The bus halted at an intersection in the heart of a small town in Yorkshire when Edward saw her lips. The girl brushed a speck of dandelion fluff from her sleeve. That slight movement, as if kissing the breeze, struck him like sunlight piercing a dim room:
“You’ll be my wife,” he blurted to the stranger, bewildered by how her hazel eyes suddenly mirrored his entire life.
She turned slowly, her gaze not frightened but cold, as if assessing cracked canvas rather than a man:
“You’re mad.”
“I’ll be the best husband. Say yes.”
She laughed, revealing slightly uneven teeth:
“Why would I? I don’t even know you.”
“Then let’s fix that. Meet me again,” he said with a theatrical bow, leaving no room for refusal. “Edward, an engineer with big plans. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Emily,” she replied, as if in a daze. “An artist. Maybe famous, maybe not.”
“Perfect match—a techie and a dreamer,” he grinned. “We’ll balance each other.”
“No thanks,” she cut in. “I’m complete as I am.”
“That’s why I love you already,” Edward said, feeling his pulse quicken. “Tomorrow, eight o’clock by the fountain in the park. I’ll give you a night you won’t forget.”
Emily didn’t like him. She had no intention of going. But the next morning, she boasted to her friend about how a stranger had proposed, promising undying love.
“And you said no?” her friend gasped. “Are you daft? When someone falls at first sight, you milk it! What if he’s loaded? Let him spoil you.”
“He’s expecting me tonight,” Emily shrugged. “Fancy tagging along? We’ll see how generous he is. I’d die of boredom alone.”
“Absolutely, let’s go!”
One evening turned into many. Edward clung to them like a shadow, sparing no expense for the two art-school students. He knew what young women craved—cinema tickets, cosy cafés, expensive paints, quality brushes. A seasoned engineer in a tech firm, he could afford it.
Emily made no secret of her indifference. She openly admitted she was just killing time with him until real love came along. For someone else. In short, she was doing him a favour.
Edward watched her like an indulgent parent, repeating after every date:
“You’ll be my wife.”
She’d laugh. Who’d want a wife who eyed other men? But he didn’t relent. He didn’t court her—he laid siege.
He met her after classes, took her to galleries, bought her jewellery, memorised her quirks.
He sniffed out her admirers and “handled” them (one was “accidentally” roughed up in an alley). He phoned her mother: “Your daughter deserves better than these boys.”
Emily fumed, shouting she wasn’t his property, that this was the 21st century. Out of spite, she dated peers—a penniless classmate she fancied, a snobbish literature student from money, a musician next door who loved fiercely but moved on in a week.
After each heartache, Edward materialised like a spectre:
“Told you they weren’t for you.”
Her mother swiftly took his side. When Emily rebelled, she sighed: “You’re being foolish. Marriage isn’t about passion. He adores you—with a man like that, you’ll want for nothing.”
“Jazz tonight,” he’d say, holding out club tickets as she prepared to meet another suitor.
“He’s beneath you,” he’d declare weeks later when that suitor vanished.
Emily never asked how he managed it. Secretly, his obsession moved her—like some classic novel where the heroine is worth fighting for.
“Marry me,” he said for the hundredth time, offering a sprig of hawthorn, her favourite. “I’ve land now. We’ll build a house. You’ll have a studio.”
“I don’t love you,” she exhaled. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t tried. I’ll make myself loveable.”
She suddenly felt tired—not of him, but of herself. Of chasing a man who, by twenty-six, she suspected didn’t exist. Every “prospect” crumbled like sand. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe it was time to surrender?
“Fine,” she said. His face lit up as if he’d glimpsed daylight at the tunnel’s end.
He was the perfect husband. Flowers, no reproaches, built shelves, renovated the house to her sketches, carried her in his arms before guests. But the bedroom became a “duty” (“Come here, love, I’ve missed you”). No children came.
Emily didn’t live. She endured his love. She never grew used to his sudden kisses on her neck as she chopped salad.
Friends envied her; she wanted to scream, “Take him!” Their marriage was a stage where she played the happy wife.
They never argued—nothing to argue about. Once, she hurled a figurine her mother-in-law had gifted. Edward didn’t flinch:
“No matter, sweetheart. We’ll glue it.”
She understood then—he’d never let her go. She bought a train ticket, packed a bag. But Edward brought home the Siamese kitten she’d always wanted:
“You’ve been so sad… Maybe he’ll help?”
Emily stayed.
Years later, he found the ticket in a book. Understood everything. At dinner, he asked:
“Why are you still here? If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Because…” She groped for words. “Loneliness scares me more.”
Edward smiled, mistaking it for love.
But Emily knew the truth: she’d grown used to his devotion—and feared he was the only man who’d ever love her.
