Unexpectedly Married
Emily sprinted through the shopping centre, arms laden with designer bags, dodging slow-moving shoppers on the escalator. She cursed under her breath at her hapless boyfriend, James, who didn’t own a car to rescue her from this retail nightmare. Of course, the taxi she’d ordered arrived suspiciously fast, forcing her to hobble across the mall in heels, weighted down like a packhorse.
Honestly, it was beyond annoying. Not only did she have to haul everything herself, but her ridiculously expensive leather shoes had already gnawed a blister into her heel.
“Watch where you’re going, love!” snapped a woman Emily accidentally smacked with a bag on the escalator.
“Maybe keep your head up instead of daydreaming,” Emily shot back without so much as a glance.
“Rude!” the woman huffed, but Emily couldn’t care less.
She burst through the doors into the car park—only to check her phone and find the driver had cancelled. The fare had doubled. Fuming, Emily cancelled the ride, shoved her phone into her pocket, and spotted a blessedly empty bench. She dumped her bags and flopped down beside them, wrenching off the offending shoe with a groan.
“Brilliant. Just brilliant. The universe is conspiring against me today,” she muttered, shoving a shopping bag hard enough for the receipt to flutter out.
Leaning back, she closed her eyes. Lately, it felt like life had it out for her.
***
Emily had always aimed high—no half-measures. The latest phone. The priciest salon for nails and hair. Designer shoes. Naturally, she applied the same standards to men. Yet somehow, instead of landing a wealthy, handsome genius, she kept striking out with blokes who might as well have been labelled “unsellable stock.” Too old, too dull, too bald, too broke. She’d sifted through them all. Still, none fit the bill.
“One day, you’ll be left with nobody,” her mum often warned. “A man’s worth is in his actions, not his wallet or his face.”
“And am I meant to stare at his good deeds all night?” Emily would counter. “Besides, nice gestures cost money, Mum.”
Her mother never had a comeback. Emily’s sharp tongue could outmanoeuvre anyone—odd for someone who worked as a restaurant hostess. But three years ago, something had shifted. She’d watched well-dressed women draped in furs waltz in on the arms of wealthy men and thought, *Why not me?*
Yet life had other plans. Rich suitors never glanced her way. Something—maybe her Midlands accent, maybe her high-street wardrobe—always gave her away. But Emily dreamed of a man with influence, a luxury car, and bespoke suits from Savile Row.
Years passed. Men came and went. Still, no prince. So when James, a bank clerk four years older with a stable income, started pursuing her, she caved. He wasn’t much to look at—mousy-brown hair, average height, the kind of build that suggested gym memberships bought but unused. But he did own a two-bed flat (mortgaged, of course). No car, though. “Public transport’s perfectly adequate in London,” he insisted.
Kind but persistent, James wooed her with flowers, dinners, unwavering patience. Three months in, under maternal pressure, Emily relented.
“Decent bloke, worships the ground you walk on—what more d’you want?” her mum pressed. “Better a bird in the hand, love.”
Grudgingly, Emily agreed. To her surprise, life with James wasn’t terrible. He doted on her—paid for little luxuries, whisked her abroad (budget flights, mind), cooked, brought her coffee in bed, even funded her shopping trips. Worse, he was *serious* about proposing.
A year slipped by. Emily adjusted but never stopped dreaming—or complaining to friends about James’s inadequacies. Though really… she had little to whinge about.
***
“Why assume the world’s against you? I’m quite enjoying this chance encounter,” a voice purred near Emily’s ear.
She jolted upright. Behind her stood Andrew—a boy from her college days she’d once publicly shot down.
At first, she didn’t recognise him. Gone was the lanky, acne-riddled student. Before her stood a sharp-dressed brunet with a tailored beard, broad shoulders, and a leather biker jacket.
“Blimey. Andrew? You’ve… *changed*,” Emily managed.
“Time’s been kind,” he grinned. “You, though—sitting here, one shoe off, looking like you’ve lost a fiver and found a penny. What’s the drama?”
Flustered, Emily spilled her taxi woes (omitting James, naturally).
“Let me drive you home,” Andrew offered. “My car’s just there.”
Emily followed his gaze to a gleaming black Range Rover. She accepted faster than you could say “gold digger,” rubbing her aching foot for good measure. Within minutes, Andrew was loading her bags, gallantly helping her in.
As they drove, Emily eyed him—confidence oozing, expensive cologne lingering. This was no tongue-tied college boy.
“So,” she purred, “what’s your secret? This glow-up’s unreal.”
“Luck and the right connections,” he chuckled. “But I’ll share details over dinner. Fancy stopping somewhere?”
Emily’s mental arithmetic was swift. Wealthy? Check. Handsome? Check. Interested? *Very* check.
“Starving,” she lied.
By the time their meals arrived at the bistro, Andrew had explained: dropped out, became a programmer, now ran his own AI startup.
Emily listened, wide-eyed.
“You’re *amazing*,” she gushed. “Always knew you’d go far.”
Andrew smirked. “And you? Married yet?”
Emily’s head shook violently. Suddenly, James—same job, same dull routine—seemed painfully small next to Andrew’s sparkle.
They talked for hours. His yacht trips. Skiing in Verbier. The £20k watch on his wrist. Emily melted. *This* was the man she deserved.
After dinner, he paid without glancing at the bill.
“Shame to end the night,” he murmured.
“My diary’s clear,” Emily blurted.
“Excellent. How about the cinema?”
They went. They lingered. They laughed. Andrew hinted he’d been “single too long.”
When James texted, Emily claimed she was at a friend’s. As the evening cooled, Andrew suggested coffee in his car.
One thing led to another.
“That was *magical*,” Emily sighed later, fixing her lipstick as the Range Rover sped through foggy streets. “When will I see you again?”
“I’ll… call you,” Andrew said, scanning for a parking spot.
She floated home, head buzzing—equal parts giddy and guilty.
Next day, she dumped James.
“You’re not what I want,” she declared, packing her things.
James just nodded stiffly. He’d known she wasn’t at a friend’s. But pride stopped him from begging.
Emily pranced back to her mum’s, triumphant.
A week passed. No call.
She dialled Andrew. No answer.
Frantic, she stalked his socials—only to find photos of a *wife*, two toddlers, holidays in Mallorca.
“But… he said he was single!”
She called again. This time, he answered.
“Emily. Stop calling.”
“You *lied*! You’re married!”
“We had fun. That’s all.”
“I’ll tell your wife!”
“Go ahead. Where’s your proof?” Click.
The realisation hit like a bucket of cold tea. She’d been played. And crawling back to James? Impossible.
Emily collapsed onto her bed, weeping. Her fairy tale had slapped her in the face—hard.
