**Diary Entry**
I can still hear the words echoing in my mind: *Run before it’s too late…*
Every girl dreams of a grand, pure love—one that makes her head spin and heart skip at a tender embrace. She imagines a proposal so unexpected and beautiful, witnessed by envious onlookers. A fairytale wedding with the groom in a sharp suit and her, a delicate bride glowing in white lace. Those dreams start young. I, Amelia, was no different.
Midway through the school year, a new boy joined Year 9—Oliver Dawson. At break, everyone swarmed him, firing questions.
“Dad’s military. Got a new posting. Had to move,” Oliver explained.
“Can you shoot a gun?” someone asked.
“Had to, once.”
“What kind?”
“Standard issue.” The questions flew.
Oliver noticed me straight away, standing apart like I couldn’t care less. After school, he walked me home—turns out we lived the same way. I told him about school; he talked about the bases where his dad had been stationed.
On my birthday, he brought a single rose to class and handed it to me in front of everyone. The boys respected him for it; the girls seethed. I took it like roses were handed to me daily, my look saying, *See how the new boy chases me? Just wait.* I acted careless, though I liked him.
Before exams, I met an older guy, a rugby player, at a regatta on the Thames. My friend and I stopped to watch.
“Ladies, over here. Better view,” a handsome bloke called.
“You competing?” I asked, weaving through the crowd.
“Nah, I’m rugby. That’s my mate—second boat.” He pointed but kept his eyes on me, clearly picking me out of the two.
Edward—that was his name—walked me home.
“Know what ‘Edward’ means?”
I did, but my mind blanked.
“Victorious. That’s me—always winning.”
I liked him. New sensations pulled at me, thrilling and frightening. My thoughts tangled, and Oliver faded. What was he compared to Edward Carrington? The whole walk, I wondered if he’d kiss me. At my door, he said goodnight and left. I was disappointed.
Next day, outside school, Edward stepped from a parked BMW, opening the passenger door. Before getting in, I scanned the yard—did my friends see? Their jaws dropped. Oliver stood frowning nearby. I slid in, triumphant. But once we drove off, fear prickled. Where was he taking me?
He just drove me around London, boasting about cities he’d toured for matches. His attention flattered me. He stayed reserved, never crossing lines. From trips, he brought perfumes, glittering costume jewellery. The humble rose was forgotten. My friends gasped over gifts, green with envy. Oliver? I didn’t see him anymore.
After school, I started uni. Edward picked me up almost daily in his car.
“Where’s your Romeo?” girls asked when I walked home.
“Training camp,” I’d smile.
His proposal came on a crowded square—one knee, a velvet ring box, a tiny diamond. Like a film. Cops nearly arrested us for causing a scene. My only regret? No friends witnessed it. No replay button.
At the registry office, I floated in lace, radiant. Beside me stood Edward—athlete, victor, so muscular his suit strained. What more could I want?
From the wedding, he took me to his flat.
A month later, I was pregnant. Terrible timing—what about uni?
“Think of our son. Study later if you want. Stay home. I earn enough,” Edward said.
“What if it’s a girl?”
“It’s a son. I win, remember?”
I had a boy. The congratulations and gifts ended. Edward trained, travelled for matches. I stayed home. Friends vanished. Mum hinted she’d call but not visit—son-in-law didn’t want her “interfering”.
Not that I minded, but happiness feels fuller with witnesses. Alone, it dimmed. I felt isolated, leprous. Slowly, I woke from the dream.
When our son, Thomas, grew older, things eased. I took him to prep classes, mostly sports clubs. Chatting with other mums, I still felt Edward’s presence, even absent. On streets, I glanced over my shoulder—was someone following? I mentioned it once.
“Paranoid. Why would I follow you?” he snapped.
“Ed, I want to work, finish uni. I’m sick of being home.”
“Oh? Thousands of women dream of your life. Fancy flirting while I pay?” His glare scorched me. I never brought it up again.
Once, while Thomas played outside, I visited a friend. Over tea, I admitted I was tired, trapped.
“Mad, aren’t you? No bosses, no Mondays—everything handed to you!”
When I got home, Edward screamed, “Where were you?”
“At Sarah’s, just tea—”
His slap sent sparks across my vision. First time I understood the phrase.
“Bored? Have a girl—no time to mope,” he said, shoving me onto the bed.
I stopped going out, meeting anyone—avoiding his triggers. But fear nested in me. Who was this man? I didn’t know him anymore.
One day, Thomas begged for watermelon from a stall. The young vendor flirted, hefting a huge one.
“How’ll I carry it?” I laughed nervously.
“Very sweet!” He offered to deliver it.
That evening, Thomas blabbed. I should’ve warned him.
“Go to your room,” Edward told him.
Once Thomas left, Edward hit me so hard I blacked out. I woke on the floor. He sat eating watermelon, spitting seeds. Didn’t help me up.
“Scum now, huh? Be grateful you’re alive. Next time, you won’t be.”
Next day, the vendor was an old, silent man. I knew Edward’s hand was in it.
Half my face swelled. Sunglasses, a scarf—I hid it. At the park, I ran into an old classmate, Lucy.
“Just moved here! Fancy coffee?” She eyed my cheek. “Doorframe, right?”
I declined.
“Scared of him? Run, before it’s worse.”
“He loves me,” I said weakly.
“Here’s my number. Call if you need.”
I took it but didn’t plan to.
Edward’s rages worsened. He avoided my face now—just bruises under clothes. The mirror showed a ghost.
“He’ll kill you,” Lucy said when I finally called. “Useless going to cops—they’ll release him. Run. Ready? I’ll arrange it. Don’t call again—he might be tracking you. Use the cubby.”
“The what?”
“Thomas’s school tray. Leave notes. Read, tear, bin them. Spy stuff,” I joked bitterly.
“Better safe. These types don’t let go. Passport?”
“No.”
“Fine. England’s big. He’ll never find you. Lay low.”
It felt unreal—like a bad film. Where was the tender Edward? I blamed myself, searching for reasons.
But he grew worse. I tiptoed, a shadow, fearing his rage.
Then, in Thomas’s tray, a note—Lucy’s tiny writing. Instructions: pack light, hide it, be ready.
I did. A small bag, tucked away. Dresses undisturbed. For days, he didn’t touch me. Maybe I’d overreacted? From a payphone, I voiced doubts.
“Must I really run?”
“Yes. Or wait till he hits Thomas.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Suit yourself.”
That evening, Edward noticed my nerves.
“Shaking? Sick? I’ll take Tom tomorrow.”
“No! I’ll be fine,” I said too fast.
He kissed me—then punched my gut. Doubts vanished.
Next morning, once he left for training, I woke Thomas, dressed him, grabbed the bag. At the kerb, a car. We drove for hours to a near-empty village. An old but liveable cottage. Locals just thought we were holidaymakers.
I startled at noises, but days passed. No Edward. Thomas played outside, tanned, strong. A mobile shop came weekly. I’d done right.
Yet I wondered—why me? Was I the perfect victim?
Morning sickness confirmed it: pregnant. Bad timing. But I’d keep it. Couldn’t hide forever.
Once, I thought I saw Oliver. Then he approached at the shop.
“Amelia? Here?”
“Just a break. You?”
“Great-grandma’s ninety-four. Won’t leave. Been fishing.” He showed his catch. “Ever fished, Tom?”
“No.”
“Fancy it? Tomorrow? If Mum says yes.”
Thomas begged. Oliver promised an early start.
I fretted till they returned. Thomas glowed, boasting about his fish. Oliver taught him to clean and fry them. It was easyAs the years passed and the shadows of fear finally lifted, I learned to trust love again—slowly, cautiously—with the man who had waited for me all along.
