The Shadow of Betrayal
For six days straight, Eleanor refused to speak to her husband. It all began the previous Tuesday over something trivial. William had forgotten to take the meat out of the freezer, even though Eleanor had reminded him twice. But when he returned from work, he buried himself in his laptop, absorbed by urgent reports.
“William!” Eleanor’s voice rang through the kitchen, sharp with irritation. “Do you deliberately ignore me? What am I supposed to cook for dinner with no meat?”
“Sorry, love,” William muttered, barely glancing up. “I’ve been swamped. What if we order pizza? Or sushi?”
“Order whatever you like!” she snapped, pulling on her coat.
“Where are you going?” William stepped into the hall, frowning at her.
“For a walk,” she bit out and slammed the door behind her.
William shrugged and returned to his work. Two hours later, he ordered pizza, waiting for Eleanor. But she didn’t return until midnight, long after the streets of Manchester had fallen into wintry silence.
“Where on earth have you been?” he exclaimed.
“Dinner,” she said coldly.
“Alone? At this hour?”
“What’s it to you? You couldn’t be bothered, so I had to fend for myself.”
“Are you really going to hold this against me forever?” William snapped. “So I forgot—it happens!”
“It’s not about the steak!” Eleanor’s voice rose. “You don’t take me seriously anymore! You never listen! My words might as well be air!”
“What?” William narrowed his eyes, sensing the argument had been blown out of proportion. Still, to keep the peace, he added, “Fine, I’ll set a reminder on my phone.”
His answer only poured fuel on the fire. The next morning, Eleanor ignored him. By evening, she still refused to speak. On the third day, William had enough. He tried to embrace her, but she shoved him away and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.
“Have it your way,” he muttered, frustration gnawing at him. Work was stressful enough without a cold war at home.
A week passed in suffocating silence. On Wednesday, a rare day off, William decided to mend things. He rose early, making breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, coffee with her favourite vanilla froth. But when Eleanor stepped into the kitchen, she didn’t even glance at the table.
“We should part ways,” she blurted.
“What?” William froze as if struck by lightning. “Over a steak?”
“Stop harping on about the steak!” she cried, fists clenched. “I told you—it’s not about that! This isn’t working! When we married, you were different—attentive, caring. Now I can’t even get a kind word!”
“Where is this coming from?” William still loved her, still worked hard for their future. “Since when do I neglect you? We go for meals, films—yes, I’m busy weekdays, but weekends are yours!”
“I don’t feel you beside me,” she said icily. “You’re always in your head. Like I’m an afterthought.”
“An afterthought?” William choked on the word. “I’m preoccupied, yes—it’s work! You know the pressure I’m under!”
“Exactly!” she cut in. “Yet nothing comes of it! With the hours you put in, we should be swimming in money, not stuck in this tiny flat! I dreamed of the seaside, but with you, it’ll never happen.”
“Ellie, I’m working my fingers to the bone!” William pleaded. “A bigger place, holidays—just give it time!”
“Three years married, and nothing’s changed.” Her voice turned brittle. “You promised before the wedding. I should’ve known better.”
“So you married me for my promises?” William’s chest ached. “And here I thought you loved me.”
“I did, but—” Eleanor hesitated, realising she’d said too much. “This is over. I’m packing my things.”
Left alone, William stared at the congealing breakfast, unable to fathom their marriage was ending over forgotten groceries. As Eleanor stuffed suitcases, he argued, bargained—but she stayed silent. Bags in hand, she left without a word.
Weeks passed in a fog. William waited, half-expecting her to return, laughing it off as a joke. But she never came. He called, begged for a meeting. First, she refused; then, she changed her number.
When divorce papers arrived, he accepted it was truly over. He stopped reaching out, withdrawing into himself.
Months later, he bumped into Eleanor’s cousin, Beatrice, whose knowing gaze spoke volumes. She’d never liked Eleanor and was eager to gossip.
“How are you?” she asked, faux sympathy in her voice.
“Fine,” William forced out, pasting on a smile.
“Good,” she said, patting his arm. “Breaking up for another man is rough, but you’ll heal.”
“Another man?” William went still.
“You didn’t know?” Beatrice blinked. “Eleanor left you for her boss! They were carrying on for ages. The moment he divorced, she pounced.”
“How do you—?”
“Father’s birthday last week,” she tittered. “She swanned in with her new beau, bragging about his wealth, how happy she was—claimed money was all that mattered.”
Rage and pain twisted in William’s chest. He hated Eleanor for the betrayal, hated himself for not being enough. After Beatrice left, he wandered home, replaying her deceit.
Yet time dulled the sting. Soon, he even thanked fate. Six months later, he earned a promotion. Selling the flat, he bought a spacious house in Manchester’s heart.
There, he met Emily, a colleague. What began as friendship became love, and they married within a year.
Of Eleanor, he heard little—only whispers. Her affair ended when her boss returned to his wife, leaving her jobless.
Once, he spotted her in a supermarket, staring blankly at shelves. Seeing him, she spun away, hurrying off. He almost called after her—then thought better of it. There was no satisfaction in gloating.
With Emily, he was content. Deep down, he was even grateful—without Eleanor’s treachery, he’d never have found true love. Turning away, he went to find his wife among the aisles, eager to hold her close.
