorce again. His face darkened: “I’ll never do that. She’s my boss’s sister.” I was stunned. “So that’s it! And the cancer—was that a lie?” He said nothing and stormed out to avoid further argument.
A few days later, a striking brunette came to the office. She asked for James. Lisa led her to his office. “Who is she?” I whispered to Lisa later. “His wife,” she replied. I made up an excuse to enter his office—pretending to look for some papers—just to see her. Mary didn’t just look healthy; she radiated beauty, confidence, and elegance. Next to her, I felt like a grey mouse. I asked Lisa, “Did you hear she was sick with cancer?” “No, that’s nonsense, everyone would know,” she dismissed. That’s when it hit me: he had been lying from the start.
Soon, I started feeling weak, and nausea hit me. I complained to Lisa, and she guessed, “Maybe you’re pregnant?” I brushed it off but took a test—two lines. The doctor confirmed: I was two months along. I was in shock. I remembered that night—we hadn’t used protection. I was torn: should I keep the baby or not? I called James. “Get an abortion!” he said coldly. “No, I won’t,” I shot back. “Then I’ll make sure you’re fired,” he threatened. “You won’t intimidate me!” I retorted. Out of spite, I decided to keep the baby. I thought he was bluffing. But no—I got fired. A friend arranged a job for me as a sales assistant at her brother’s bookstore. He hesitated to hire a pregnant woman but eventually relented.
My daughter was born seven months in—fragile but alive. I named her Sarah, in honor of her father—James. I haven’t told him and probably never will. He betrayed me and abandoned me in the toughest moment, when I was left with a child and no job. I see his face in dreams—handsome, deceitful—and my heart aches with pain. He chose his wife, his career, and crossed me out like an unwanted page. But I didn’t break. I am raising my daughter, fighting for her, even though every day feels like a battle against fate. Let him live with his lies, while I will live for Sarah—my light in the darkness.
