Emily sat in her quiet little house in the sleepy town of Oakbridge, the familiar hum of maternity leave wrapping around her like a cosy but monotonous blanket. Every day blurred into the next—singing lullabies, tidying up, waiting for her husband, James, to come home and bring a bit of the outside world with him. Tonight, he was later than usual, and when he finally walked in, his tired eyes held something she couldn’t quite place.
*”How was work?”* she asked lightly, hoping for a snippet of excitement to break her routine.
James hesitated, the air between them thickening like storm clouds gathering.
*”You’ll never guess the coincidence,”* he finally said, forcing a laugh. *”Small towns, eh? Never change.”*
*”What do you mean?”* Emily’s fingers tightened around her cup as a chill ran down her spine.
*”There’s a new girl at the office. When I saw her… well, it was a shock. It’s Charlotte. Charlotte Whitmore!”*
Emily’s face drained of colour. That name—like a ghost from the past—hit her square in the chest, dragging up memories she’d buried deep. Seven years ago, when she’d first met James, he’d been different—charming, open-hearted, but utterly taken. His heart belonged to someone else: Charlotte. The same Charlotte whose name now made Emily’s stomach twist with dread.
Back then, Emily had kept her distance. She respected what they had, never daring to intrude. Their paths crossed through mutual friends, and sometimes she’d catch herself watching James from afar, thinking how lucky Charlotte was. He was everything she dreamed of—kind, magnetic, with a smile that could warm a room. Then, one day, James showed up alone, his eyes hollow. Charlotte had ended things.
Emily had mourned with him—but in secret, her heart fluttered. This was her chance. She waited, made sure the breakup was final, then invited him for dinner. That was the start of them. They clicked instantly, and before long, love bloomed. Two years later, they married. Another three, and their daughter arrived—the reason Emily was now at home, drowning in nappies and baby towers.
But Charlotte… Charlotte was the one who’d left James heartbroken. The one whose place Emily had taken. All these years, she’d wondered—did he truly love *her*, or was she just a comfort after the pain? She’d hoped time had buried those doubts. But now, with Charlotte’s name echoing in their home, fear clawed its way back.
*”Wow,”* Emily managed, forcing steadiness into her voice. *”How is she?”*
James shrugged, avoiding her gaze. *”Didn’t talk much. Just a quick hello.”*
*”Is she married?”* The question squeezed her throat.
*”Dunno,”* he muttered, irritation flickering. *”Not my business. We smiled, moved on. Why would I care?”*
But Emily heard the lie. His words sounded rehearsed—for her, maybe for himself. Jealousy, venomous and cold, seeped into her veins. What if Charlotte wanted him back? What if old feelings reignited? She remembered how deeply James had loved her. That was real. Unshakable.
James was lying—to himself most of all. Curiosity burned in him. He *was* glad to see Charlotte. Something stirred when their eyes met. Not that he’d ever act on it—he loved Emily. Loved their daughter. But he couldn’t deny the thrill of seeing her again. Just lunch. Just talk. What was the harm?
When he left for work the next morning, he tried to reassure her. *”I’ll try to finish early today. Fancy cooking something nice?”*
*”Of course,”* she said, smiling tightly.
*”Love you.”*
*”Love you too,”* she whispered, but her voice cracked.
He *never* said *”love you”* before work. Was that guilt? Or just affection? Men only got sentimental when they had something to hide—wasn’t that what people said? The thought gnawed at her.
She busied herself with their daughter, but the worry wouldn’t leave.
At work, James saw Charlotte again.
*”Hey, you look great,”* she said, her eyes bright.
*”You too,”* he replied, something tightening in his chest.
*”Lunch? Catch up properly?”*
*”Yeah, why not?”*
He knew it was risky. Boundaries mattered. But… it was just lunch. A chat. They lingered in the café, talking like no time had passed. Charlotte admitted she’d regretted their split. *”Took me years to realise what I’d lost,”* she said. *”But by then, you were taken.”*
*”You’re the one who walked away,”* he reminded her, half-smiling.
*”I was an idiot,”* she laughed. *”If I had the chance now… I wouldn’t let you go.”*
Silence hung between them, charged. James hadn’t felt this rush in years. He loved Emily—he did. But their love had become routine. Safe. Predictable. This? This was electric.
They returned to work, but later, Charlotte asked for help with a new system. He stayed late, texting Emily he’d be home late, guilt pricking him. But he wanted—*needed*—more time with Charlotte.
An hour passed, work talk melting into personal confessions. She was so close. At one point, she turned, smiling. Their faces inches apart. One move, and everything would change.
James stood abruptly. *”I should go. Family’s waiting.”*
Charlotte nodded, disappointment flashing in her eyes.
The drive home was heavy. He hadn’t crossed the line. But loyalty wasn’t just about actions—it was about the heart. And his? His wasn’t steady.
Emily waited with dinner—his favourite shepherd’s pie. For once, she didn’t ask about his day. Too scared of the answer.
But James saw her quiet sadness. The fear in her eyes. And in that moment, he knew—no fleeting thrill was worth her pain.
*”Been thinking,”* he said suddenly. *”Remember how Tom’s been offering me that job at his firm? Better pay. Maybe it’s time.”*
*”But you didn’t want to work under a mate,”* she said, surprised.
*”Didn’t. But things change. No growth at my place now. Maybe Tom’s the fresh start we need.”*
*”You’re sure?”* Hope flickered in her voice.
*”Sure,”* he smiled. *”I want us happy. I’ll do whatever it takes.”*
Emily didn’t press. But his willingness to leave—for *her*—warmed her. Whatever happened, he loved her. He’d fight for them.
James knew he’d teetered on the edge. Giving in might’ve been a regret. Maybe whatever he felt for Charlotte would’ve faded. But he wouldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t let Emily spend every workday wondering.
Maybe it would’ve been easier if he’d felt nothing. But life didn’t work like that. The important thing? He’d chosen right. Chosen *her*.
Sometimes love wasn’t about passion. Sometimes it was just… choosing them. Again and again.
