Run While You Still Can…
Every girl dreams of grand, pure love—the kind that makes your head spin and your heart skip a beat from a tender embrace. She imagines a man proposing in the most unexpected, dazzling way, something everyone will envy. She pictures a beautiful wedding—her groom in a sharp suit, her in an ethereal white gown, glowing with joy. Little girls dream of this from the cradle. Emma was no exception.
Midway through the school year, a new boy, James Wright, joined Year 9. At break, the class swarmed around him, peppering him with questions—why had he moved mid-term?
“My father’s military—got a new posting,” James explained.
“Can you shoot?” someone asked.
“Had to, a few times.”
“What kind of gun?”
“Service pistol.” The questions flew from all sides.
James noticed Emma standing apart, seemingly indifferent. After school, he walked her home—turned out they lived the same way. She told him about school; he shared stories of towns and bases where his father had served.
On Emma’s birthday, he brought a single rose to class and gave it to her in front of everyone. The boys would’ve mocked anyone else, but James earned their respect—and the girls’ envy.
Emma took the rose as if it were nothing special. Her smirk said, *See how the new boy chases me? Jealous? Just wait.* She acted careless, though she liked him.
Before exams, Emma met an older guy—a sportsman. She and her friend had stopped to watch rowing competitions by the Thames.
“Over here—better view,” a handsome lad called.
“Are you competing?” Emma asked, squeezing through the crowd.
“No, I’m into wrestling. My mate’s out there—second boat.” He pointed, but his eyes never left her.
Oliver—his name—walked her home.
“Know what ‘Oliver’ means?”
Emma’s mind blanked.
“Victorious. I win in life.”
She liked him. New sensations pulled at her—excitement, fear, confusion. James was forgotten. Oliver Fairchild was everything. Would he kiss her? How should she react? At her door, he just said goodnight and left. She was disappointed.
The next day, outside school, Oliver stepped out of a parked Mercedes, opening the passenger door. Before getting in, Emma glanced around—her friends watched, mouths agape. James stood nearby, scowling. She climbed in triumphantly. But once they drove off, fear set in. *Where is he taking me?*
Oliver just drove her around London, talking about cities he’d visited for competitions. His attention flattered her. He behaved, never overstepping. He bought her perfumes, jewellery—far grander than a single rose. Her friends gasped at the gifts, seething with envy. James? She didn’t even see him anymore.
After school, she started uni. Oliver picked her up almost daily in his car.
“Where’s your Romeo?” her friends teased when she walked home alone.
“He’s at training camp,” Emma smiled.
He proposed unexpectedly, kneeling in the middle of Trafalgar Square with a velvet ring box—a diamond, small but flashy. Like a movie. A patrol car nearly arrested them for public disruption. Emma’s only regret? None of her friends saw it.
At the registry office, she stood in lace, dazzlingly beautiful. Beside her, Oliver—muscles straining his suit jacket. *What more could she want?*
A month later, she was pregnant. So inconvenient—what about uni?
“Think of our son. You can finish later,” Oliver said. “Stay home. I earn enough.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“It’ll be a son. I win, remember?”
Emma had a boy. Congratulations faded. Oliver trained, travelled for competitions—she stayed home, alone. Friends vanished. Her mum hinted she’d call, not visit—her son-in-law didn’t want interference.
Emma didn’t mind at first—but happiness feels hollow without witnesses. Isolation set in. She woke slowly from her dream.
When her son grew older, she took him to prep classes, sports clubs. Chatting with other mums, she still felt Oliver’s presence—even when he wasn’t there. She glanced over her shoulder constantly.
“You’re paranoid,” he snapped when she mentioned it.
“Ollie, I want to work—finish my degree.”
“Really? Thousands of women would kill for your life. Want to flirt while I slave away?” His glare burned her. She never brought it up again.
One day, visiting a friend over tea, Emma confessed her frustrations.
“Lucky you! No bosses, no Mondays—everything handed to you.”
That evening, Oliver yelled, “Where were you?”
“My friend’s—just tea—” He backhanded her. Stars burst behind her eyes.
“Don’t like staying home? Have a girl—you’ll be busy.” He shoved her onto the bed.
Emma stopped going out, terrified.
One afternoon, she and her son bought a watermelon from a smiling vendor.
“That’s huge—how will I carry it?”
“Very sweet!” The man offered to deliver it.
At home, her son told Oliver.
“Go to your room.” When the boy left, Oliver struck Emma so hard she blacked out. She woke on the floor. He sat eating watermelon, spitting seeds on the tiles.
“Lowered yourself to foreigners? Thank me you’re alive. Next time, you won’t be.”
The next day, the vendor was an old, silent man. She knew Oliver was responsible.
Her face swollen, she hid behind sunglasses and a scarf. At the playground, she bumped into an old classmate, Sarah.
“We just moved here. What happened—your husband?”
“Toothache—swelled overnight.”
“Usually women say they walked into a cupboard,” Sarah said knowingly. “Come for coffee.”
Emma refused.
“Scared? Does he watch you? *Run.* It gets worse.”
“It’s my fault. He loves me.”
“Take my number. Call if you need help—I know a cop.”
Emma took it but never called.
Oliver’s violence worsened. He avoided her face but struck harder each time. The mirror showed a ghost of her former self.
“He’ll kill you,” Sarah said when Emma finally called. “I warned you. Police won’t help—he’ll charm them. You must leave. Ready?”
They planned through her son’s locker—notes torn up after reading.
Days later, Emma packed essentials. Oliver noticed her nerves.
“You’re shaking. Sick? I’ll take Daniel tomorrow.”
“No, I’m fine—”
He kissed her—then punched her stomach. Doubts vanished.
Next morning, after Oliver left, she grabbed Daniel and fled. A car whisked them to a remote village.
Daniel thrived; Emma jumped at every noise.
Then she saw James—visiting his great-grandmother.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
“Just a countryside break.”
He took Daniel fishing. Emma panicked—what if Oliver came?
Days later, at dawn, a car door clicked.
Oliver burst in with two thugs.
“Thought you’d escape? Take the boy.”
Daniel was dragged out.
Oliver struck Emma—crack!—her head hit the wall. She blacked out.
She woke at home. A doctor spoke.
“You lost the baby. Robbers attacked you. Oliver saved you.”
*So that’s his story.*
Three days later, she hobbled to the window, ready to jump.
“Mum!” Daniel clung to her legs.
A commotion outside. Oliver, handcuffed, was led away.
James had followed, called the police.
Oliver got eight years—an old manslaughter case resurfaced.
Emma spent months flinching at shadows. She finished her degree.
At the seaside with Daniel, she asked James why he’d helped.
“I saw them take you. Two against three—I called the cops.”
She thanked him but said she wasn’t ready.
James smiled. “I’ll wait.”
Pain fades, wounds heal. Some just take longer.
