*The Best News*
Elizabeth hurried home, bubbling with excitement. She had wonderful news for her husband—no, not just wonderful, the *best* news. This called for a celebration. She stopped by a shop on the way, buying a bottle of wine. She pictured it now—a cosy dinner, a toast shared between them.
“Daniel, I’m home!” she called out as she stepped into their small flat. There was no need to shout—the click of the lock echoed through every corner—but joy spilled from her, impossible to contain.
Daniel dragged himself to meet her, his expression strained.
“I’ve got such news! I’ll make dinner quick, and we’ll celebrate. Look, I even bought wine.” Elizabeth pulled the bottle from her bag, oblivious to the tightness in his jaw. “Take it to the kitchen, I’ll just change.” She slipped past him, disappearing behind the wardrobe door like a hurried actress dressing between scenes. She emerged in the short silk robe he loved, adjusting her hair with a small smile before shutting the wardrobe.
Daniel sat motionless in front of the muted telly, his gaze vacant. Elizabeth settled beside him, resting her hand over his.
“What’s wrong? Is it your mum again?” she asked gently.
He said nothing. Elizabeth squeezed his hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. I got—”
Daniel jerked his hand away and stood abruptly.
“Fine. Tell me later.” She sighed, turning toward the kitchen.
The potatoes sizzled in the pan as dread curled in her stomach. She knew better than to press him. The festive mood had evaporated—*bad idea, the wine.* But how could she have known?
They’d married a year and a half ago. Daniel had already been working at a major construction firm, while she finished her degree. They scraped by on his salary, renting this tiny flat, just enough.
Part of his wages always went to his sick mother up north. It drained them, but when Elizabeth landed her first job, they began saving—slowly, painfully—for a future home. Some nights, they dreamed aloud of their own firm one day: he’d design houses, she’d bring them to life with interiors. But they needed experience first. No one trusted an unknown name.
At work, they only gave her dull, minor projects—nothing to shine in. Still, she worked eagerly, sharpening her skills, waiting for her chance.
And today, it came.
Her boss had pulled her aside, handed her a high-profile project: a full refurbishment for a wealthy woman’s son as a wedding gift. A tight deadline. A bonus for speed.
Elizabeth had raced to the flat, ideas sparking. The client—Isadora Fitzroy—was elegant, dripping money, and gave free rein. No expenses spared.
They agreed Elizabeth would draft a plan, Isadora would hire the tradesmen, and if the design impressed, work would start immediately.
She’d rushed home, eager to share the news with Daniel—only to find him closed off, the wine left untouched.
After a silent supper, she’d buried herself in sketches at her desk until Daniel finally spoke.
“Need to tell you something.” His voice was rough.
She turned. “Go on.”
“Got sacked.” He couldn’t look at her.
*“What?* Why?”
“Pressure. New contract. Mistakes in the blueprints. By the time I caught it, they’d already broken ground.” His jaw clenched. “But that’s not all. I owe them. It’s in the contract—”
“How much?” Her voice wavered.
“More than we have.” He paced like a caged animal. “I’ll take a loan. Can’t send Mum anything now.”
“A *loan?* The interest alone—we’ll borrow from friends—”
“Don’t be daft. Friends vanish the second you ask for money.” His voice cracked.
Elizabeth tried—Natasha, the old school friend who’d married rich. “*It’s all in his name*,” she’d sighed. Then Vicky, the seamstress saving for a flat—she’d just bought one, broke herself.
The next morning, Elizabeth finished the drafts, even a cost estimate. Isadora approved it all—*“Brilliant. Start tomorrow.”*
Then, heart pounding, Elizabeth asked for an advance.
Isadora hesitated—then offered a deal. A second job, *off the books*—her country house needed redecorating. Payment upfront.
Daniel had lifted her off her feet when she told him. *“You saved me.”*
The debt was cleared. He found new work, though he came home exhausted. She worked late, surviving on pasta and eggs.
When the country house was done—even the squeaky stairs fixed—Isadora pressed an envelope into her hand. *“A bonus. You’ve earned it.”*
Ecstatic, Elizabeth tucked it away for their savings. She practically floated home, eager to cook a proper meal at last, to finally open that bottle—
Then, at the crossing, she saw him.
A white Mercedes. Daniel at the wheel, smiling. That *shirt*—the one she’d painted herself, copying a designer’s logo because he loved labels.
Beside him, a beautiful blonde. Laughing.
She stood frozen, even as the light turned.
At home, she waited in the dark.
“Thought you were out,” he said, flicking on the light.
“Just thinking. Late again?”
“Work’s mad. Anything to eat?”
“Blonde didn’t feed you?”
His face twisted—denial, then anger. *“It’s the boss’s daughter. He asked me to drive her.”*
“No chauffeur?”
A pause. Then, cold: *“And if it’s true? You think your money came from some kind woman? Please. No woman helps another for free.”*
She stared. *“Get out.”*
He packed in minutes. *“I’ll come for the rest.”*
The door shut.
She drank the wine straight from the mug.
*When had he changed? Or had he always been this way?*
The debt, the firing—none of it added up. She’d begged, worked nights—and this was his thanks.
But she’d survive. She had clients now. Talent. He’d regret it.
Yet the hurt was a raw, aching thing. Divorce. Loneliness.
Weeks later, she walked into a new client’s flat—and there he was.
The blonde had requested *her*—the “most creative designer.”
Before leaving, Elizabeth said quietly, *“I could ruin this place for you. But I won’t. Just so I never see you again.”*
She’d be alright.
Bad luck never lasted forever.
Happiness would come.
She just had to believe it.
