Hannah was practically floating on cloud nine, heading to her beloved husband—well, technically on a bus, but happiness has a way of making wheels feel like wings. At long last, her son had finished secondary school and started university. Now, she and her husband could finally live together under one roof.
The very day she sent her son off, she bought a ticket and set off for Steven. They’d only been married two years but had known each other what felt like forever.
Their relationship hadn’t been smooth sailing. It started rocky, hit plenty of bumps, but fate had finally promised them a happy future—or so Hannah was convinced.
They’d met eight years ago, back when Hannah was still licking her wounds after divorcing her first husband. She’d kept everyone at arm’s length—until Steven came along. Even then, she’d hesitated. He’d had to work hard to prove he wasn’t anything like her ex, Victor.
They dated for six months before moving in together. Steven relocated to her place because his tiny flat in Manchester would’ve been a squeeze for three—Hannah had a ten-year-old son, after all. A sweet lad, though it took him a while to warm up to his new stepdad.
After three years, Steven started dropping hints about making things official. But Hannah wasn’t keen. To her, marriage certificates were just bureaucratic nonsense—and certainly no shield against infidelity. She was happy as things were.
Steven played along at first, but eventually, he wanted more. He needed to call her his wife in every sense. It got so bad he issued an ultimatum: marry or split.
Hannah bristled at the pressure. If he was going to be stubborn, fine—they’d split. And so they did. For six whole months.
In that time, Steven had moved to Liverpool for a lucrative job offer from a mate. He rarely visited home except to see his parents every couple of months—and that’s when he ran into Hannah again.
She’d been strolling through the park, glowing with contentment—until their eyes met. The look on her face said it all: she still loved him. And she wasn’t great at hiding it.
They started seeing each other again, long-distance this time. Sometimes she’d visit him, sometimes he’d come to her. Every meeting was carefully planned, loaded with warmth and passion.
They managed once a month, twice if they were lucky. Steven kept urging her to move in—he’d even bought a two-bed flat (mortgage and all). Hannah wanted to, truly, but life kept getting in the way. Her son was a teenager—still needed supervision. Then her mum fell ill, needing constant care. For over two years, Hannah nursed her back to health.
“She’ll live to see another decade!” the doctor cheerfully declared at her final check-up.
With her mum back on her feet, Hannah thought she’d finally be free—except now her son, Oliver, was entering his GCSE years. Begged her not to uproot him before he finished school. So she waited.
The summer before Oliver’s A-levels, she and Steven finally tied the knot. Seeing how overjoyed he was, she almost regretted not doing it sooner—but no point crying over spilled tea.
Now, they weren’t just dating. They were in a commuter marriage, separated by motorways and train delays.
Then, Oliver got into uni. Hannah swelled with pride—and realised it was finally her turn to prioritise her own happiness. Steven had no idea she was coming. She wanted to surprise him.
(Alright, fine—he probably suspected. But she hadn’t given him a date.)
She packed her suitcase, hopped on the coach, and daydreamed the entire ride. She’d bought new lingerie, planned rose petals on the bed, even prepped his favourite dinner. Steven was going to lose his mind.
Instead, the surprise was on her.
She unlocked his flat with her key—and froze. Staring back at her was a pair of wide blue eyes. A redheaded girl. Young. Very pretty.
“Who are you?” Hannah demanded.
“Erm… I’m Freya. Oh—you must be Hannah! Sorry, I’ll just—”
“‘Go’? Go where? Who *are* you?”
“Don’t freak out! I’m Steven’s, well… girlfriend?”
“*Excuse me?* My husband’s *what*?”
“Look, it’s not serious! He’s lovely, really loves you—”
“Loves me? That’s why he’s shacked up with someone else? How old are you—twenty? Barely?”
Freya nodded. “Met him by chance. Had nowhere to stay. He let me crash here. We were just mates at first, but… I fell for him. I know he doesn’t love me, never will—he’s mad about you. But he was so *lonely*. I just wanted to help!”
Hannah’s brain short-circuited. Had there ever been signs? She’d never found so much as a stray hairclip when visiting. Not once. How?
“I’ll pack my stuff. You probably didn’t warn him you were coming, so he didn’t tell me to leave. Sorry!”
“Wait—you’ve been here before?”
“Yeah. A year and a half. Every time you visit, I scrub the place clean, stash my things at a mate’s. We were *careful*. Steven didn’t want to upset you!”
Hannah scoffed. “Oh, *that* makes it fine!”
Freya kept babbling, nerves making her overshare. Steven didn’t let her touch Hannah’s shampoo, clothes—nothing. Always respectful. Always discreet.
Then the door opened. Steven walked in, face ashen.
“Hannah, sweetheart, this isn’t what it looks like—”
“A *year and a half* of lies? *This* is your love?”
Steven rounded on Freya. “You told her *how long*?!”
“I panicked! You didn’t *warn* me!”
“I didn’t *know*!” Steven turned back, pleading. “Let’s talk. She’ll go—”
“There’s nothing to say. Freya, stay. I’m leaving.”
“No, you *shouldn’t*,” Freya insisted. “He needs you. It’s always been you.”
Hannah grabbed her suitcase. “*I’ll* decide where I belong.”
She stormed out, swallowing bitter tears all the way home. How could he? How could *Freya*—barely older than Oliver—be okay with this?
For months, she stewed in betrayal, hating herself for still loving him. Until—knock, knock.
Freya stood at her door, holding a cat carrier. Marmalade—Steven’s orange tabby.
“Hi. Sorry for dropping by. Got your address from Steven… back when he was alive.”
Hannah’s blood ran cold. “*Alive*?”
“He was a wreck after you left. Not eating, barely sleeping. Last week, he said he wasn’t coming back. I thought it was a joke—then he got hit by a lorry. I think… he did it on purpose. Couldn’t live without you.” Freya’s voice cracked. “Didn’t know who else to give Marmalade to. You loved her too, right?”
Hannah took the cat, numb. The world stopped. Then—
“Love, wake up—last stop!”
She jolted awake. The bus driver was shaking her shoulder. She touched her damp cheeks.
“*What* a nightmare. Bloody hell.”
Still, doubt niggled. What if it was a warning? Best not tell Steven she was coming.
She arrived, unlocked his door, held her breath—
No Freya. Just Marmalade’s happy *mrrp*.
That evening, Steven came home to find Hannah in rose petals and new lingerie, grinning.
“I’m staying. For good.”
He swept her into his arms, overjoyed—blissfully unaware of the nightmare she’d just lived through.
(…She never told him.)
