Shadows of Truth: The End of a Love Story
Victor Newman steps into his flat after a long day at the office on the outskirts of Manchester.
“Hello, I’m home!” he calls out, heading to the kitchen where the scent of dinner already lingers.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks, surprised by the neatly arranged dishes on the table.
“No occasion,” replies his wife, Eleanor, though an odd note tugs at her voice. “Just couldn’t be bothered to cook—ordered some sushi instead.”
“Sushi? Love it!” Victor brightens, shrugging off his blazer.
“Well, sit down then,” Eleanor says before slipping out of the room.
A minute later, she returns with a sheet of paper and hands it to him without a word.
“What’s this?” Victor asks. He glances at it and freezes, as if struck by lightning.
***
“Hello, delivery here,” crackles the intercom, the screen flashing to a young man in a bright uniform. “Your payment didn’t go through yesterday.”
“You’ve got the wrong address,” Eleanor answers coolly. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry, here’s the receipt—take a look,” the courier presses a crumpled slip to the camera, jabbing a finger at the address. “12 Moonrise Lane. A bloke paid by card, but it declined. Got a copy here—see for yourself.”
The lad looks flustered, apologising after every other word. Clearly new—not just to deliveries, but to work in general. Eleanor squints skeptically, opens the door, and eyes him. A massive thermal backpack hangs off his narrow shoulders, making him look like a sparrow lugging twice its weight. She nearly laughs but stops at the sight of the receipt.
Printed on the slip: “Error Code: 55. Incorrect PIN.”
“Like I said—wrong address,” she repeats. “No one was home yesterday, and we didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry,” the courier flushes. “It was paid for by a girl… another woman.”
“Definitely not me, then,” Eleanor smirks.
He hands her another receipt—address, order details: Japanese cuisine, cutlery for two, card payment. Nothing unusual, except one thing—Victor despises sushi. At the bottom, the name: Victor Newman.
Blood rushes to Eleanor’s temples. Only one man lives here—her husband. But a “girl”? At 43, she hardly fits that description. Maybe the courier calls all women that out of politeness? Something doesn’t add up.
“I’ll pay,” she says abruptly. “Where’s your card reader?”
The lad blinks, expecting tears or shouting—like his mum when she found out about his dad’s affair. But Eleanor is steel-cool. As she sees him out, she suddenly laughs. It spirals into hysterics, tears spilling. She wipes her face, takes a deep breath, and picks up her phone.
“Victor, hey—working late tonight?” she asks, forcing lightness into her voice.
“Hi. Till seven, unless the boss drags us into another pointless meeting,” he replies. “Why?”
“Thought we could have dinner together.”
“Plans cancelled?”
“Yeah, free all evening. Fancy some time just us two.”
“Sure, but not sure when I’ll wrap up.”
“No worries—we’ll sort it later. Can’t be bothered cooking—I’ll order in, yeah?”
“Sorted.”
She hangs up and opens the wardrobe. Her gaze lands on a black dress with gold trim, last worn at the office Christmas party. “If we’re celebrating, might as well do it right,” she thinks bitterly.
Back in the hall, she rereads the receipt, picks up her phone, and orders the exact same sushi—”cutlery for two.”
That evening, the same courier—now beetroot-red—drops off the order. Relief floods his face when the payment clears, and he practically sprints away, certain this household hides secrets too strange to untangle.
An hour later, Victor walks in. Eleanor greets him with a smile, though her eyes betray tension. She notices how hard he’s trying—playing the perfect husband, just like after his “late nights” or sudden “work trips.”
“Sushi?” Victor frowns at the table.
“Yeah, saw an ad yesterday,” she lies smoothly. “Fancied it. Know you hate it, so I roasted a chicken for you.”
“Worth a try,” he says. “Had some at a work do once—wasn’t bad.”
“Change is good, eh, Victor?” she muses, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Wash up—I’m starved.”
Victor tenses. Her calm, the sushi, the same restaurant—he doesn’t believe in coincidences. But how could she know about last night’s dinner with another woman?
He sits, shooting her a wary look. Instead of shouting or blaming, Eleanor suddenly asks,
“What’s her name?” Her voice is flat as she spears a roll with her fork.
Victor chokes. Denial is pointless.
“Emily,” he mutters.
“Pretty name,” Eleanor replies, just as calm. “How long’s it been?”
“Ellie—” he starts, scrambling for words.
“Don’t bother lying,” she cuts in. “Tell me about her. Is this serious or just a fling?”
“Serious?” He gapes. “Are you joking? Why are you so calm? What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” she laughs, though bitterness seeps through. “So—Emily. Who is she?”
“She’s thirty,” he exhales. “Doubt it’ll last…”
“Why? Flighty? Hooked by an older man?” Eleanor’s stare pins him.
Pain flickers across her face.
“No, she’s… normal,” Victor mumbles. Praising his mistress to his wife is surreal.
“Then what’s the problem?” Eleanor presses.
“What are you on about?”
“You like her—I can tell. People don’t talk like that about flings. I’ll give you a divorce—no drama. We can split everything fairly tonight.”
“Ellie, are you okay?” Victor watches her, uneasy.
Her calm unnerves him. He expected screams, threats—like before. But Eleanor is unreadable.
“Victor, I don’t love you,” she says suddenly. “Haven’t for three years. Funny how easy it is to say out loud! You keep coming back, and I let you. We should’ve divorced ages ago. But you stay—principles, or whatever. Let me go. I’m letting you go too.”
Victor freezes. Sure, they’ve fought often, separated briefly—but divorce? He thought she’d crumble without him. Truth is, he can’t picture life alone either.
They married at eighteen, childhood sweethearts. Another life never existed. Divorce is a terrifying blank space.
But this morning, when the courier showed that receipt, Eleanor realised: her love for Victor is gone. The truth is as simple as dust on a shelf—just wipe it away.
“Maybe we’re rushing?” Victor ventures. “Midlife crisis?”
“No,” she says firmly. “Today, when I found out about her, I was relieved. Hurt first—then free. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Sorry… I think I don’t either,” he admits.
“Then let’s toast to it,” she smiles, gesturing at the table.
She fetches a notepad and pen.
“While you eat, let’s list who takes what.”
“As easy as wiping dust away,” she thinks, starting the inventory. Victor, watching her, begins talking about Emily—not as a mistress, but as someone he enjoys being with. Like confiding in an old friend, not a wife.
