Oliver pulled his car up to the petrol pump.
“Premium unleaded, full tank,” he said to the attendant before heading into the service station.
In the doorway, he nearly collided with a man. The stranger glanced at Oliver’s face, then ducked his head back into his phone. “James?!” Oliver almost called out but bit his tongue just in time. Inside, he watched his old mate through the glass door—saw him climb into a shiny black Jaguar. Oliver hurried to the counter, handing the cashier his bank card, his fingers trembling slightly with nerves.
By the time he stepped outside, the Jag was already pulling onto the main road. Without hesitation, Oliver jumped into his Land Rover and sped after it.
“Small world,” he muttered under his breath. “Looks like James is doing alright for himself. Must’ve married well. Doesn’t matter—I’ll find out how he pulled it off.”
The Jag turned into a gated estate. As it slowed near one of the grand houses, Oliver rolled past, keeping an eye in his rearview mirror. The gates swung open, and the Jag disappeared inside. Oliver reversed carefully, noting the security camera mounted above the entrance. He slouched in his seat, avoiding its line of sight.
Through the wrought-iron fence, he watched James park in front of the garage. A young woman stepped onto the porch, and even from a distance, Oliver recognised her instantly.
“No way,” he whispered.
She descended the steps, meeting James with a warm hug and a kiss. Arm in arm, they vanished into the house.
“So they’re married, and this is theirs. Unbelievable. How did this happen? Revenge? But Emily? Quiet little Emily—landed on her feet, didn’t she? And James—some mate. Could’ve been me in his place…”
***
The club was loud and stuffy. Pulsing beats thundered through the dimly lit space, strobes flashing across sweaty, swaying bodies.
Oliver lounged at the bar, sipping a cocktail with an air of boredom as he watched the crowd. Then he spotted her—a tall girl in a tight red dress. “Not bad,” he thought before turning back to his drink.
Before he could take another sip, a familiar voice made him spin around.
“This is my mate, Oliver.” James strolled up, arm around the very same red-dress girl. “Oliver, meet Charlotte—my girlfriend.”
Oliver looked her up and down. Up close, she was even prettier—big eyes lined with kohl, dimples in her cheeks, glossy blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. A stunner.
“Like what you see?” James smirked.
“What’re you drinking?” Oliver asked, his gaze fixed on Charlotte.
“I’m driving,” she said. “Why don’t you both come back to mine? It’s too loud here, and I could use a proper drink.”
“You up for it?” James nudged Oliver.
Oliver downed his cocktail in one go and stood.
Outside, the music faded.
“Nice, eh?” James jerked his chin at a sleek silver Mercedes. “Char’s dad gave it to her for her birthday,” he said proudly, as if he’d had a hand in it.
Oliver glanced from the car to James, who gave him a wink that screamed, “Just you wait.”
“How the hell did he bag a girl like that?” Oliver couldn’t believe it. James wasn’t half as good-looking as he was. “Kept that quiet, didn’t he?”
“Where’s Emily? I invited you both,” James asked as they cruised through the city.
“Not feeling well. Morning sickness.” The mention of Emily soured Oliver’s mood.
“Bloody hell! You’re keeping secrets now? Trying to skip the wedding?” James laughed.
Oliver stayed silent. He didn’t want to talk about Emily.
The Merc stopped outside a high-rise. The lift, mirrored and spacious, whisked them to the sixteenth floor.
“This yours?” Oliver eyed the swanky flat. “Where’d you even find her?” he whispered.
“Ran me over,” James chuckled. “Nearly flattened me.”
Oliver kept pouring wine until James was properly sloshed. Charlotte ushered him to bed, and when she returned, Oliver was studying a painting.
“That’s mine,” she said softly behind him.
“Yours?” He turned, intrigued. “Could you do one of me?”
“Painters paint, they don’t draw.” She stepped back, assessing him. “You’ve got a good frame. Ever pose nude?”
“Right now?” He stiffened.
“Not here. My studio, proper lighting. Drop your number—I’ll call when I’m free.” She nodded at a notepad on the coffee table.
When Oliver got home, Emily was crying.
“You’ve been drinking?” she sniffed.
“A bit. Out with James.”
“Hungry?”
“Nah. Nearly morning anyway. I’m knackered—shower, then bed.” He locked himself in the bathroom.
How had he screwed up like this? Emily was sweet, but she’d trapped him with this baby. Charlotte, though—she was different. He had to get rid of Emily. Fast.
Under the hot water, he pictured Charlotte. No way was James keeping her. But first—Emily. She wasn’t a bad girl, just… inconvenient.
He dried off, ignoring Emily as he climbed into bed.
Two days later, Charlotte finally called. Oliver arrived at her studio sharply dressed and smelling of cologne. She led him to a room filled with canvases and told him to strip.
“Just like that?”
“Studio time’s tight. Got two hours. So hurry up. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
He undressed. She adjusted his pose, indifferent to his nudity, then sketched. Twenty minutes in, he groaned.
“Can I move? My legs are killing me.”
She sighed. “Fine. I’ll make coffee.”
While she was gone, Oliver peeked at the sketch—flattered, though he knew nothing about art. Barefoot, he crept into the kitchen, wrapped his arms around her—and she turned into him, like she’d been waiting…
He left later, smug. Too easy.
Emily was curled on the sofa, sniffling.
“What now?” He sat beside her.
“You don’t love me anymore?” Her eyes were red.
“Here we go.” He stood.
“What else am I supposed to think? You’re never home!”
“Working my arse off! Baby on the way, wedding to save for—”
“Wedding?” She perked up.
“Course. Kid deserves two parents.”
Emily flung her arms around him. She didn’t see him grimace.
“Maybe visit your nan? Stop you moping. I’ll crash at James’s. Call every day. In a few months, I’ll fetch you. Yeah?”
“Really?”
He hadn’t expected her to agree. No fight, no fuss. Emily missed her nan—raised her after her mum died.
The days before she left, Oliver played the doting partner. He even skipped “sessions” with Charlotte. At the train station, he waved her off, blowing kisses until the platform ended.
Then he went straight to Charlotte.
He never called Emily. Got a new phone, moved in with Charlotte. James tried confronting him, but Oliver knocked him flat.
Three months later, he married Charlotte. But reality bit—her dad let them wed but refused him a job at the family firm. Charlotte’s expensive tastes clashed with his small salary. One night, Oliver hit her, jealous of an old friend.
The next day, her father waited in the flat. “Pack your things. Lawyers’ll handle the divorce. And if you bother them—you’ll regret it.”
Oliver lost everything. But he wasn’t one to mope. Plenty more fish in the sea.
Young girls never appealed—Emily and Charlotte were enough. Now, he hunted wealthy, independent women, no husbands or parents in the way. He tracked them through society pages, then engineered “accidents”—letting their cars “hit” him. A lonely woman, a handsome young man—soon enough, he’d be in her home, bandaging fake wounds…
Now, he dressed sharp. A new car, a flat (one-bed, suburbs—courtesy of an older lover).
***
Sitting in his car, Oliver puzzled over James and Emily. Had she gone looking for him? Called James for answers? Maybe James married her for revenge. So his kid was out there, under another man’s name. Now that was a twisted payback.
Or—was it love? That kiss, that embrace… “I’ll figure something out,” he muttered, gripping the wheel outside their house.
Then his phone rang.
“Where are you? I’ve been waiting, darling. Missed you,” came a shrill voice.
Oliver forced a chuckle. “Missed you too, sweetheart. Be there soon.” He hung up and tossed the phone aside like poison.
“Sweetheart” was his wife—old enough to be his mother. She spoiled him—new car, endless cash—but on one condition: no cheating. If she caught him with younger women, he’d be out on the streetOliver tightened his grip on the steering wheel, forcing a smile as he muttered to himself, “Time to start planning her little accident.”
