“Think, mate, think,” muttered Oliver as he pulled his car up to a petrol pump.
“Premium unleaded, full tank,” he told the attendant before heading inside the station.
At the entrance, he nearly bumped into a man who glanced at him briefly before staring back at his phone. “*William?*” Oliver almost called out but caught himself in time. Inside, he watched through the glass as his former friend climbed into a sleek Jaguar. Oliver fumbled for his card at the till, hands trembling slightly from the shock.
By the time he got back outside, the Jaguar was pulling onto the motorway. Without hesitation, Oliver jumped into his own Ford and gave chase.
“Talk about a coincidence. Look at him now—upgraded. Married rich, has he? Well, I’ll get to the bottom of this…” he thought, keeping the Jaguar in sight.
The car turned into an upmarket gated community. When it stopped outside one of the grand houses, Oliver drove past slowly, watching through his rearview mirror as the gates swung open. The Jaguar rolled through, and Oliver reversed carefully, avoiding the security camera’s line of sight.
Through the iron railings, he saw William park in front of the garage. A young woman stepped onto the porch—Oliver recognised her instantly, even from a distance.
“No bloody way,” he whispered.
She descended the steps and hugged William, kissing him before they disappeared inside.
“Married. Living here. How? Revenge, is it? And Emma—quiet little Emma—landed on her feet, didn’t she? And William… some friend. Could’ve been me in his place…”
***
The nightclub was packed, the air thick with bass and the scent of sweaty bodies. Strobe lights cut through the dimness, flashing over dancers lost in the rhythm.
Oliver lounged at the bar, sipping a cocktail with feigned disinterest as he eyed the crowd. A tall woman in a tight red dress caught his attention. “Now *she’s* something,” he mused before turning back to his drink.
A familiar voice made him swivel around.
“This is my mate, Oliver,” said William, arm around the very woman in red. “Oliver, meet Sophie, my girlfriend.”
Oliver gave her a slow once-over. Up close, she was even more striking—sharp green eyes, dimpled cheeks, golden hair spilling over her shoulders. A proper stunner.
“Like what you see?” William smirked.
“What are you drinking?” Oliver asked, gaze fixed on Sophie.
“I’m driving. Lads, why not come back to mine? Can’t hear a thing in here, and I could use a proper drink,” she suggested.
“You in?” William asked.
Oliver drained his glass and stood.
Outside, the music faded. “Nice, isn’t she?” William gestured to Sophie’s sleek Audi. “Birthday gift from her dad,” he said, puffing up as if he’d bought it himself.
Oliver glanced from the car to his friend, who winked as if to say, *Just you wait.*
“How’d he land a girl like *that*?” Oliver couldn’t fathom it. William wasn’t half as fit. “Kept that quiet, didn’t he?”
“Where’s Emma, then? Invited you both,” William asked as they cruised through the city.
“Not feeling great. Morning sickness,” Oliver muttered, mood souring at the mention.
“Blimey! Keeping the wedding quiet, are you?” William laughed.
Oliver stayed silent. He didn’t want to talk about Emma.
The Audi stopped at a high-rise. The lift whisked them up to the sixteenth floor.
“*This* yours?” Oliver eyed the plush flat. “How’d you meet her?” he whispered.
“In the street. Nearly ran me over,” William grinned.
Oliver kept pouring wine until William was properly sloshed. Sophie led him off to sleep. When she returned, Oliver was studying a painting.
“That’s mine,” she said from behind.
“Yours?” He turned. “Could you do one of me?”
“Painters *paint*, darling.” She stepped back, assessing him. “You’ve got good lines. Ever posed nude?”
“Right now?” he blinked.
“Don’t be daft. My studio, proper lighting.” She nodded to a notepad. “Leave your number.”
At home, Emma sat crying on the sofa.
“You’ve been drinking?” she sniffed.
“A bit. Met William.”
“Hungry?”
“Nah. Might as well wait for breakfast. Knackered—shower then bed.” He shut the bathroom door.
How had he landed in this mess? Emma was sweet, just *pregnant* at the wrong time. Sophie, though—*she* was the ticket. He needed rid of Emma—fast.
Under the spray, he pictured Sophie. No way William deserved her. But Emma was in the way. She was nice, just… not *her*. Not that money.
Raised poor, Oliver craved wealth. Sophie was perfect—gorgeous, loaded. He just had to ditch Emma.
He climbed into bed, back turned.
Two days passed before Sophie called, giving the studio address. “*Her own place?*”
He turned up freshly groomed. Sophie led him in, gestured to the draped canvases. “Strip.”
“Straight off?”
“Studio time’s booked. Two hours. Changed your mind?”
He undressed. She adjusted him like mannequin, indifferent to his nudity. Finally, she settled at the easel. After twenty minutes, Oliver groaned.
“Need a break. Legs are killing me.”
She sighed. “Fine. Coffee.”
He peeked at the sketch—flattering, even to his untrained eye. Barefoot, he crept into the kitchen, wrapped his arms around her. She didn’t startle, just turned, hands sliding behind his neck…
***
He returned home smug. Who knew it’d be that easy? Emma was curled up, sniffling.
“What now?”
“Do you even love me anymore?”
“Here we go.” He stood.
“You’re never here!”
“I’m working my arse off! Baby’s coming, wedding to save for—”
“Wedding?” She brightened.
“Course. Kid needs both parents.”
She flung herself at him. He hid his grimace.
“Why not stay with your nan? Save on rent—I’ll crash at William’s. Call every day. Three months, I’ll fetch you. Yeah?”
“Really?”
He hadn’t expected her to agree. No fights, just relief. Emma missed her nan in Cornwall—her dad had bailed young, her mum died when she was sixteen. Nan raised her.
He played the doting fiancé until her train left, waving until the platform ended.
Then straight to Sophie. He never called Emma. New phone, new flat—Sophie’s. William tried confronting him, but Oliver had the bulk to shut that down.
Three months later, they married. But reality bit: Sophie’s dad let the wedding happen but barred him from the family firm. Sophie’s spending clashed with his paltry salary. He hit her once, accusing her of cheating with an old friend.
Next evening, her dad waited in their flat. “Pack your stuff. Lawyers’ll handle the rest. Try anything—you’re done.”
Oliver lost everything. But he wasn’t beaten. Plenty more fish.
Young girls never appealed—Emma and Sophie were enough. Now he targeted wealthy, *unattached* women. He tracked them from society pages, engineered “accidental” collisions. Lonely women always invited the handsome victim home…
Soon, he had a new car. One ageing lover even gifted him a flat—one-bed, outskirts, but his.
***
Now, parked outside William and Emma’s place, Oliver scowled. How’d *they* end up together? Probably she’d called, and William saw revenge. So *his* child bore another man’s name. Now *that* was twisted.
Or—was it love? He remembered their embrace, how they disappeared inside… “This isn’t over,” he muttered.
His phone rang. He fished it from his pocket.
“Where *are* you? I’m waiting, kitten,” came the shrill voice.
He forced cheer. “Missed me, sweetheart? On my way.” He tossed the phone aside like a live grenade.
“Kitten” was his wife—old enough to be his mum. She lavished him—new car, endless cash—on one condition: no cheating. One slip, and he’d be penniless.
“You’ve really done it now,” he sighed, driving off. “Ah well… she’s not getting younger. Just needs… careful handling. Think, mate. *Think*.”
“Money’s not about having it—it’s about using it right.”
