My name is Anna Taylor, and I live in Stafford, a place known for its charming streets and historic charm in the heart of England. When I found myself captivated by my colleague, Will, my heart sang with happiness. At the time, I dreamed of being his one and only, his beloved. That dream came true eventually but with a bitter twist—I had to share him with his wife, Mary.
I had just started working at our firm when I was promptly sent with Will on a business trip to London. We were tasked with closing a significant deal. We succeeded brilliantly, and afterward, Will suggested, “Shall we celebrate with a drink? Contracts like this don’t come around every day.” I happily agreed. We sat in the hotel bar, ordered whiskey, and the alcohol loosened our tongues. Conversation flowed easily, like a river, and suddenly he kissed me. I was taken aback but didn’t push him away. In the lift, he held me with such passion that I didn’t resist—it was intoxicating, stronger than the whiskey. That night in his room was magical, unforgettable, full of fire.
Returning to Stafford, I couldn’t keep it to myself and confided in my colleague, Lucy, whom I trusted like a sister. “Don’t fall for him!” she cut me off sharply. “Why?” I asked, puzzled. “He’s married.” These words struck me like lightning. Will was only 27, and I couldn’t believe he was already settled down—men rarely marry so young these days. I asked him directly, and he didn’t beat around the bush: “Yes, I’ve been married a year.” But that didn’t stop us. We became lovers. Our secret meetings at the apartment he inherited from his grandparents became a ritual. Every day I fell deeper for him.
One Sunday morning, lying beside him, I mustered the courage: “Will, divorce her. You’d be happier with me.” He looked at me with sorrow, “I love you, but I can’t.” “Why?” I blurted. “She’s seriously ill.” I froze. “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you say anything?” my voice trembled. “She’s been diagnosed with breast cancer, we just found out. I can’t leave her now.” His words cut deep, but I understood: she needed him. I felt sorry for Mary. When he told me her operation was on Thursday, I prayed for her all day, sincerely, with tears. After she was discharged, Will and I stopped seeing each other—I knew his place was by her side.
Four months passed. Will never once asked to meet. I questioned him about it. “Mary’s still unwell, she might need another operation,” he replied wearily. “I understand your pain, but think about me too,” I pleaded. He nodded, “You’re right, let’s plan something for the weekend.” On Saturday, we met at the same flat. The night was intense, full of passion. But before leaving, I brought up the divorce again. His face darkened: “I will never do it. She’s my boss’s sister.” I was stunned. “So that’s it! Was the cancer a lie?” He stayed silent and left, slamming the door to avoid further argument.
A few days later, a striking brunette walked into the office asking for Will. Lucy showed her to his office. “Who is she?” I whispered to Lucy later. “His wife,” she said. I made an excuse to enter—pretending to need some papers—to see her. Mary wasn’t just healthy; she glowed with beauty, confidence, and elegance. Next to her, I felt like a plain little mouse. Returning, I asked Lucy, “Did you hear she was ill with cancer?” “No, that’s nonsense, everyone would know,” she dismissed. That’s when it hit me: he had been lying from the start.
Soon, I began feeling weak and nauseous. I complained to Lucy, and she suggested, “Could you be pregnant?” I brushed it off but took a test—two lines. The doctor confirmed it: two months along. I was shocked. I remembered that night—we didn’t use protection. My thoughts were jumbled: should I keep the baby or not? I called Will. “Get an abortion!” he snapped coldly. “No, I won’t,” I retorted. “Then I’ll make sure you’re fired,” he threatened. “You can’t scare me!” I shot back. Out of spite, I decided to keep the baby. I thought he was bluffing. But no—I was fired. A friend got me a job as a sales assistant in her brother’s bookstore. He was reluctant to hire a pregnant woman but took pity.
My daughter was born in the seventh month—frail but alive. I named her Sophie, in honor of her father—Will. I didn’t tell him. And I probably never will. He betrayed me, leaving me at the most frightening moment when I was alone with a child and out of work. I see his face in dreams—handsome, deceitful—and my heart aches. He chose his wife, his career, and erased me like an unwanted chapter. But I haven’t broken. I’m raising my daughter, fighting for her, though every day feels like a battle with fate. Let him live with his lies; I will live for Sophie—my light in this darkness.
