The Ring That Changed Fate…
Oliver brought his fiancée, Beatrice, to his mother’s village cottage near Bath. “What a house!” Beatrice gasped, staring at the two-story manor with its wooden shutters. “Just a country home,” Oliver said modestly. “Mum loves it.” A warm-eyed woman stepped out to greet them. “This is my mother, Margaret. Mum, this is Bea.” “Come in, I’ve baked pies—you must be hungry after the drive,” Margaret invited. At the table, Beatrice bit into a fragrant cabbage pasty and suddenly crunched on something hard. “What on earth—?” she exclaimed, pulling out a gleaming object that made her heart skip.
“What are you doing here?” Beatrice demanded, finding her ex-husband, Thomas, sipping tea in her flat as if it were still his home. “Tea’s still hot,” he offered, avoiding her gaze. “I asked what you’re doing here,” she repeated, fists clenched. “Drinking tea,” he shrugged. “Why? And how’d you get a key? You said you lost it!” “Found it,” he said. “Bea, I want to come back. Can I?”
“Walk out and waltz back in?” she scoffed. “Seriously?” “I’m sorry,” Thomas muttered. “Life’s better with you. Please.” “No. Finish your tea and leave.” “Where am I supposed to go? This flat was yours in the divorce,” he whined. “You’ve got parents,” she snapped. “And I paid you for your half. It’s mine.” Their split had been ugly—the mortgaged flat, his claim that his new woman had a child (not his, it turned out), while Beatrice’s parents had fronted most of the deposit. In court, he’d settled for a payout. She’d taken a loan, cleared the debt, and now the flat was hers alone.
“Why d’you need all this space?” Thomas smirked. “Who says I’m alone?” “Mum said you were. Maybe we could start fresh?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Never. Drink up and go.” “No need to be harsh. Fine, I’ll leave. But this isn’t over.” Later, Beatrice realized—she’d never taken his key. Or had he copied it? “I’m changing the lock,” she decided, the old betrayal tightening her chest. Love had died long ago; only bitterness remained.
The next evening, her former mother-in-law, Marjorie, appeared—a woman who’d never meddled before. “Bea, darling! Still lovely. My Thomas is a fool. I told him not to let you go.” “Ancient history,” Beatrice said coldly. “What do you want?” “Give him another chance? You were happy once.” “No. We’ve moved on.” “Just let him stay awhile. Things might mend.” “They won’t.”
“He’s in trouble,” Marjorie pressed. “Debts up to his ears, and that woman—cleaned him out and left. The baby wasn’t even his. Now he’s got nothing.” “Funny,” Beatrice snorted. “I’m to bail him out? Not my problem.” “He’s homeless.” “And you?” “My pension’s meagre.” “Well, I’m not his keeper. Goodbye.” “Think it over—he’s truly sorry.” “I’ll think,” Beatrice lied. It was over.
At dawn, a locksmith arrived. Midway through the job, Thomas returned. “Who’re you?” he sneered. “Who’re you?” the man shot back. “Oliver, come here!” Beatrice called. The locksmith stepped inside, and she whispered, “Play along—say you’re my fiancé. I’ll pay extra.” “No trouble, love,” Oliver winked. Back at the door, he crossed his arms. “Still here? What d’you want?” “I live here,” Thomas blustered. “Ex, you mean? She’s mine now. Wedding’s soon.” “She never said.” “You never asked. Toss that key on your way out.” Thomas slammed the door behind him.
“Thank you,” Beatrice exhaled. “How much?” “For chatting up your ex? A cuppa’ll do.” “Really? I insist—” “Tea’s fine. My dad pulled the same stunt—mooching off Mum, refusing keys. I delivered papers to pay for new locks.” “Well, he won’t be back,” she said, relieved.
On Saturday, the doorbell rang. “God, not again,” Beatrice groaned—but it was Oliver. “Morning! Fancy a drive? Mum’s got a cottage in the Cotswolds. Or we could stroll through town.” “The countryside,” she brightened. “Haven’t been in ages.” “I’ll be downstairs.” To her surprise, a sleek Land Rover awaited. “Nice wheels!” “Expecting a clunker?” Oliver grinned.
The village was thirty minutes away. “This isn’t a cottage—it’s an estate!” Beatrice marveled at the stone house. “Gran’s old place. No veg patches, just roses and apple trees. Our retreat.” Margaret welcomed them warmly. “Bea, how lovely! Come in—I’ve made scones.” The house gleamed, the pastries smelled like childhood. “Just like Nan used to make,” Beatrice smiled. “Go explore—there’s a lake past the orchard,” Margaret urged.
The weekend flew by. “Enjoyed yourself?” Oliver asked on the drive back. “Immensely!” “Then, as your ‘fiancé,’ I invite you fishing next week. Ever tried?” “I might,” she laughed. “Wait—what fiancé?” “Since the day I booted your ex.” They burst out laughing. All summer, they escaped to the cottage, often joined by Margaret, who spoiled them with cakes.
One teatime, Oliver passed Beatrice a pasty. “This one’s beef—try it.” She bit down—clink. “Margaret, your ring must’ve slipped!” “No, dear,” Margaret smiled. “That one’s yours.” “Mine?” Beatrice gasped. “I lacked romance,” Oliver admitted. “Mum’s out today—off to town with the vicar’s wife. So…” He met her eyes. “Marry me?” “Yes,” she breathed. “Fancy the pasty?” “That too. And… I think there’s a baby coming.” “What? Since when?” “Not sure yet, but likely.”
Margaret beamed at the news. “Oh, joy!” They wed quietly, keeping Beatrice’s flat while renting Oliver’s bachelor pad. The cottage became their sanctuary, their children filling it with laughter. “Ought to thank your ex,” Oliver joked once. “No lock change, no us.” “Then thank him,” Beatrice laughed, the ring warming her finger—and her heart.
