The Noble Betrayer — An Illusion of Love
We met when every infatuation felt like destiny. William was a lanky, awkward boy with a guitar slung over his shoulder and a crumpled notebook in his hand, filled with his messy scribbles—poems he’d written just for me. He’d wait by my door after school, pretending it was coincidence, always flashing that boyishly earnest smile.
“Emma, listen to this new song,” he’d murmur, fingers brushing the strings.
And I’d listen. Even when his voice cracked and the lyrics were painfully saccharine. But there was something in his eyes—something so tender—that I couldn’t turn away.
After school, life pulled us apart. I went to study education in Manchester; he moved to Birmingham for engineering. But William never stopped writing. Sometimes he’d call the dormitory payphone late at night, sometimes he’d send creased postcards with lines like, “Everything’s grey without you, my red-haired girl.” He’d scrimp and save, hitch rides on trains just to spend a single evening together.
I remember once, when I was bedridden with fever, he turned up outside my window at three in the morning with a thermos and paracetamol. His breath fogged the glass as he whispered, “Told you, you’d be lost without me.” Wrapped in a blanket, I cried—not from sickness, but from sheer, stupid happiness.
After graduation, he proposed. No rings, no flowers. Just us, on the same park bench where we’d shared our first kiss.
“Marry me, Emma,” he said, his eyes just as bright as they were at seventeen.
“Only if you swear you’ll never turn into some dull bloke in a suit,” I teased.
“Cross my heart.”
We’d planned to move to London, but then his mother fell ill. So we stayed in our little Yorkshire town. He took a job at an electronics shop; I taught at the local primary school. It was temporary, we told ourselves. But temporary had a way of becoming permanent.
We rented a tiny flat, drank cheap coffee, and held “dance nights” on a threadbare rug to the crackling tunes of an old cassette player. The first time William got a bonus, he took me to a restaurant where the dessert cost more than his weekly wage. “Worth it,” he muttered, kissing my knuckles.
Then his mother passed. We inherited her house, and suddenly, there was space—enough to think about a child. William dreamed of a red-haired daughter, just like me. But we had a son. He lived thirty-two days.
And after that, everything unraveled.
We didn’t know how to grieve together. We were used to lightness—jokes, distractions, running from anything too heavy. But pain pinned us in opposite corners. He buried himself in work; I sank into grief. When I finally resurfaced, I left teaching—I couldn’t bear to face other people’s children.
Two years later, William got promoted. But it wasn’t enough. He quit, decided to start his own business. “I know the market,” he said. “I’ve got contacts. There’s a gap waiting to be filled.” He was right. Within a year, we had a new car, designer wardrobes, holidays abroad. I barely recognized my own life.
But with the money came distance. We barely spoke. I tried—cooked his favorite meals, bought theatre tickets, planned family visits. He’d just wave me off with a tired, “Later.” Later never came.
Mum started saying it more often: “Emma, a family isn’t whole without children. Don’t wait too long.” I was ready. But William avoided the conversation. Every time I brought it up, he’d shut it down with a firm “No” and retreat into silence.
“Six years,” I finally said one evening. “Isn’t it time?”
He set his fork down sharply.
“Stop.”
I froze. “Why? We’re a family—”
“No, Emma. Just… no.”
He walked out. I stayed there, in that spotless kitchen with its expensive dishes, feeling emptier than ever.
Then Oliver appeared. William brought him home himself—introduced him as his new business partner. Charming, well-spoken, impeccably mannered. He invited me to gallery openings, knew artists by name, actually listened. Once, without looking, he handed me a catalog on Turner.
“William said you adore Turner.”
“He’s confused,” I scoffed. “I prefer Constable.”
Oliver just smiled. “Then let’s discuss Constable. Over coffee?”
I didn’t respond. But Oliver didn’t give up. Theatre tickets, flowers, conversations. Finally, I confronted William.
“Oliver’s been inviting me to exhibitions. It’s starting to feel like—”
“Go,” he interrupted. “You’re bored anyway.”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“He’s a good man, Emma. And he likes you.”
I stared at him. His face was calm. No guilt. No pain. 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 wanted you to have someone.”
I laughed—a bitter, broken sound. “So you pushed me toward him to ease your own conscience?”
Silence. His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and there it was—that spark in his eyes. The one that used to be only for me.
“Go,” I whispered. “She’s waiting.”
We stood there, in that perfect kitchen, oceans apart.
“Sorry,” he breathed.
But there was no forgiveness. He didn’t just leave. He arranged it—made sure he looked noble, guiltless. Made sure I was the one left holding the pieces: a “new husband” like some twisted parting gift, and a love poisoned by duty.
I packed my things the next morning. No shouting. No drama. As the cab turned the corner, I suddenly remembered that lanky boy with his guitar whispering,
“Emma, I’ll learn to write you real poetry someday.”
He never did. But he learned to lie so well, he even believed it himself.
