Oliver married Beatrice on purpose—to hurt Victoria. He wanted to prove that he wasn’t suffering after her betrayal.
He and Victoria had been together for nearly two years. He adored her, ready to move mountains and reshape his entire life for her dreams. He thought they were headed for marriage, but her constant dodging of the topic irritated him.
*”Why rush into marriage now? I haven’t finished university, and your business is barely scraping by. No decent car, no house of your own. Honestly, I don’t fancy sharing a kitchen with your sister either. If you hadn’t sold that house, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”* That was the refrain he often heard from Victoria.
It stung, but Oliver had to admit there was truth in it. He and his sister Emily lived in their parents’ flat, the business was just finding its feet, and he was still finishing his degree. He’d had to step up early to keep things afloat. Selling the house had been a mutual decision—they needed to save their parents’ struggling hardware shop.
Within six months, debts had piled up, and they were still studying. The sale cleared their obligations, restocked the shop, and even left a small nest egg.
Victoria, meanwhile, believed in living for the moment, not waiting for some uncertain future. From her comfortable perch—financed entirely by her parents—it was easy to say. But Oliver had grown up fast: sister, business, responsibilities. He was sure things would improve—a house, a car, a garden. Nothing hinted at disaster.
They’d arranged to meet at the cinema, and Victoria asked him not to pick her up—she’d come on her own. Oliver waited at the stop when suddenly, she pulled up in a flashy car. She stepped out, handed him a book, and said, *”Sorry, we can’t be together anymore. I’m getting married,”* before turning back to the car.
Oliver froze. What could have changed in the few days he’d been away? When he got home, Emily took one look at his face and sighed. *”You already know?”* He just nodded. *”She’s marrying some rich bloke. Asked me to be a bridesmaid—I refused. She’s a cheat! She was seeing him behind your back!”*
Oliver hugged his sister, ruffling her hair. *”It’s alright. Let her be happy. We’ll be happier.”* Then he locked himself in his room for a full day. Emily tried coaxing him out. *”At least eat something. I made pancakes…”*
By evening, he emerged, eyes burning. *”We need to prepare.”*
*”For what? What’s got into you?”*
*”I’m marrying the first woman who says yes,”* he said coldly.
*”You can’t! It’s not just your life!”* Emily protested, but it was useless.
*”If you won’t come with me, I’ll go alone.”*
At the park, women pointed at their heads or scurried away—until one met his gaze and said yes.
*”What’s your name, love?”*
*”Beatrice.”*
*”Let’s celebrate our engagement!”* He dragged Beatrice and Emily to a café.
An awkward silence blanketed the table. Emily fidgeted; Oliver’s mind churned with revenge. He’d already decided: their wedding would be on the twenty-fifth, just like Victoria’s.
*”I suppose there’s a proper reason you proposed to a stranger,”* Beatrice said, breaking the quiet. *”If it was just a whim, I won’t hold it against you. I’ll walk away.”*
*”No. You’ve given your word.”* He grinned. *”We’ll file the paperwork tomorrow and meet your parents.”*
For the month before the wedding, they saw each other daily, talking, learning.
*”Will you ever tell me why you did this?”* Beatrice asked once.
*”Everyone’s got their skeletons,”* Oliver deflected.
*”As long as they don’t haunt the present.”*
*”And why did you say yes?”*
*”I fancied myself a princess handed off to the first suitor. In fairy tales, it always ends well—*they lived happily ever after.* I wanted to see for myself.”*
But the truth wasn’t so simple. A past love had left her heartbroken and slightly poorer, but wiser. She’d learned to read people. Suitors who flocked to her were swiftly dismissed. She wasn’t searching for perfection—just someone clever, independent, and decisive. In Oliver, she saw that.
*”So which princess are you?”* Oliver mused. *”The sorrowful one, the fair maiden, or the frog princess?”*
*”A kiss will tell you,”* she teased.
But there were no kisses, no intimacy. Oliver orchestrated every wedding detail; Beatrice simply chose from his offerings—even the dress and veil. *”You’ll be the most beautiful,”* he kept saying.
At the registry office, they unexpectedly crossed paths with Victoria and her fiancé. Oliver forced a smile. *”Let me congratulate you,”* he said, kissing her cheek. *”Hope you’re happy with your walking wallet.”*
*”Don’t make a scene,”* Victoria hissed.
She scrutinised Beatrice—tall, striking, regal. Victoria paled in comparison. Jealousy clawed at her; she felt no joy, only regret.
Oliver turned to Beatrice, tense. *”All good?”*
*”It’s not too late to stop,”* she whispered.
*”No. We see this through.”*
Only during the ceremony, seeing the sorrow in his new wife’s eyes, did Oliver grasp what he’d done.
*”I’ll make you happy,”* he vowed, almost believing it.
Their life together began. Emily and Beatrice quickly bonded, balancing each other—Emily’s impulsiveness tempered by Beatrice’s steady hand. Beatrice, an accountant, soon streamlined their finances. Within months, they opened a second shop, then launched a construction team, expanding into full home builds. Profits soared.
She was his Vasilisa the Wise—her ideas so deftly presented, Oliver thought them his own. By all accounts, they thrived. Yet Oliver missed the dizzying passion he’d felt with Victoria. *”Routine,”* he thought. *”Like quicksand. I don’t love it. That’s that.”*
Their first self-built home was a masterpiece. The better life became, the more Oliver dwelled on Victoria. *”If only she’d waited. Look at my car now! The house—not a house, a palace!”* Pride curdled into temptation. *”What if…?”*
Beatrice saw his torment. She longed to be loved, but hearts can’t be commanded. *”Not all fairy tales have happy endings,”* she thought, but hope lingered—her name demanded it.
Emily watched her brother closely. *”You’ll lose more than you gain,”* she said, catching him on Victoria’s social media.
*”Stay out of it!”* he snapped.
*”You’re a fool. Beatrice loves you, and you’re playing games.”*
Oliver seethed. *”As if I need a child lecturing me.”* Yet Victoria’s pull grew stronger. He messaged her.
Victoria complained—her marriage had crumbled. Her husband left her penniless. She’d dropped out of uni, had no steady job, and rented a dingy flat in Manchester.
Oliver agonised: *”Do I go?”* When Beatrice left to visit her ailing grandmother, he finally arranged a meeting.
He drove recklessly to Manchester, heart pounding, rehearsing speeches. Reality hit hard.
*”Look at you!”* Victoria lunged at him. The stench of unwashed skin made him recoil.
*”People are staring.”*
*”I don’t care!”* She laughed, slurring.
Short skirt, garish makeup, cheap perfume—this vulgar stranger bore no resemblance to his elegant Beatrice. *”Was she always like this? How did I not see it?”*
*”Give me some cash, and I’ll make it worth your while,”* she purred.
Oliver stood abruptly. *”I’ve got things to do.”*
*”Will I see you again?”*
*”Doubt it.”* He tossed the waiter a fifty. *”She stays within this.”*
Speeding home, Oliver cursed himself. *”Emily was right. What was I thinking?”* Then it struck him—*”I haven’t once called Beatrice ‘my wife.’ She’s all I have.”*
He pulled over, replaying their years together—her bright blue eyes, her smile, the way she’d tuck his hair behind his ear.
*”I promised to make her happy.”*
Turning the car around, he drove straight to her grandmother’s village.
*”A week was too long. I couldn’t last two days without you,”* he said as Beatrice ran to him.
*”You’re completely mad,”* she laughed through tears.
*”BeAs they held each other under the old oak tree, Oliver realized true love wasn’t found in grand gestures or revenge, but in quiet moments like this—where no words were needed.
