**Betrayal, Take Two**
Veronica and Taya always drove to work together—Taya behind the wheel, steady and composed, the picture of grace, while Veronica was the life of every moment, carefree yet radiant. They’d met at the office nearly a decade ago and had shared the same workspace ever since, two desks among four.
Neither was married anymore. Veronica had divorced eight years prior after walking in on her husband in a compromising situation. No shouting matches—just his belongings on the doorstep and papers filed. She’d had flings since, hopeful but never quite finding “the one.” Taya, on the other hand, had lost her beloved husband in an accident seven years ago. “There’s no replacing him,” she’d say whenever Veronica teased her about dating again.
Veronica, ever optimistic, laughed off superstitions when Taya warned against celebrating her fortieth. “Life’s too short for old wives’ tales!” she’d declared, throwing a party anyway.
It was at her forty-fifth—her “berry birthday,” she called it—that *he* appeared. Handsome, charming, vaguely familiar like some film star. Before Taya knew it, Veronica had dragged him to their table. “Where’d you find *him*?” Taya muttered. “Oh, he *insisted* on dancing with me,” Veronica grinned. “Promised me a proper gift tomorrow.”
Denis, as he introduced himself, swept Veronica off her feet—restaurants, flowers, weekends in the countryside. Then came the confession: he was married.
“It’s over between us,” he assured her. “We’re just waiting for the paperwork.”
Taya saw right through him. “He’s a rake, love. Eyes everywhere but on you.”
But Veronica floated on air. “You’re just jealous,” she teased.
A year and a half later, his promises of divorce faded. Then came the younger woman.
“He *loves* her,” Veronica sobbed into Taya’s shoulder. “How could he?”
Taya held her, murmuring comforts, dragging her to films, dinners, even her mother’s cottage in Kent—anything to mend the heartache. Slowly, Veronica healed. The spark returned.
Then, one Sunday morning, Taya spotted Denis parked outside Veronica’s flat.
“So *that’s* her ‘errands,’” Taya muttered, driving off before he noticed.
The next day, Veronica breezed in, sheepish but glowing. “We’re going to Spain!” she blurted before Taya could speak. “He *missed* me!”
Taya’s stomach knotted. “And you believe him?”
“He says this time it’s real!”
A fortnight later, Veronica returned sun-kissed and giddy. “He’s filing for divorce *next week*!”
Autumn arrived, crisp and golden. Then, the phone call—the tears.
“He left me. For a *twenty-year-old*.”
Taya held her tighter. “Twice betrayed. Please, love. Let this be the last.”
Veronica nodded, hollow-eyed.
Taya prayed it stuck. But time would tell.
