“You’re nothing without me,” the man told me. But a year later, he begged me for a job in my office.
The dim light of the flat made his words sound like a verdict. Emily stood in the doorway, fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. She said nothing. Not out of fear. No. It was more like the stunned paralysis of someone watching a car crash—terrified, yet unable to look away.
“Cat got your tongue?” James straightened, casting her a disdainful glance. “Ten years I carried you. Ten years you hid behind me. And now what? You think you can manage on your own?”
Emily lifted her eyes to his. There were no tears in her gaze—just the dull reflection of the lamp and something new. Something he had never seen in her before.
“I already am,” she said quietly.
He laughed. Once, that confident laugh had charmed her. Now, it rang hollow.
“We’ll see,” he scoffed, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “A month. I’ll give you a month before you come crawling back.”
The door slammed shut with such force that a photo frame fell from the shelf. The glass cracked right between their faces.
The first days were strange. The silence in the flat scraped at her ears—not comforting, but sharp as a taut wire. Emily caught herself listening for every shuffle in the hallway, for the lift, for keys turning in other doors.
At dinner, she mechanically set two places. In the morning, she poured two cups of coffee. Each time she realised, she froze, hands trembling.
*You’re nothing without me.*
The words haunted her. They echoed in the rush of the tap, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of the clock. And the worst part? There had been truth in them. Who was she? The wife of a successful man—that’s how she’d been introduced at corporate events. The mistress of a perfect home—that’s what acquaintances called her. But without those labels, who was left?
Her bank account was dwindling fast. Their joint savings had been taken by James “for business” six months earlier. All that remained was her own meagre sum—enough for two, maybe three months before she’d have to borrow.
Her CV looked pathetic. Education—check. Experience—minimal, from a decade ago. Skills? What could she even write? *Expert ironing. Stain removal specialist. Knows all my husband’s contacts?*
Her phone stayed silent. And not just from employers—friends too. Turned out, most of their “mutual friends” had been his all along. They started avoiding her, cancelling plans, fading from her life.
Evenings, Emily sat by the window, watching life unfold outside. People rushed past, purposeful, with plans. And her? Only emptiness.
One night, she pulled a box down from the loft. Inside lay her old student sketches—interior designs, blueprints, rough drafts. Once, she’d dreamed of creating spaces where people would feel at home. Flipping through the yellowed pages, she felt something stir inside her.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered aloud, slamming the folder shut.
Yet the next day, she opened it again.
“Emily? Emily Bennett? Is that really you?”
A bright voice called out in the supermarket. It was Sophie—her university friend—who looked almost the same, just with shorter hair and a new confidence in her eyes.
“Look at you! You haven’t changed a bit!” Sophie hugged her. “How are you? Still drawing those magical interiors?”
Emily shook her head.
“Not in years. Life, you know…”
“Ah, right. Heard you married that hotshot lawyer. What was his name—”
“James. We split up.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. But once spoken, there was no taking them back. Sophie didn’t press. Just gave her a long, considering look.
“We’ve got an opening for a junior at the studio. Paperwork mostly, nothing fancy. But it could get you back into the field. If you want.”
Emily’s heart leapt. A chance.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, taking the business card.
At home, unpacking groceries, she stared at the little rectangle of cardstock with the studio’s logo. A slim chance. But a chance all the same.
*You’re nothing without me.*
Emily took a deep breath and dialled.
“Sophie? It’s Emily. I’ll take it.”
The *Contrast Studio* was squeezed into a crumbling old building, but inside, it was beautiful—high ceilings, enormous windows that could fit a sailboat. Emily hovered by the glass doors, ice in her stomach. Her heart hammered—every instinct screamed *run*. Beyond the glass, figures moved, voices chattered, a coffee machine hissed. This was another world—not hers of folded shirts and spotless tea towels.
*Go on. Be brave.*
She pulled the door open.
The first week was a trial by fire. The computer fought her, new software confused her, colleagues seemed impossibly self-assured. She felt ancient, useless, among these young talents. Her fingers fumbled, her words tangled. Evenings, she returned home and wept silently, curled on the sofa.
*You’re nothing without me.*
She hated that those words still held power.
By Friday, she nearly bolted. A drafting error, the boss’s frown, the pitying looks—*what am I doing here?* But on her way out, Sophie stopped her.
“Hey, not so fast. We’ve got a little work do tonight. Just round the corner. Need to mingle with the team.”
Emily meant to refuse, but Sophie was already steering her down the street, raving about a new bar with incredible cocktails.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” she said, weaving through the crowd to their table. “Everyone does. You’ve got a great eye for space. Saw that café sketch you did—so stylish. Just need practice with the new programs.”
Emily blinked.
“You saw that? But I never submitted—”
“Peeked by accident,” Sophie grinned. “Sorry. But it’s brilliant. You should think about your own projects.”
The cocktail was indeed incredible. Or maybe it was the company—for the first time in years, Emily felt among *her* people. They talked projects, debated design choices, argued over trends, laughed at office jokes. And no one—*no one*—looked at her as “James’s wife.”
She got home past midnight, head buzzing with ideas, phone full of new contacts. On the table, her sketches no longer looked like mistakes—they pulsed with possibility.
Emily pulled out a fresh sheet and began to draw. Not for work, not for a brief—for herself. For the first time in a decade.
Her first solo project came out of nowhere. A regular Wednesday, an ordinary workday. Emily had graduated from intern to junior designer a month prior.
“Client for you,” Sophie popped her head in. “Tiny café on Garden Street. Want a refresh. Think you can handle it?”
Emily nodded.
“I can.”
The café *was* tiny—just six tables in an old bakery. The owner, a bearded bloke named Daniel, seemed familiar.
“We were at uni together,” he explained, catching her puzzlement. “You were in design, I did economics. Even danced together at some student ball.”
Emily flushed. She didn’t remember him at all.
“Always thought you were talented,” he said as they surveyed the space. “Saw your work at the degree show. So when I heard you were back in the game, I knew—only you’d design my place.”
*You’re nothing without me.*
The words flashed in her mind, but for the first time, they held no weight. They were just words from a man she’d once loved—and no longer knew.
She worked nights. Drew, drafted, sourced materials, haggled with suppliers. The little café became her proving ground—the start of her new story.
When it was done, even stern Archie, *Contrast*’s creative director, gave a grudging nod.
“Not bad, Bennett. Could be bolder, but for a first go—decent.”
High praise.
*The Garden Café* opened in November. Daniel insisted her name be on the door—tiny, elegant letters beside the logo.
Her little triumph. Emily stood in the corner, watching strangers admire her work, unaware the designer was among them. A pure, quiet joy.
“Offer you a stake in the business,” Archie said three months later, when *The Garden* was the city’s hottest spot and Emily had a waiting list of clients. “Five percent to start. You bring in work, you’ve got vision—you’re practically running your own arm of the studio. Time to make it official.”
Emily scanned the contract. Her own studio—even under *Contrast*’s wing—was more than she’d ever dreamed.
She signed, fingers trembling.
“Welcome, partner,” Archie shook her hand.
That evening, she and Sophie sat in the same bar where they’d toasted her first week.
“Knew you’d get here,” Sophie raised her glass. “Saw it in
