That evening split Sophie’s life into “before and after.”
“Look, Soph, I’ve met someone else. We just *click*. It’s proper romance—not like us, where it’s once in a blue moon if I’m lucky,” said James, sliding off his wedding ring. He said it with a sneer, like it was all her fault. Sophie listened in silence. No begging, no tears, no pleading. She let him go.
“We’re not splitting anything. The flat’s mine—bought before we married—same with the car. And the dog? Absolutely not. Even if we got him after the wedding, he’s *my* comfort,” she said coldly later.
“Don’t care about the mutt. Keep him. But the car and flat? I’d want a cut.”
“If you’d ever paid for them,” Sophie cut in. “But you didn’t. So tough luck.”
James tried to argue but slunk off empty-handed. She stayed behind—with Max, her Labrador, and a simmering need for payback.
The betrayal gnawed at her.
“Don’t think I’ll ever trust anyone again,” she confessed to her best mate, Emma.
“Honestly, I don’t get how you just *let* him walk. Should’ve made him suffer first.”
“How?”
“String him along, then drop him.”
Sophie just shrugged.
“Revenge is a dish best served cold. Wait—he’ll come crawling back.”
“How d’you know?”
“Because you were together *seven years*, and this Charlotte? Just some gym fling. Fifteen years younger, too. He’ll realise his mistake soon enough.”
And he did.
Less than three months later, James reappeared.
“You home? I’m nearby—need to pop in.”
“Why?”
“Left my favourite umbrella there. It’s autumn—might rain. Want it back.”
“Fine, take it.” Sophie didn’t argue, letting her ex rifle through cupboards for “forgotten” things. She watched him fidget, *desperate* for excuses to stay.
Once every last nail was gone, he invented another reason:
“Soph, I’m coming over. Wait up.”
“Forgot something *else*?” She rubbed her hands, smug—just like Emma predicted.
“Haven’t seen Max in ages. Miss the little guy. Bet he misses me too.”
“Max? *Miss you?* Don’t flatter yourself. Dogs—and women—don’t wait around for traitors.”
“Still dropping by. Charlotte’s locked me out—gone to some fitness retreat. Need a place till tomorrow.”
“Try a hotel.”
“But… can I at least pop round for dinner?”
“Fine,” Sophie relented.
James arrived, inhaling the air like a starving man. “Your roast potatoes… I’d *sell my soul* for these!” he groaned. “Charlotte’s cooking’s so… *bland*. Always on a diet. Asked for chips once—she *screamed*. Said I was getting fat…”
Sophie burst out laughing. Pathetic. Three months of “*passion*” had left him gaunt, aged a decade.
“Eat. You could use the weight,” she said, slicing a thick piece of beef for Max. James tracked it jealously—even the *dog* ate better than he did now.
“Time to go,” Sophie said, watching him sprawl on the sofa like old times.
“Let me relax! Been ages since I had a proper night in.”
“I’ve got plans. Sorry.”
“What?!” He squinted. His faithful Sophie—*seeing someone else?* Impossible.
“Got a date,” she said, watching his face crumple.
“Who?”
“None of your business. Clear out. We’ll need the sofa.”
James’ jaw dropped. But he left—stunned she wasn’t waiting with open arms.
Later, he called.
“What now?”
“Just… miss you. Seven years, y’know? Force of habit.”
At first, Sophie relished his misery—his whining about Charlotte, his dependence on her. But soon, it grated. The anger faded. She felt… *nothing*.
“What do I do? How do I get rid of him?” she asked Emma.
“*Now’s* the time to strike.”
“Thing is… he’s already suffering. Miserable with Charlotte. I don’t even *want* him back to dump him.”
“Then ghost him. Block his number, change the locks.”
Sophie tried. But James *escalated*.
New numbers. Flowers at work. Lurking outside her flat.
“James, *stop*. I’ve moved on,” she pleaded, baffled. Six months ago, she’d have *dreamt* of this attention.
Now? She walked Max in another borough to avoid him.
“Stay with me,” Emma offered.
“But the flat?”
“Rent it out. My coworker’s looking—just for a month.”
“Alright. Bring her round Saturday.”
“Fair warning—she’s *obsessive*. Like, checks the taps ten times, sets the microwave clock *daily*.”
They laughed. Sophie finally called a plumber—her sink had dripped since James left.
When the doorbell rang, she flinched—but it wasn’t James.
“Afternoon. You called about a leak?”
“Yes, come in.”
Michael was *gorgeous*—young, capable, golden hands. Fixed the sink in minutes.
“Mind checking the bathroom tap? And this shelf’s loose…”
Two hours later, her flat was pristine.
“You’re a lifesaver, Mike.”
As she paid him, the doorbell rang. *James.*
“*Ugh*—”
“Husband home? Don’t worry—the uniform’s a free pass,” Mike joked.
Sophie blushed. “Actually… I *want* him to think—” James kept buzzing.
“Think what?”
“My ex won’t *leave me alone*,” she admitted, staring at the floor. “Sorry—this is unprofessional.”
“Nah, I’ve heard worse,” Mike chuckled. “People ask *all sorts*.”
“Yeah?” Her cheeks burned hotter.
“Look, if you need *more* help… just ask,” he winked, pulling on his jacket.
She let him out, ignoring James’ lingering stare as Mike left.
“Bad news,” Emma said later. “Coworker found another place.”
“Oh well. Couldn’t move in with you anyway—Max sets off your son’s allergies.”
“Right… Plan B, then.”
“Actually… met this *lovely* bloke earlier. Handyman.” Sophie smirked. “Shelf collapsed today—perfect excuse to call him back.”
Emma *demanded* details. Sophie promised to spill later.
Mike wasn’t surprised when she rang.
“Be there tonight.”
He arrived *out* of uniform—jeans, t-shirt, and… *flowers*.
“These are…?”
“For you. Not for the sink—for *you*.”
“Thanks. Then *this* is for you.” She pushed a bowl of stew forward. “Hungry?”
“Can’t say no to homemade.”
They were chatting when James called *again*.
“Sophie! Where *are* you? Been days!”
“Busy. *Living*.”
“Busy with *what*? Work and telly? *Stop lying!* I’m coming over. Need those old curtains—moved into a place round the corner. Bare as a bone. Thought of your spares on the balcony. So pack ’em up—make it cosy for me… Unless…?”
“*No*, James. I’m busy—feeding *another man* stew.” She blushed, avoiding Mike’s gaze.
Silence. Then—
“*Liar!* You’re just bitter!”
“Let him come,” Mike said, loud enough for James to hear.
“*Fine.* I’ll prove it.”
Sophie sank into a chair, face in hands.
“Relax,” Mike murmured. “I’ve got you.”
“Can you… *pretend* to be my bloke?”
“Easy.”
“I’m *exhausted*. Blocked his number, warned the concierge, *security* at work—he still bulldozes through!”
“We’ll fix it.”
“Extra charge for *this*?”
“That stew’ll cover it,” Mike grinned.
He was a *brilliant* actor. When James barged in, he found Sophie beaming—Mike by the stove, shirt dusted with flour.
“You’re here! We’re making dumplings,” Sophie sang. “*Potato and mushroom.*”
“Who’s *this*?” James glared.
“Mike. *Fiancé.* You must be the ex? The one harassing my girl? *Charmed*,” he rolled up his sleeves—biceps flexing.
“I— You— *Her?*” James paled. “*No one* would want— I mean,A month later, as Sophie and Mike shared a pint at their favourite pub, Max curled at their feet, she realised sometimes life’s best surprises come through a leaky sink and a pretend boyfriend who turned out to be the real deal.
