**Diary Entry**
After dropping his mistress off, Butcher gave her a tender farewell and drove home. He paused outside the door for a moment, weighing what he’d say to his wife. Climbing the stairs, he unlocked the flat.
“Hello,” Butcher called. “Verity, love—you home?”
“I’m here,” came the placid reply. “Hello. Fancy some steak?”
Butcher steeled himself—no hesitation, no cowardice. He’d end this double life now, while his mistress’s kisses still lingered, before the mire of routine sucked him back in.
“Verity,” he cleared his throat. “There’s something I need to say… we should part ways.”
The news hardly ruffled her. Verity Butcher was never one to lose her cool. Once, years ago, he’d even teased her for it, calling her *Verity Frost*.
“Meaning?” she said, leaning in the kitchen doorway. “No steak, then?”
“Suit yourself,” Butcher shrugged. “Fry it or don’t. I’m leaving—for another woman.”
Most wives would’ve lunged at him with a frying pan or shrieked bloody murder. Verity wasn’t most wives.
“Oh, what a fuss,” she sighed. “Did you fetch my boots from the cobbler?”
“No,” Butcher floundered. “If it matters that much, I’ll dash out and get them now.”
“Right,” Verity muttered. “That’s you all over, Butcher. Send a fool for boots, and he’ll bring back the worn-out pair.”
The jab stung. This wasn’t how a marital breakdown was meant to unfold—where were the tears, the blazing rows? But then, what else could he expect from *Verity Frost*?
“Verity, are you even listening?” he snapped. “I’m leaving you! For another woman, and you’re prattling about boots!”
“Naturally,” she said. “*You* can traipse off—your boots aren’t at the mender’s. Why not?”
They’d been married years, yet Butcher still couldn’t tell when she was mocking him. He’d fallen for her steady temper, her quiet ways—not to mention her tidy housekeeping and fine figure.
Verity was solid as a ship’s anchor—loyal, unshakable. But now Butcher loved another. Loved her wildly, sinfully! It was time to cut ties.
“Verity,” he said, solemn now. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done, but I don’t love you anymore. I’m leaving.”
“Oh, bless,” Verity scoffed. “*Doesn’t love me*—what rot. My mum fancied the neighbour, Dad loved dominoes and whisky. Look how *I* turned out.”
Arguing with her was futile—every word landed like a hammer. His fury fizzled.
“You *are* wonderful, Verity,” he muttered. “But I’m mad for this woman. I’m going to her.”
“Who?” Verity tilted her head. “Not Natasha Cresswell, surely?”
Butcher stiffened. He’d dallied with Natasha a year back—had Verity *known*?
“You—how?” he stammered. “Never mind. No, not her.”
Verity yawned.
“Sylvia Brambleton, then?”
A chill shot down his spine. Sylvia *had* been a fling—had Verity known *that* too?
“Wrong again. This woman’s exquisite—the love of my life. I’m leaving.”
“Ah, so it’s *Maya*,” Verity said. “Honestly, Butcher—you’re hopeless. The *love of your life*? Maya Valentine. Thirty-five, one child, two terminations. Am I close?”
Butcher clutched his head. *Dead on.*
“How?” he croaked. “Who talked? Were you *spying*?”
“Elementary,” Verity said. “Darling, I’m a gynaecologist. I’ve examined half the women in this town—you’ve only had a fraction. I’ve only to *look* to know you’ve been there, you pea-brained sod.”
Butcher rallied.
“Fine, you guessed! But I *am* leaving.”
“You *ninny*,” Verity sighed. “For starters—shower. *Now.* Then I’ll ring Dr. Simmons to see you at the clinic. Honestly—a gynaecologist’s husband picking up *diseases*?”
“What do I do?” Butcher whined.
“I’m frying steak,” Verity said. “You wash up. If you fancy a *healthy* ‘love of your life,’ let me know—I’ve recommendations.”
**Lesson:** Pride comes before a fall—especially when your wife knows *exactly* where you’ve been.
