**Think It Over, Mate**
I pulled my car into the petrol station, rolling down the window.
“Premium, fill her up,” I called to the attendant before stepping inside.
As I reached the door, I nearly collided with a man who barely glanced at me before staring back at his phone. *Nigel?* I almost blurted out his name but caught myself just in time. Inside, I watched through the glass as my former friend climbed into a sleek Jaguar. My hands shook slightly as I handed my card to the cashier.
By the time I got back outside, the Jag was already pulling onto the road. Without hesitation, I jumped into my Toyota and followed.
*Quite the coincidence. Look at him now—living the high life. Did he marry well? Doesn’t matter, I’ll find out soon enough.* I kept my eyes fixed on the car ahead, refusing to lose sight of it.
The Jaguar turned into a posh gated community. When it stopped outside one of the mansions, I rolled past slowly, watching in the rearview as the gates swung open. A security camera loomed above, so I slouched in my seat to stay out of view.
Through the iron fence, I saw Nigel park in front of the garage. A woman stepped onto the grand front porch. My breath caught. Even from this distance, I recognised her.
“No bloody way,” I muttered.
She descended the steps and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck. They walked inside together, the door shutting behind them.
*They’re married. That’s their house. Unbelievable. How did this happen? Revenge? But Gemma? Quiet, mousy Gemma, living like this? And Nigel—some friend he turned out to be. Could’ve been me in his place…*
***
The club was thick with bass and cigarette smoke. Neon lights sliced through the dimness, flashing over flushed faces. I leaned against the bar, sipping my drink, eyes skimming over the crowd until I spotted a tall blonde in a tight scarlet dress. *Not bad.*
Before I could take another sip, his voice cut through the noise.
“This is my mate Darren.” Nigel draped an arm around the girl in red as they approached. “Darren, meet Phoebe—my girlfriend.”
I gave her a slow once-over. Up close, she was stunning—big blue eyes, dimples, golden hair spilling over her shoulders. A real catch.
“Like what you see?” Nigel smirked.
“What’re you drinking?” I asked, my gaze still on Phoebe.
“I’m driving,” she said. “Why don’t we head back to mine? Too loud here, and I could use a proper drink.”
“Coming?” Nigel nudged me.
I drained my glass and stood.
Outside, music faded into the hum of the city.
“Nice ride, huh?” Nigel jerked his chin at a cherry-red Aston Martin. “Phoebe’s dad bought it for her birthday.” He winked like he’d had a hand in it.
*How the hell did he land her?* I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Nigel was nowhere near as fit as me. *And he never even mentioned her.*
“Why’d you leave Gemma at home? Invited both of you,” Nigel said as we sped through night streets.
“Not feeling well. Morning sickness.” Just saying her name soured my mood.
“No way! Keeping the wedding quiet?” He laughed.
I stayed silent. Didn’t want to talk about Gemma.
The Aston stopped at a high-rise. We rode the mirrored elevator up to the penthouse.
“Yours?” I eyed the lavish flat. “Where’d you find a girl like this?” I whispered.
“Crossing the road,” he laughed. “Nearly ran me over.”
I kept refilling his wine until he slumped, drunk. Phoebe led him to bed. When she returned, I was studying a painting.
“That’s mine,” she said.
“Can you paint me?”
“Painters *paint*, Darren.” She stepped back, scrutinising me. “You’ve got good structure. Ever posed nude?”
“Now?”
“Not here. My studio. Call you when I’m free.”
When I got home, Gemma was crying on the sofa.
“You’ve been drinking,” she accused.
“Just a few with Nigel.”
“Dinner?”
“Not hungry. Need sleep.” I shut the bathroom door behind me.
*How did I get stuck in this mess?* Gemma was sweet, but pregnancy ruined everything. Phoebe, though—different league. Needed to end things with Gemma, fast.
Under the shower, I replayed Phoebe’s touch. No way Nigel deserved her. But Gemma was in the way. A nice girl, yes, but Phoebe had money—and connections.
Growing up poor, I craved wealth. Marrying rich was the shortcut. Phoebe ticked every box. Just had to ditch Gemma.
I climbed into bed, back turned to her.
Two days later, Phoebe’s call came. I arrived at her studio dressed to impress.
“Strip,” she said.
“Now?”
“Students rent this place. We’ve got two hours. Changed your mind?”
I undressed. She posed me, ignoring my bare skin, then sketched for twenty minutes before I cracked.
“Need a break.”
She sighed. “Coffee, then.”
While she was gone, I checked the sketch—flattering. I crept into the kitchen and grabbed her from behind. She turned, wrapping herself around me…
I left grinning. Too easy.
At home, Gemma sobbed.
“You don’t love me anymore?”
“Here we go.” I stood.
“You’re never here!”
“Working my arse off for this baby! Need savings for the wedding too.”
Her face lit up. “Wedding?”
“Course. Kid needs a mum *and* dad.”
She flung herself at me. I hid my grimace.
“Why not stay with your gran for a bit? Save on rent. I’ll crash at Nigel’s. Call every day. Pick you up in three months?”
“Really?”
No fight, no screaming. Too easy.
I played doting for days, then put her on a train to Liverpool, waving until she vanished.
Never called. Changed my number. Moved in with Phoebe. Nigel tried to fight me—pathetic.
Three months later, Phoebe and I married. Reality hit fast. Her dad refused me a job, despite her tears. We argued. Once, I hit her.
Next day, her father stood in our flat: “Pack your things. Lawyers will handle the divorce. Cause trouble, and you’ll regret it.”
Lost everything. But I bounced back. Plenty more fish.
Young girls bored me—been there. Now, I hunted wealthy, independent women, no husbands or meddling parents. Learned their routines, “accidentally” stepped in front of their Bentleys. Lonely hearts took pity, invited me home…
Now I dressed sharp. Got a new Beamer. One old bird even bought me a flat—tiny, in a dull borough, but mine.
***
Sitting in my car outside Nigel and Gemma’s mansion, I fumed. *How’d they end up together?*
Probably she hunted me down, rang Nigel for answers. And he took her—revenge for Phoebe. So *my* child bore his name now. Clever.
Or was it love? The way they’d kissed, walked in together… *I’ll think of something.*
My phone rang.
“Where *are* you? I’m waiting, darling,” purred a voice—my current wife, old enough to be my mum but loaded. She’d bought the Beamer, funded my life. One condition: no cheating. Catch me with a younger girl, and I’d be tossed out with nothing.
I forced a laugh. “Miss me, sweetheart? On my way.”
Tossed the phone aside like poison.
*Walked right into this one, didn’t you?* I sighed, driving off. *But she’s not young. Accidents happen. Just need a plan. Think it over, mate. Think…*
“Money isn’t owned—it’s mastered.”
