**Where Is Love?**
Emma was a lively, spirited, and charming young woman. Men buzzed around her like bees to honey, but she took her time, weighing her options. The older she got, the higher her standards climbed.
Her mother had raised her alone, and Emma knew all too well what it meant to count every penny. She didn’t have half the things her friends took for granted—so she vowed to marry only a man who could give her security.
And then she met him: handsome, successful, well-off—the works. A flat in London, a luxury car, the whole package. What more could she dream of? Prince Charming, in a word. Naturally, she fell head over heels. Emma was pretty, sure, but what did she bring to the table? Youth and beauty, which she hadn’t yet realized were commodities too.
She was smitten. How could she not be? The attention, the lavish gifts, the envious glances—it was intoxicating.
When she brought him home to meet her mum, she was certain he’d be approved. What mother wouldn’t want her daughter to land a catch like this? A life of comfort, no financial worries—this was the dream. But once he left, her mum had other thoughts.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a fine match,” she said carefully. “But what does he see in *you*? You’re young and lovely, but there are thousands like you. Why *you*? Love, you’d be better off with someone simpler. You’re from different worlds. And he’s much older—probably divorced, kids from a previous marriage. Don’t roll your eyes. Right now, it might not seem important, but mark my words—you won’t be happy with him.”
“We’ll see about that,” Emma snapped. “He divorced years ago. His son lives abroad.”
“You’ll bend over backward trying to fit into his life. Remember Cinderella? The prince fell for her at the ball when she was all dolled up. In fairy tales, it’s easy—real life isn’t. What will you even talk about? Your worlds don’t overlap. Sooner or later, society will push him toward someone of his own standing. You’re too different.”
“I didn’t expect this from you, Mum. I thought you’d be happy for me. Instead, you’re never satisfied. So what—should I just never marry? Live in fear of being dumped?”
“I’m not against it, but—”
“Marry a penniless bloke like me? Would *that* guarantee we’d stay together? Stop trying to change my mind, Mum. I’ll take whatever happiness I can get. At least I won’t have to worry about money.”
“Maybe you’re right,” her mother sighed. “God willing, your happiness lasts.”
Emma basked in the envy—women eyeing David with interest, then throwing her resentful glances. When he picked her up from work, colleagues gawked. *He chose me*, she told herself. *That’s love. Love conquers all, doesn’t it?*
David proposed with a dazzling diamond ring—not some dainty thing, but a proper seven-carat sparkler. Her head spun with joy. It *would* be different. Mum was wrong.
Then came wedding dress shopping. Emma had dreamed of this moment, scrolling through websites, imagining the perfect gown. But the prices made her gasp. They’d planned a trip to the boutique together—until work got in the way. David handed her his card instead. “Pick the one you love. Don’t hold back.”
She didn’t bring her mum, who’d faint at the sight of the price tags. And she had no close girlfriend to help. So she went alone.
The rows of ivory silk and lace left her breathless—like stepping into a fairy tale. Her future *was* a fairy tale. Then she checked the price of the first gown. Three months’ salary. Her stomach lurched. She felt like a fraud, an imposter in a place this posh.
The shop assistant’s polite smile felt condescending. Emma fumbled through describing her dream dress—the one she’d sketched as a girl. The assistant brought out confections so exquisite, Emma stopped checking prices. David had told her not to. She wanted him to be proud.
And then—magic. The assistants’ smiles warmed from polite to admiring as she twirled in dress after dress. It felt *good* not to pinch pennies. If only David were here, sipping coffee like in the films while she paraded in gown after gown, watching him nod or shake his head—
She found *the* one. A masterpiece that hugged her curves, enhancing every inch. To keep it from David (and spare her mum a heart attack), she left it at the boutique until the wedding.
The reception was lavish—a countryside manor, fireworks, a live orchestra under the stars.
“Lucky you, Emma,” sighed her envious colleagues. “Landing a man like that.”
“What, rich? Handsome?” She laughed. “He’s got *plenty* more going for him.”
The first disappointment came quickly. Before, they’d gone out almost nightly. Now? David barely left the house. Work calls, exhaustion—he preferred takeaway on the sofa. Emma wandered their massive flat, bored.
“Fancy dinner out?” she’d ask hopefully.
“Too tired. Your cooking’s brilliant—why waste money?”
She missed dressing up for him, feeling desired. Now? Home from work, apron on, straight to the stove.
When cooking got old, she ordered in. No ulcers. David devoured it, thanking her with a kiss.
Things improved when she got pregnant. He offered to hire help, but she refused. Proudly cradling her bump, she glowed. Motherhood was happiness.
The birth went smoothly. Their son was healthy. Emma’s body changed—softened. She devoted herself to the baby.
David frowned at her worn-out mum uniform.
“Easier for breastfeeding,” she mumbled.
His disapproving glances grew frequent. He stayed late—meetings, work crises.
“You’ve lost interest since the baby,” she accused.
“I *offered* you a nanny,” he muttered.
“There’s someone else.”
“You said it, not me. But spot on. Yes, there is. Look at you. I give you money—why don’t you *use* it?”
“I thought the baby mattered more than my waistline! I’m *exhausted*!”
It unraveled fast. Arguments, bitterness. David was rarely home; Emma simmered with jealousy. One sleepless night, she packed a bag and called her mum.
“Mum, can I stay with you?”
“Why? Renovations?”
“Something like that.”
“Of course, love.”
David came home to emptiness. He called—first pleading, then threatening.
“Fine. The flat’s mine. You get child support—nothing else.” Click.
Emma wept. Was *this* what she’d dreamed of? Where had love gone? Had it ever been real?
Her mum’s cramped flat was a comedown.
“Oh, love. Told you, didn’t I? We’ll manage,” Mum sighed.
Then the divorce papers arrived. No notice, no court date—just a stamped envelope.
Time passed. Her son started nursery. Emma returned to work, shed the baby weight, regained her spark. Men noticed again—but she ignored them. Her heart needed mending.
Mum nagged relentlessly. “Your poor boy needs a father!”
Emma buried herself in work. No love life? Fine—she’d climb the ladder. Soon, she earned enough to buy her own flat. Two promotions later, she was thriving.
“This isn’t *life*, Emma. Vinnie needs a dad!”
“There’s no one *to* marry. They see me as a meal ticket—not a woman. I don’t want that.”
Then *he* started at her firm. Oliver—posh, charming, fresh from uni abroad. He flirted shamelessly. She laughed him off. A *boy*?
But nature has its way. Colleagues warned him—”Emma’s ice. Don’t waste your time.”
Oliver grinned. “We’ll see.”
One rainy evening, he “happened” to catch her without an umbrella. He drove her home. One thing led to another—a kiss at her doorstep. Her heart *stuttered*. It had been so long…
She set ground rules: no strings, no gossip, or he’d be sacked. Then invited him for coffee. (Vinnie was at Mum’s.)
They met occasionally. Against her will, she fell for him—then scolded herself.
Until one dinner.
Oliver waved at the door. “There’s my dad. You’ll like him.”
Before she could protest, he was gone. *Perfect. Just what I need.*
“Emma, this is my father, James Aldridge. Dad, this is—”
She looked up. *Him.* Older, but unmistakable.
James paled. “You? Here to sabotage me?”
“Dad, what—? You *know* each otherShe looked at both men—the one who’d broken her heart and the one who might mend it—and quietly said, “Goodbye,” before walking away, ready to finally write her own happy ending.
