Shadows of Truth: The End of a Love
Victor Newman steps into his flat after a long day at the office on the outskirts of Manchester.
“Hello, I’m home!” he calls out, walking into the kitchen where the smell of food lingers.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks, surprised by the carefully arranged dishes on the table.
“No occasion,” his wife, Charlotte, replies, but there’s an odd note in her voice. “Just couldn’t be bothered to cook, so I ordered takeaway.”
“Takeaway? Brilliant!” Victor brightens, shrugging off his jacket.
“Sit down, then, let’s eat,” Charlotte says before slipping out of the kitchen.
A minute later, she returns with a slip of paper and silently hands it to him.
“What’s this?” Victor asks, but his words freeze in his throat as he reads.
***
“Hello, this is the delivery driver,” a voice crackles through the intercom, and a young man in a bright uniform appears on the screen. “Your payment didn’t go through yesterday.”
“You’ve got the wrong address,” Charlotte answers coolly. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry, here’s the receipt. Take a look,” the driver holds up a crumpled scrap of paper, pointing at the address. “I delivered it myself yesterday. Moonlight Street, number 12. A man paid by card, but the transaction failed. I’ve got a copy—just check, please.”
The lad looks flustered, apologising after nearly every word. It’s clear he’s new—not just to deliveries but to any job at all. Charlotte narrows her eyes, opens the door, and takes a proper look at him. His skinny frame is dwarfed by a massive insulated backpack, making him look like a sparrow carrying an impossible load. She almost smiles but catches herself when she sees the receipt.
Printed on it: “Error code: 55. Incorrect PIN.”
“I told you, you’ve got the wrong place,” she repeats. “No one was home yesterday. We didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry,” the driver blushes. “The payment was taken by a girl—another woman.”
“Definitely not me, then,” Charlotte laughs.
He hands her a second receipt with the full order details. Her eyes skim over it: Japanese food, cutlery for two, paid by card. Nothing unusual—except Victor despises sushi. At the bottom, the name of the customer: Victor.
Charlotte feels her pulse thud in her temples. Only one man lives here—her husband. But another woman? At 43, she hardly fits the label. Maybe the lad just calls every woman “girl” to be polite? But something doesn’t add up.
“I’ll pay,” she says abruptly. “Where’s your card reader?”
The driver blinks at her, baffled. He expected tears or shouting—his own mother had screamed for hours when she found out about his father’s affair. But Charlotte is steady, unbreakable. As she sees him out, she suddenly laughs—a sound that spirals into something raw before dissolving into tears. She wipes her face, takes a deep breath, and picks up her phone.
“Victor, hi, what time are you finishing work today?” she asks, forcing lightness into her voice.
“Hi. Around seven, unless the boss drops another last-minute meeting on us,” he replies. “Why?”
“Fancy dinner together tonight.”
“Plans cancelled?”
“Yep, I’m free. Thought it’d be nice to spend the evening just us.”
“Sure, but I’m not sure when I’ll get back.”
“No rush. We’ll figure it out later. Don’t feel like cooking—I’ll order in, alright?”
“Deal.”
Charlotte hangs up and opens the wardrobe. Her gaze lands on a black dress with gold trim, the one she wore to last year’s office Christmas party. “If we’re celebrating, we’re celebrating,” she thinks bitterly.
Back in the hallway, she stares at the receipt, picks up her phone, and orders the exact same sushi—cutlery for two.
That evening, the same flustered driver delivers the food. Relieved the payment goes through, he hurries off, convinced this household hides secrets far stranger than he’ll ever know.
An hour later, Victor walks in. Charlotte greets him with a smile, but her eyes are tense. She notices how he’s playing the perfect husband—just like he does after every “late night” or “sudden business trip.”
“Sushi?” Victor’s eyebrows shoot up as he eyes the table.
“Yeah, saw an ad for delivery yesterday,” Charlotte shrugs. “Fancied it. I know you hate it, so I roasted a chicken for you.”
“Suppose I’ll try some,” he says. “Had some at work once—wasn’t awful.”
“Change is good, isn’t it, Victor?” she asks, a smirk playing on her lips. “Wash your hands, I’m starving.”
Victor tenses. Her calmness, the sushi, the same restaurant—he doesn’t believe in coincidences. But how could she know about last night’s dinner with another woman?
He sits, glaring at her. But instead of shouting, Charlotte simply asks, “What’s her name?” Her voice is calm, almost bored, as she spears a roll with her fork.
Victor chokes. Lying would be pointless.
“Emily,” he mutters.
“Pretty name,” Charlotte says, just as evenly. “How long’s it been?”
“Charlotte—” he starts, scrambling for words.
“Victor, spare me the excuses,” she cuts in. “Tell me about her. I want to know if it’s serious.”
“Serious?” He falters. “Is this a joke? Why are you so calm? What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” she laughs, though it sounds hollow. “Go on, then. Who is she?”
“She’s thirty,” Victor exhales. “Doubt it’ll last…”
“Why not? Not serious enough? Impressed by an older man?” Charlotte holds his gaze, unflinching.
Her face darkens with pain.
“No, she’s… fine,” Victor mumbles.
Praising his mistress to his wife feels absurd.
“Then what’s the problem?” Charlotte presses.
“What are you even on about?”
“You like her. I can tell by how you talk. That’s not how you talk about flings. I’ll give you a divorce—no drama. We can sort out the details now.”
“Charlotte, are you alright?” Victor stares at her, unnerved.
Her calmness terrifies him. He expected rows, tears, threats—like before. But Charlotte is untouchable.
“Victor, I don’t love you,” she says suddenly. “Haven’t for three years. And you know what? It’s easy to say out loud. You keep coming back, and I let you. We should’ve ended this years ago. But you won’t leave—some twisted sense of duty. Let me go. I’m letting you go.”
Victor goes still. Yes, they’ve fought, split up, but never divorced. He thought she’d fall apart without him. And he couldn’t imagine life outside their marriage.
They’d married at eighteen, known each other since childhood. Another life didn’t exist. Divorce meant the unknown.
But this morning, when the driver showed her the receipt, Charlotte realised—her love for Victor had died. The truth was as simple as dust on a shelf, easy to wipe away.
“Maybe we’re rushing this?” Victor ventures. “Midlife crisis?”
“No,” she says firmly. “I was relieved today, finding out about her. Hurt first, then… light. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Sorry. Think I… don’t love you either,” he admits.
“Let’s toast to that,” Charlotte smiles, nodding at the table.
She leaves and returns with a notepad and pen.
“While you eat, let’s list who gets what.”
“Easy as wiping dust away,” she thinks, starting the list. Victor, watching her, begins to talk about Emily—not as his mistress, but as someone who makes him happy. As if speaking to an old friend, not his wife.
