The sharp knock at the door startled Evelyn awake. She tightened her robe and peered through the peephole—a striking brunette in a leather jacket stood on her London flat’s doorstep.
“You’re Evelyn, right? Simon’s wife?”
“Yes… Who are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is why I’m here. Pack your things and get out. Simon and I are in love. He’s moving in with me—it’s his decision!”
Evelyn’s breath caught. The woman’s manicured fingers tapped impatiently against her designer handbag, her confidence radiating like a furnace. The Saturday morning peace shattered.
“I—I’m sorry, what?”
“Don’t play dumb!” The stranger stepped inside, heels clicking. “Simon’s sick of your control. He says you suffocate his ambition, mock his ideas. He’s made up his mind.”
Her words blurred into static. Simon? The man who’d kissed her last night over takeaway, begging for a loan to “secure their future”? The same man who called her his rock?
Evelyn swallowed the lump in her throat. “Come in. We should talk.” The world tilted, then righted itself—painfully, but clearly.
“I’m Natalie,” the brunette announced, sweeping past her. “And I’m not here to negotiate.”
The kitchen tiles chilled Evelyn’s bare feet. For the first time in five years, her mind was horrifyingly clear. *How didn’t I see this?* Or had she just chosen not to? Rose-tinted glasses, they say, shatter with the glass facing inward.
Flashes of the past flickered: her, a top estate agent with her own flat. Him, a charming stranger in a coffee shop, grinning over a cheap suit and grand promises. *“Just a rough patch, love. Wait and see—I’ll make us millions.”*
Then the whirlwind—daisies (always daisies, never roses), rushed proposals, and whispers of forever. Then the requests. *“Lend me five grand, sweetheart. This deal’s a sure thing.”* Again and again, while she worked double shifts, believing. And all along, he’d been scripting the same lie elsewhere.
Natalie’s voice cut through the silence. “Nice kitchen. Simon said he picked this place out himself. Brilliant eye.”
Evelyn exhaled sharply. “Wait here.” She returned with a leather folder. “Take a look. The deed—dated three years before I met Simon. And the name? Mine.”
Natalie’s smirk faltered. “But he said… he owned a property firm—”
Evelyn flipped open her laptop, pulling up her bank dashboard. “This is my salary. Senior agent at Knight Frank.” The screen glowed with steady, substantial deposits.
Natalie sank onto a stool. “He… he asked me to invest. Said we’d double it in a month.”
The front door creaked open.
“Of course we will!” Simon’s voice boomed. “Every penny!”
He strode in, wearing the cashmere jumper Evelyn had bought him last Christmas.
“Simon?” Natalie shot up. “You were supposed to be with the investors!”
“He asked me for money last night,” Evelyn said quietly. “Turns out I *am* the investor.”
Simon froze, eyes darting between them. Then—the grin, that damn grin. “Ladies, let’s talk this through. Natalie, your money’s safe—”
“*Where?*” Natalie lunged. “I sold my car! Borrowed from my parents! Where *is* it?”
“It’s—it’s all planned!” His voice pitched higher. “Another week and—”
“How many more are there?” Evelyn stood, cold rage steadying her. “How many ‘investors’ are funding your schemes?”
He licked his lips. “It’s not like that with Natalie—just business!”
Natalie let out a broken laugh. “Business? The weekends away? The ‘I love yous’?”
Under their stares, he cracked. “There was… an online trading thing. Almost foolproof.”
“You *gambled* it?” Natalie clutched her temples. “You blew my life savings on *bets*?”
“Not all! I’ve got a system—”
“Really?” Evelyn’s laugh was sharp. “Borrow from the wife to pay the mistress? Or is it the other way round?”
Natalie snatched her bag. “I’m done. The police will handle you.” The door slammed.
Simon turned, eyes pleading. “Evelyn, please… I messed up, but I love *you*.”
“The worst part?” Her voice didn’t waver. “You actually believe your own lies.”
“I’ll change! One more chance—”
“Sleep on the sofa. Tomorrow, you leave.”
“But where will I go?”
She shrugged. “Not my problem. You’ve got a *system*—see if it works.”
Dawn filtered through the curtains. Simon crept into the kitchen.
“Ev… I’ve had an epiphany. We can rebuild! I’ll get a job, pay everyone back—”
“I’m filing for divorce.”
His face paled. “You can’t—what about *me*?”
“Where were you going when you promised Natalie forever? Pack. Your. Bags.”
“I *can* change!”
“No.” The word was final. “No more lies.”
That evening, Natalie’s doorbell rang. Through the peephole: Simon, suitcases in tow.
“Nat, open up! Evelyn kicked me out… Now we can be together!” He launched into another spiel—new ventures, fresh investments.
Natalie pressed her palm to the door. “Piss off. The police report’s already filed.”
She listened as his footsteps faded.
Somewhere in Kensington, Simon trudged down the pavement, suitcases—filled with gifts bought by others—dragging behind him. His mind raced with half-formed plans. Just one more mark. One more believer.
And in two separate flats, two women nursed the same bitter truth: the most dangerous lie isn’t the one told—it’s the one you desperately *wish* were true.
