The Noble Betrayer – A Story of One Illusion
We met at a time when every crush felt like destiny. Vlad was a lanky, awkward bloke with a guitar slung over his shoulder and a crumpled notebook in his hand, scribbled with his clumsy poems. He’d wait for me outside our block of flats after school, pretending he just happened to be there, always flashing that boyishly honest smile.
“Emma, listen to this new song,” he’d whisper, strumming the strings.
I listened. His voice wobbled off-key, and the lyrics were sickly sweet, but there was something tender burning in his eyes that I couldn’t turn away from.
After school, life scattered us—I went to university in Manchester to study teaching, while he enrolled in an engineering course in Birmingham. But Vlad kept writing. Sometimes he’d call the dormitory payphone, other times he’d send crumpled postcards with notes like, “Everything’s grey without you, my redhead.” He’d hitch rides to see me, spending his last quid just for an evening together.
I remember once, when I was bedridden with fever, he showed up outside my window at three in the morning with a thermos and paracetamol. “Told you you’d need me,” he murmured through the glass. I stood there wrapped in a duvet, crying from sheer happiness.
After graduation, Vlad proposed—plainly, no rings or flowers, on the same park bench where we’d first kissed.
“Marry me, Emma,” he said, his eyes still just like they were at seventeen.
“Only if you promise never to turn into a boring bloke in a suit,” I laughed.
“I swear on my life!”
We’d planned to move to London, but then Vlad’s mum fell seriously ill. So we stayed in our little hometown. He took a job at an electronics shop, I started teaching at the local primary. Everything was supposed to be temporary. Or so we thought. But temporary became permanent.
We rented a shabby flat, drank instant coffee, and had “dance nights” on a worn-out rug with tapes blaring from an old stereo. When Vlad got his first bonus, he took me to a posh restaurant where the cost of dessert eclipsed his weekly wage. “Worth it,” he said, kissing my fingers.
Then his mum passed. We inherited her house, and we decided to try for a child. Vlad dreamed of a redheaded daughter, just like me. But we had a son. He lived only thirty-two days.
After that, everything unraveled.
We didn’t know how to grieve together. We’d always lived lightly, joking our way through problems. But pain drove us into separate corners. He buried himself in work; I sank into depression. When I finally dragged myself out, I quit teaching—I couldn’t bear seeing other people’s children.
A few years later, Vlad got promoted, but it wasn’t enough. He quit to start his own business. “I know the market, I’ve got connections,” he said. He wasn’t wrong. Within a year, we had a new car, a wardrobe to match the seasons, holidays abroad. I barely recognized my life.
But with the money, the closeness faded. We barely spoke. I tried—cooking his favourite meals, booking theatre tickets, planning family gatherings. He’d just wave me off: “Later.” Later never came.
Mum kept saying, “Emma, a family isn’t complete without a child. Don’t wait too long.” I wanted to. I was ready. But Vlad looked away. Every time I brought it up, he’d say a flat “no” and shut down.
“It’s been six years,” I finally said one evening. “Maybe it’s time?”
He dropped his fork.
“Enough.”
I froze. “Why? We’re married—”
“No, Emma. Just drop it.”
He walked out. I stayed in that spotless kitchen, surrounded by expensive dishes, feeling nothing but emptiness.
Then Oliver appeared. Vlad brought him home himself—introducing him as a business partner. Tall, polished, well-mannered. He invited me to exhibitions, knew artists by name, actually listened. Once, without looking, he handed me a catalogue on Turner.
“Vlad said you love Turner.”
“He’s confused,” I scoffed. “I prefer Constable.”
Oliver smiled. “Then let’s talk Constable. Over coffee?”
I ignored it. But Oliver didn’t give up. Theatre tickets, flowers, conversations. I finally confronted Vlad:
“Oliver keeps inviting me out. He acts like—”
“Go,” he cut in. “You’re bored anyway.”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“He’s a good man, Emma. And he likes you.”
I stared, stunned. There wasn’t a flicker of pain in his eyes. Just calm. Like he’d planned this all along.
“There’s someone else, isn’t there?”
“Yes. But I didn’t want you to suffer. I just… didn’t want you to be alone.”
I laughed—bitter, almost unhinged. “So you pushed me toward him so you wouldn’t feel like the villain?”
He said nothing. His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—and for a second, that old spark flickered. The one that used to light up just for me.
“Go,” I whispered. “She’s waiting.”
We stood in our immaculate kitchen, with everything unsalvageable between us.
“Sorry,” he exhaled.
But there was no forgiveness. He didn’t just leave me for another woman. He’d orchestrated it—to look noble, to avoid guilt, to ensure I was the one left holding the pieces: a “new husband” handed to me like some twisted consolation prize.
The next morning, I packed my things. No scene, no shouting. As the taxi turned the corner, I suddenly remembered that lanky boy with the guitar whispering,
“Emma, I’ll learn to write you real poetry one day.”
He never did. But he learned to lie so well, he even believed himself.
