**A Second Chance**
“Jenny, are you heading home?” Her friend Charlotte drummed her manicured nails impatiently against the desk.
“No, I’ll stay a bit longer. My husband’s supposed to pick me up,” Jenny lied without hesitation.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” Swaying her hips, Charlotte left the office.
One by one, the employees trickled out, the corridor echoing with hurried footsteps and the click of heels. Jenny picked up her phone and sighed. “Probably already had a few pints, sprawled in front of the telly with his belly up.” She hit the call button. After three long rings, she heard the murmur of the telly before her husband, Victor, finally answered.
“Hello?”
“Vic, it’s pouring outside, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Sorry, love, didn’t think you’d call—already had a drink. Grab a cab, yeah?”
“Typical. Should’ve known. Weren’t you the one who promised to carry me around like a princess when you proposed?”
“Jen, sweetheart, the match is on—” The roar of the crowd drowned him out as she ended the call.
Those days of him waiting outside her office were long gone. Back then, he didn’t even own a car but still made sure to fetch her every day. Jenny switched off her computer, slipped into her coat, and stepped out.
The empty corridor echoed with the sharp tap of her heels. Everyone had left. Downstairs, by the security desk, stood Deputy Director Daniel Whitmore, tall and polished in a long black coat, chatting on his phone. He looked more like a Hollywood actor than a mid-level office worker. The women loved to gossip—unmarried, they said.
Jenny had always been sharp-tongued. “Must be something wrong with him,” she’d once quipped to Charlotte, who knew every bit of high-society gossip.
“Probably dating some model. Forget her name—she’s always on magazine covers,” Charlotte had said.
Victor hadn’t been bad himself in his youth—thirty pull-ups a day at the park. But then… he got lazy, took to beer, grew a gut. Now, every evening, Jenny came home to the same sight: Victor sprawled on the sofa, telly blaring, an empty lager can on the floor.
She was nearly at the door when a smooth baritone sent shivers down her spine.
“Jenny, working late?”
She turned, forcing a smile. “Thought my husband was picking me up. He couldn’t make it.”
Daniel pocketed his phone and stepped closer. “Let me give you a lift.” He held the door open.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—I’ll just call a taxi,” she protested, stepping outside. She paused at the sight of puddles gleaming under the streetlights, her suede boots doomed.
“Consider your cab already here.” Daniel took her elbow, guiding her to his Range Rover.
How could she refuse? Shame none of her nosy colleagues were around to witness it.
Inside the car, Daniel cut through the silence. “I’ve noticed you—firm but fair. I think you could lead the marketing team.”
“What about Katherine?” Jenny asked, surprised.
“Past her prime. Reliable, but she struggles with new systems.”
Jenny shifted uneasily. She felt for Katherine—the woman had trained her. But the offer was tempting.
“She’s saving for her grandson’s flat. Wanted to work a bit longer.”
“Not your concern, Jenny. If that’s the issue, she’ll get a generous severance. So, do we have a deal?”
She felt his gaze, steady and assessing. When she turned, he was staring ahead.
Jenny suddenly realized they’d driven past her street. “Turn right—that’s my building.”
The car stopped, but she lingered, scrambling for the right words.
“Maybe lunch sometime?” Daniel asked, his voice smooth as velvet.
Her heart skipped.
“Maybe,” she said, flashing a coy smile before stepping out into the damp evening.
“Till tomorrow,” he said, flashing a grin that made her head spin as the Range Rover pulled away.
The next day, they lunched together at a café—under everyone’s watchful eyes. Then came dinners. And then…
Needless to say, what followed. What woman wouldn’t cave to a man like that? Jenny floated, feeling desired, younger by a decade. Only Victor, sprawled on the sofa, irked her more each day.
Tonight was no different. Lager half-finished beside him, telly droning. She itched to kick the bottle over, to scream. But she’d be the one cleaning it up.
“You’ve changed,” Victor mumbled, startling her.
*Finally noticed, have you?* she thought bitterly.
“How?”
“Like when we first met. Found someone else?”
“What if I have? You barely look at me anymore. The telly and beer matter more.”
“I noticed. You changed your hair.”
“Had this cut for *three years*,” she snapped. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Could’ve taken me out to dinner. I work too, you know—but I still cook while you laze about.”
“Your cooking’s better than any restaurant,” he offered lamely. “What’s gotten into you?”
She stared at him, irritation simmering. His voice, his clumsy compliments, his very presence—all grated. Maybe she *should* leave. But where would he go?
“You’re different lately,” Charlotte whispered at work. “Glowing. Having an affair? Rumor is it’s Daniel. Bold. Giving your man the boot?”
“Wish I could,” Jenny muttered. “He said the same thing.”
“Lucky you. Husband *and* a lover? Veronica’s fifteen years younger, and he’s still into *you*.”
Jenny’s stomach twisted. Veronica *was* pretty. And single.
“Listen, give me that witch’s address. The one who does love spells.”
“Who’s the target? Daniel? Or getting rid of competition?”
“My *husband*. Just give it.”
Charlotte rattled off the address. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
Later, the witch—a plump woman in a pricey dress—studied her. “Husband trouble?”
“Not like that. Just…” She spilled most of it.
The witch handed her a vial. “One drop in his tea daily. No more—his heart might give out. Or use it on the other one.”
Jenny paid and fled the incense-heavy flat.
At home, she hid the vial behind the tea box. Only she went in that cabinet.
That night, Victor lay glued to the telly, lager at his side. She stepped in front of the screen.
“What?”
“Get off your arse. Help with dinner.”
“I can’t cook, Jen.”
“Then *learn*. What’ll you eat when you’re alone?”
“Alone? What about you? And Emily?”
“I’m leaving.” She turned sharply, and he bumped into her, his gut pressing against her. She recoiled.
Then it all spilled out—years of resentment. She didn’t let him get a word in.
When she finally stopped, he whispered, “What about me?”
“Keep rotting on that sofa.”
“And Emily?”
“She’s old enough to choose.”
She didn’t *really* plan to leave, but the vial gnawed at her. Maybe provoking him would shake him awake.
Victor trailed after her. “Wait—Jen, I love you. I can’t—” His words cut off with a groan.
She turned. He was sliding down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Stop faking.” But his head slumped forward.
She shook him, checked his pulse—nothing.
“Emily! Your dad—”
Their fifteen-year-old daughter rushed in.
“The vial in the cabinet—add it to water!”
Emily brought a glass. Jenny pried his mouth open, but most of the liquid spilled.
“God, what am I *doing*?” She sprang up. “What did you give him?”
“The vial you said!” Emily held up an *unopened* medicine bottle.
Jenny gaped. “Then why isn’t he—?” She called an ambulance, babbling about poisoning.
The paramedics arrived. “With what?”
She handed them the medicine.
“This wouldn’t do it. He’s had a heart attack. Stress? You two fight?”
At the hospital, she paced until a doctor sent her home.
“All that inactivity. Beer, fags… Heart couldn’t take it,” the cabbie mused as she slumped, sedated, in the backseat.
She visited Victor daily, guilt gnawing at her. Daniel’s dazzling smile faded from memory.
“Forgive me,” she whispered when Victor could walk again. “I was so scared.”
“*I’m* sorry. I thought you’d really leave. I’ll do better.”
Three weeks later, Victor came home. No lager by the sofa now. By summer, heBy autumn, their laughter filled the house again, and Jenny no longer glanced at the kitchen cabinet where the forgotten vial gathered dust.
