**A Second Chance**
“Janet, are you heading home?” Her friend Charlotte tapped impatiently on the desk with manicured nails.
“No, I’ll stay a little longer. My husband’s supposed to pick me up,” Janet lied smoothly.
“Alright, suit yourself. See you tomorrow.” Swaying her hips, Charlotte left the office.
One by one, colleagues drifted away—quick footsteps and the click of heels echoing through the corridor. Janet picked up her phone and sighed. *Probably knocked back a few pints already, sprawled in front of the telly like always.* She hesitated, then dialed. Three long rings later, the muffled noise of a football match filled the line before Victor finally answered.
“Hello?”
“Vic, it’s pouring outside, and I’m in suede boots. Come get me.”
“Sorry, love, I’ve had a drink. Best call a cab,” he replied.
“Figures. I should’ve known. You used to promise you’d carry me in your arms, remember?”
“Janet, darling, the match—” The roar of the crowd drowned him out, and she hung up.
Those days when he’d wait for her outside work were long gone. Back then, he didn’t even own a car, yet he’d find a way. Shaking her head, she shut down her computer, slipped on her coat, and stepped out.
The clatter of her heels disturbed the quiet hallway—everyone else had left. Down in the lobby, by the security desk, stood Deputy Director James Montgomery, deep in conversation on his phone. Tall, impeccably dressed in a long black overcoat, he looked more like a film star than an office manager. The women whispered—unmarried, no less.
Janet had always quipped he must be ill if he was still single.
“Probably dating some model—forgot her name, but you’ve seen her on magazine covers,” Charlotte had once gossiped.
Victor hadn’t been half bad in his youth—thirty pull-ups a day on the park bars. Then… then he’d let himself go. Beer, laziness, a proper gut. And every evening Janet came home to the same sight—Victor sprawled on the sofa, an empty pint bottle on the floor.
Just as she reached the door, a rich baritone voice sent a shiver down her spine.
“Janet Elizabeth, working late?”
“I thought my husband would fetch me. He couldn’t.” She turned with a practised smile.
Tucking his phone away, James stepped closer. “Let me drive you home.” He held the door for her.
“Oh no, really, I’ll just ring a taxi,” she protested, stepping into the rain and eyeing the puddles.
“Consider your ride here.” He gestured toward his sleek Range Rover.
How could she refuse? A shame none of the other women saw—they’d have been green with envy. Plenty had their sights set on him.
James unlocked the car, holding the door as she climbed in, smoothing her skirt over her knees with a flustered little laugh. He shut the door with a soft click, rounded the car, and slid into the driver’s seat.
“I’ve been watching you. Firm but fair—never too harsh, never too soft. I think you’d do well heading marketing.”
“But what about Margaret?” Janet blinked.
“Time she retired. Reliable, but the new systems—she can’t keep up.”
Shifting in her seat, Janet bit her lip. Poor Margaret had trained her once. Still, the offer was tempting.
“Her grandson’s about to marry—she wanted to save up for his flat,” she murmured.
“That’s not your concern, Janet Elizabeth. If that’s all, she’ll have a generous severance. So—do we have a deal?”
His gaze lingered a moment, studying her. When she turned to answer, he was already looking ahead.
Too late, she realised they’d passed her street. “Turn right—here. That’s my building.”
The car stopped, but she hesitated. What could she say?
“Perhaps lunch sometime?” His velvet voice was magic.
Her heart fluttered. “Perhaps.” With a coy smile, she stepped out into the drizzle.
“Tomorrow, then.” His grin was dazzling.
Her head spun as the Range Rover rolled away, bumping over potholes—typical council estate roads.
Next day, they lunched together at the café, under everyone’s curious eyes. Then came dinners. Then…
Needless to say what followed. What woman wouldn’t falter before such charm? If one resisted, it was only because her husband hadn’t yet sunk to being a human cushion.
Janet didn’t walk—she floated, adored, renewed. Life wasn’t dull anymore. But each evening, Victor’s slump on the sofa chafed harder.
Today was no different. A half-drunk pint bottle sat by the coffee table. She itched to kick it over, to spill her frustration onto the rug. But she’d be the one scrubbing it out. Sighing, she changed, ignoring Victor’s stare.
“You’ve changed. You’re so… ” He fumbled for words.
*Finally noticed, have you?* she thought bitterly.
“So what?” she said coolly.
“You look like when we first met. Fallen for someone?”
“What if I have? You don’t even see me. It’s always the telly, the beer.”
“I noticed! You changed your hair.”
“Had this cut *three years*.” She exhaled sharply. “We haven’t been to the cinema in ages. A dinner out wouldn’t kill you. I work too, but *I* don’t just flop on the sofa—I cook!”
“Janet, your cooking’s better than any restaurant’s,” Victor offered weakly. “What’s got into you?”
She studied him—his clumsiness, his paunch—and felt nothing but weariness. Maybe she *should* leave. But where? And where would *he* go?
“You’re different lately,” Charlotte whispered in the break room. “Glowing. Is it true about you and James? Giving your old man the boot?”
“Wishful thinking,” Janet muttered.
“Lucky you—husband *and* a lover. Veronica’s fifteen years younger, and *he* fancies *you*.”
Janet’s stomach lurched. Veronica *was* pretty. Unmarried, no baggage. Men loved that.
“Charlotte, give me that woman’s address—the one who does the spells.”
“Who’s the target? James? Or the competition?”
“My *husband*. Just give it.”
Charlotte scrolled through her phone. “Sent. That bad?”
“Worse.”
“He’s cheating?”
“Wish he would.”
“Then what’s the problem? James won’t marry you—he’s temporary.”
“It’s not him.” Janet turned back to her screen.
That evening, she knocked on a door. A plump woman in an expensive dress answered, assessing her with hawkish eyes.
“Divorcing?”
“No! Just… ” The story spilled out. Mostly.
“Here.” She handed Janet a vial. “One drop in his tea daily. No more—it’s strong. Too much, his heart won’t take it. Better use it on the other one.”
Janet paid and fled the incense-heavy flat.
At home, she hid the vial behind the tea caddy—Victor and their daughter never rummaged there. Still, she hesitated. Should she even start?
In the living room, Victor lounged, a beer bottle near his feet. She stepped in front of the telly.
“What?” He blinked.
“Lazing again. Help with dinner for once.”
“I can’t cook, love.”
“Learn. What’ll you eat alone?”
“Alone? What about you? About Emily?”
“I’m leaving.” She spun—his belly bumped her. She wrinkled her nose.
Then it all erupted. Maybe the potion’s presence unnerved her. Maybe twenty years of resentment. Words poured out—no room for rebuttal.
When she finally stopped, Victor stammered, “What about *me*?”
“Keep rotting on that sofa.”
“And Emily?”
“She’s old enough to choose.”
She hadn’t truly planned to leave. But the vial gnawed at her. Maybe wounded pride would shake him awake.
“Enough.” She walked out.
Victor scrambled after. “Wait—Janet, I love—I can’t—” A gasp cut him off.
She turned. He was sliding down the wall, clutching his chest.
“Quit faking.” She stepped closer—his head lolled.
She shook him. No response.
“Emily! Your father—!”
Their fifteen-year-old rushed in. “The vial—in the cupboard!”
Emily brought water. Janet pried Victor’s mouth open—hands trembling, she spilled most.
“God, what am I—?” She sprang up. “What did you give him?”
“The vial, like you said.” Emily held up a pharmacy bottle.
“Then why isn’t he—?” She shook him againThe ambulance arrived swiftly, and as the medics worked, Janet clutched Emily’s hand, realizing that love—not potions—had always been the only magic strong enough to change a heart.
