**A Second Chance**
“Jeanne, are you heading home?” Svetlana drummed her manicured nails impatiently against the desk.
“No, I’ll stay a bit. My husband’s supposed to pick me up,” Jeanne lied smoothly.
“Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” Swaying her hips, Svetlana left the office.
One by one, the staff trickled out. Outside, hurried footsteps and the click of heels echoed down the hall. Jeanne picked up her phone and hesitated. “Probably already had a few pints, sprawled in front of the telly, belly up,” she thought with a sigh before dialling. After three long rings, the murmuring of a football match crackled through, then Victor’s voice:
“Yeah?”
“Vic, it’s pouring, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Sorry, love, didn’t know you’d call—had a drink. Get a cab?”
“Typical. Should’ve known. Funny how you promised to carry me in your arms when you proposed.”
“Jeanne, sweetheart, the match—” The roar of the crowd drowned him out. She hung up.
Those days were long gone when he’d wait outside her office. Back then, he didn’t even have a car, yet he’d come for her without fail. Jeanne exhaled, turned off her computer, grabbed her coat, and stepped into the empty corridor.
The sharp clack of her heels shattered the quiet. Everyone had left. Downstairs by the security desk, Deputy Director Charles Whitmore stood, tall and lean in a sleek black overcoat, phone pressed to his ear—more like a Hollywood star than a corporate suit. The women whispered he was single.
Jeanne had always been sharp-tongued. “Must be something wrong with him, handsome as he is,” she’d once quipped.
“Seen with a model,” Svetlana had said, the office gossipmonger. “Can’t remember her name, but she’s always in magazines.”
Victor hadn’t been bad-looking in his youth—thirty pull-ups daily at the park bars. But then… laziness set in. The beer gut grew. Now, every evening, Jeanne came home to the same sight: Victor flopped on the sofa, telly blaring, a lager can at his feet.
She’d nearly reached the door when a deep, velvety voice sent shivers down her spine.
“Jeanne Elizabeth, working late?”
“Thought my husband would pick me up. Guess not.” She turned with a smile.
Charles pocketed his phone and stepped closer. “Let me drive you.” He held the door open.
“Oh, no need—I’ll call a cab,” she protested, stepping into the rain. Puddles dotted the pavement. Her suede boots were doomed.
“Consider your cab arrived.” Charles offered his arm. How could she refuse? Pity none of the girls saw—they’d be seething. Plenty had their eyes on him.
He disabled the Range Rover’s alarm and opened the door. Jeanne hopped in with a playful gasp, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Charles shut the door with a soft click, circled the car, and slid into the driver’s seat.
“I’ve noticed you. Firm but fair—never too harsh, never too soft. You could head Marketing.”
“What about Margaret?” Jeanne blinked, caught off guard.
“Time she retired. Reliable, but she struggles with new systems.”
Jeanne shifted, guilt pinching. Margaret had trained her. But the offer was too good to pass up.
“Her grandson’s getting married. She wanted to save for his flat,” Jeanne said softly.
“That’s not your concern. She’ll get a fair severance. So, do we have a deal?”
She felt his gaze tracing her profile. For a second, she stared ahead, pretending to ponder. When she turned, he was watching the road.
Jeanne suddenly realised they’d nearly passed her street. “Turn right—that’s my building. Stop there.”
The car halted, but she lingered, scrambling for the right words.
“Perhaps lunch sometime?” His voice was like melted chocolate.
Her heart raced. “Perhaps,” she teased, flashing a smile before stepping into the damp evening.
“Till tomorrow,” he beamed.
Her head spun as the Range Rover bounced over potholes out of sight.
The next day, they lunched together at a café—in full view of the office. Then came dinners. Then…
Needless to say what came next. What woman could resist? If any claimed they could, their husbands hadn’t yet sunk to sofa-cushion status.
Jeanne floated, giddy, feeling desired, ten years younger. Life wasn’t dull anymore. But Victor’s presence on the sofa soured daily.
Tonight was no different. A half-finished beer bottle sat by the coffee table. She itched to kick it, to spill her frustration onto the carpet. But she’d be the one cleaning it. Sighing, she changed, ignoring Victor’s stare.
“You’ve changed. You’re all…” He trailed off.
*Finally noticed, have you?* she thought smugly.
“All what? Normal,” she deadpanned.
“You look like when we first met. Fallen for someone?”
“What if I have? You barely look at me. The telly and your beer matter more.”
“I *did* notice. You changed your hair.”
“I’ve had this cut *three years*.” She exhaled sharply. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. Could’ve dined out for once. I’m exhausted too, but I don’t just lie around—I *cook*.”
“Your cooking’s better than any chef’s,” he offered clumsily. “What’s got into you?”
Jeanne studied him—his voice, his clunky compliments, his sagging frame—and felt nothing but boredom. *Maybe I should leave. But where? He’s got nowhere either…*
“You’ve been different lately,” Svetlana whispered when they were alone. “Glowing. Smitten? Rumor says you and Charles. Bold. Giving your husband the boot?”
“As if.” Jeanne shrugged. “You sound just like him.”
“Lucky you. Husband *and* a lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, yet *he* fancies *you*.”
Jeanne stayed silent, but jealousy prickled. Veronica *was* younger, unmarried, childless—pretty, admittedly. Men loved that.
“Listen, give me that witch’s address,” Jeanne muttered.
“Who’s the target? Charles? Or eliminating competition?”
“My *husband*. Just give it.”
“Fine.” Svetlana scrolled her contacts. “Sent. That bad?”
“Worse.”
“He’s cheating?”
“Wish he was.”
“Charles won’t marry you, you know,” Svetlana whispered.
“It’s not about him.” Jeanne turned to her screen. “I’ve got work.”
She didn’t wait. That evening, she visited the address. A plump woman in an expensive dress eyed her sharply. Jeanne shivered.
“Here to ditch your husband?”
“No! Just…” She spilled most of it.
“One drop in his tea daily. No more—it’s potent. Overdose, and his heart gives out. Better used on the lover,” the witch advised.
Jeanne paid and fled the incense-heavy flat.
At home, she hid the vial in the kitchen cabinet—Victor and their daughter never rummaged there. Still, she tucked it behind the tea box. She hadn’t decided if she’d use it—or *when*. Pity she hadn’t asked if it worked in beer.
Back in the living room, Victor lounged as usual, a half-drunk lager beside him. Jeanne blocked the telly.
“What?” He blinked up.
“Useless lump. Help with dinner for once.”
“I can’t cook, love.” He groaned upright.
“Learn. What’ll you eat alone?”
“Alone? What about you? And Emily?” He trailed her to the kitchen.
“I’m leaving.” She spun—his belly bumped her. She recoiled.
Then it all spilled out—years of resentment, the vial’s presence goading her. She ranted, unstoppable, letting him get no word in.
When she finally paused, he stammered, “What about me?”
“Keep rotting on the sofa.”
“And Emily?”
“She’s grown. She’ll choose.”
Jeanne wasn’t *actually* leaving—yet. But the vial gnawed at her, pushing her to cruelty. Maybe wounded pride would force him to change, to storm out. Then *she* wouldn’t bear the sin.
“Enough.” She strode out. He scuttled after.
“Wait—Jeanne, I love you. I can’t—” A gasp cut him off.
She turned. He slid down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Don’t fake it.” She almost walked away—but his head slumped forward.
She dropped beside him, shook his shoulder, checked his pulse—nothing.
“EmilyShe held his hand in the hospital, whispering promises—not just to him, but to herself—that they’d find their way back to each other, one step at a time.
