I checked my husband’s location on the family tracker he had claimed he was out fishing, yet the pin was right at the doors of StMarys Maternity Hospital.
Why does the invoice show a figure £30,000 lower than the estimate? Olivia Frost said in an icily professional tone, her voice crackling over the phone to the site foreman. We agreed on the Italian tiles, reference 712. What have you supplied? A Chinese copy?
Olivia, whos going to notice? the foreman slurred, trying a grin through the handset. It looks identical, down to the grout line! Think of the savings Ill even give you half the kickback and no one will ever find out.
Ill find out, Olivia snapped. And make sure the tiles are swapped by lunch tomorrow, or well be meeting in court. I guarantee youll lose not only this contract but also your licence.
She slammed the phone down, her hands trembling with barely contained rage. It was always the same: she poured her heart into a project, stayed up late mapping every centimetre of a future interior, only to have some smoothtalking expert try to fleece her, assuming shed be a fool. A designer needed nerves of steel and a spine of iron both of which Olivia possessed in abundance. After two decades in the trade shed learned how to keep the most cheeky contractors in their place.
She got home late, exhausted and furious, only to be greeted at the doorstep by her husband, Stephen, holding a steaming mug of her favourite peppermint tea.
Another battle? he asked with a gentle smile, taking the heavy bag of material samples from her. Come in, my valkyrie, dinners on the table.
Stephen was the polar opposite of Olivia: calm, homecentred, unambitious. He worked as a design engineer for a quiet firm in Manchester, earned a modest but steady salary, and seemed perfectly content in their snug little world. He was the quiet island she retreated to after her daily skirmishes.
Theyd been married twentytwo years, raised a son, William, who now studied at university in Bristol. Their lives ran on a smooth, uneventful current: Olivia built her career, Stephen kept the rearguard solid. He always met her with a meal, listened to her endless tirades about the wrong shade of beige, and never once blamed her for vanishing at work for days. To everyone, he was the ideal husband and Olivia believed it too.
Lately, though, hed become oddly distant, lost in thought. Hed taken up a new hobby fishing and now every weekend he vanished with his mate Colin to the lakes.
Stephen, does fishing even work in November? Olivia asked, bewildered.
Whats wrong with that? he shrugged. The fish bite best now. A bit of peace, a chance to think. You could use a break, too.
Olivia didnt argue. Let him have his space. She packed his thermos with hot tea, wrapped sandwiches, and sent him off with a light heart.
The Saturday he left, she finished a rush job and decided to treat herself. She went to the salon, then swung by a big hypermarket to stock up for the week, musing over menus as she filled the trolley. She tried calling Stephen to ask if he needed anything for his return. The line rang, rang, and fell silent.
Usually hed answered straight away. A small knot of worry ticked inside her. Had something happened? A flat tyre, a slip on ice? Six months ago theyd installed a familytracking app on their phones to keep an eye on William. She rarely used it, considering it a bit nosy, but now she opened it. Three pins appeared: hers, Williams at his student hall, and… Stephens. Her heart gave an odd jolt. His pin wasnt out in the countryside; it was in the city, in a residential area. She zoomed in. The dot sat on a specific building: Flower Street, number7. A quick search revealed the address as StMarys Maternity Hospital, No5.
Glitch, she muttered. A bad read, a bug, anything but this. Colins friend had just become a granddad perhaps theyd popped in to congratulate? But why the lie about fishing?
She dialled again. The phone was switched off. Panic hardened into a cold, sticky dread. She abandoned her trolley in the middle of aisle12. A shop assistant scolded her, but Olivia barely heard. She bolted to the car, her hands shaking so badly she fumbled with the key.
All she could repeat to herself was a mantra: Its a mistake. Just a mistake. She imagined a hundred plausible explanations a broken car, a wrong turn, a mixup with Colins son. Anything but the nightmare her mind painted.
She parked opposite the hospital, a plain brick building with a yellow façade. People with flowers and balloons milled about, fathers beaming, grandparents beaming. Olivia stayed inside the car, too scared to step out. She feared the sight that would shatter her meticulously arranged world.
And then she saw it.
From the maternity ward emerged Stephen, not in a fishing jacket but in the crisp white shirt she had ironed for him the night before. Beside him walked a young woman, about twentyfive, her face tired yet glowing. Stephen clutched a white envelope tied with a blue satin ribbon.
An elderly lady presumably the womans mother rushed over, embraced Stephen, murmuring joyful words. He smiled the kind of bewildered, delighted smile Olivia hadnt seen in years, the one he wore twentytwo years ago when hed once carried baby William home from the same ward.
Olivia watched the scene through her windshield, and the world seemed to dissolve. There were no cars, no streets, no city only that tableau: her husband, a stranger, and a newborn child. And she, the duped, betrayed fool, sitting in a car shed bought with her own hardearned money.
She didnt get out. She didnt start a scene. Her steelhardened character, forged in battles with foremen and clients, whispered a different plan: act, dont scream.
She turned the car around and drove home, back to the flat she considered her fortress. Inside, everything bore her fingerprints the furniture shed chosen, the décor shed paid for. She walked to the bookshelf where Stephens prized collection of model ships sat, a hobby from his boyhood. Grabbing the biggest frigate, she flung it across the floor; it shattered into countless splinters, and a strange relief flooded her.
Methodically, like drafting a bill of quantities, she made the first move: she called her solicitor.
Arthur Chambers, good morning. I need to file for divorce and division of assets urgently.
Then she opened her laptop, logged onto the bank, and transferred every penny from their joint savings into her own account. The password was their wedding date an ironic little bonus. She also moved the balance from her salary card, leaving exactly £1,000 in the joint account earmarked for sandwiches for the fisherman.
Next, she packed Stephens things wrinkled shirts, his battered fishing boots, the teenytiny model ships into big black bags. She arranged for a removal van and sent everything to the one address she knew: his mothers house.
When the flat emptied and echoed, she sank onto the sofa and finally let the tears flow. Not out of anger at Stephen, but at herself at her own blindness, at the trust shed placed in a man she thought she knew. How could she, sharp as a tack at work, be so foolish at home? How had she missed the lie?
That evening Stephen called, voice shaky.
Olivia, I dont get it I got home and my things are gone, the accounts are empty. What happened? Did someone rob us?
We werent robbed, Stephen, she said, voice as cold as steel. Just a redesign. I cleared out the unnecessary bits.
What what unnecessary? Where are my things? Wheres the money?
Your things are with your mother. As for the money think of it as child support for your newborn. I happened to be at the fifth maternity ward today quite a moving scene, congratulations. Hope the fishing went well.
A dead silence stretched across the line.
Olivia I can explain! Its not what you think!
I dont need explanations. I need nothing from you. My solicitor will be in touch tomorrow about the divorce. Dont call me again. Delete this number.
She hung up, blocked his contact, and walked to the kitchen. From the cupboard she retrieved a pad of drafting paper and her favourite pencils, and began sketching. She was drawing the blueprint for her new life no Stephen, no lies, no compromises. It would be her finest, most honest project yet, painted in the exact colour of freedom.
Betrayal by someone close is always painful, but sometimes its the point at which a genuine new life begins. What would you have done in Olivias shoes? Would you have listened to explanations or acted as decisively? Share your thoughts it matters. And if this story struck a chord, do give it a like and a follow.
