— Oliver, are you sure you’ve got everything? Should I double-check? — I called out, pausing in front of the closed bathroom door.
— Emma, relax! The suitcase is packed—you saw it yourself, — he replied over the rush of the shower. But his voice… it wavered. Or did I imagine it?
— I saw the suitcase. Not what’s inside, — I muttered, stepping back.
— Emma, could you make coffee? Strong. No milk, — he added, calm again, turning off the water.
I went to the kitchen, silently pulled out the cafetière, filled it, scooped in ground coffee, a pinch of salt—just how he liked it. We had a fancy machine, but Oliver swore nothing beat my coffee. *”You take such good care of me,”* he’d said the night before, coming home late to find me, out of some old-fashioned habit, wrapping his dinner in a tea towel to keep it warm.
Lately, he’d been staying out more—*work*, he claimed. *Climbing the ladder. Prepping for a promotion.* And I played my part. Cooking, ironing, waiting.
— Divine aroma of a divine brew! — Oliver strode in, shaking wet hair from his forehead. He sat, reaching for his mug.
— Emma, I’ve got a delivery today—car seat covers. Could you sign for them? Cash on delivery, — he said, stirring in a spoon of sugar.
— Of course. Same as always, — I sat across from him.
— Bloody awful timing for this trip, — he sighed. — But I can’t say no. You know how it is—big opportunity. Senior manager’s no joke.
— Right… Didn’t think regional travel came with that pay grade.
— Boss’s whims. Anyway, got half an hour—need to check emails.
He left, mug still on the table. Fine. Let it sit. He was wound tight.
I reached for his cup—then my phone buzzed. A text.
*”Emma, Oliver’s lying. No work trip. He’s flying to Italy with Sophie Whitmore. Stop him before it’s too late. He’ll ruin everything.”*
Clara. His little sister.
Something snapped in my head. *Sophie?* No way. A joke? But Clara wasn’t the type. And she’d never lie.
The room swam. The air turned thick as wet cement. I gasped, poured water, slumped back down.
I wanted to scream. Shatter every dish. But one thought drowned the rest: *Why?*
I clenched my fists. Could’ve stormed in, torn him to shreds. But—no. He didn’t deserve the drama.
Let him go. I’d give him a surprise—not a scene, but action.
Opened the banking app. Joint account: £87,000. Hah. Already £25,000 short—*my* money. My freelance work, my late nights. And him? Funding his ex’s holiday with it.
I knew about Sophie. Oliver had mentioned her, Clara too. School sweetheart, flighty as hell. Left him twice—first for some banker, then a startup guy. Now she’s circled back. And Oliver fell for it. And lied.
Could’ve been honest: *”Emma, I love someone else. Sorry.”* Would’ve hurt. Not like this, though. This was cowardice. Emptying accounts, spinning tales, packing bags.
Fine. I’d take the rest. Today. Every penny. Then—divorce. His things? Courier to his parents’ doorstep.
Checked my calendar—big client pitch tomorrow noon. If it went well? Holiday time. Not Italy. Portugal, maybe. Or somewhere his shadow hadn’t touched.
— Emma, heading out early—beat the traffic, — Oliver reappeared, crisp in his tie.
— Bye. Safe trip, — I rasped, gripping the mug.
— What’s with the tone?
— Imagining things.
— I’ll miss you…
— Doubt you’ll have time.
— Not walking me out?
— I’ll do the washing up.
— Right. Off I go.
— Go.
The door slammed. Oliver had no clue he’d just left for good. New locks tomorrow.
I crumpled onto a chair. Sobbed—harsh, ugly cries. Betrayal tasted like burnt coffee.
Another buzz from Clara:
*”Emma, you okay?”*
Wiped my face, dialled.
— Clara, how’d you know?
— Sophie’s mate slipped up. She’s latched onto him again. Emma, I’m sorry it’s—
— Thanks for telling me. Didn’t stop him. Let him burn.
— He’s a fool. She’ll chew him up.
— His choice. Clara—don’t tell him I know.
— Wouldn’t waste breath. Sick of him!
— Thanks. Let’s stay close. Even after the divorce.
— Course, Em. Stay strong.
Back to the app. Another £7,000 gone. *Move fast.* No—breathed. Transferred the lot to Mum. *My* mum. Not his business now.
— Mum, sending you £82,000. Rest’s gone.
— Love, what’s happened?
— Divorcing. He’s in Italy with his mistress.
— Christ… Emma, we’re here. It’ll pass. You’ll find better.
— Not looking, Mum. Might just have a baby alone. That’s it.
— Well… your aunt’s nephew’s single—
— *Mum.* Not now.
— Alright. Just—chin up, darling.
Hung up. Pulled myself together. Tomorrow was new. Oliver was gone, but I wasn’t. Still whole. Still real. And everything ahead—no lies, no betrayal. No *him.*
