She couldnt have changed so much! Oliver gasps, his throat dry, as he spots his former wife stepping out of a sleek restaurant on Oxford Street. No, it cant be her. I cant believe Poppy could look like that. He stands frozen in front of the glass façade, watching her through the window.
The elegant blonde sits by the window, typing thoughtfully on a laptop. A waiter places a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a raspberrystrawberry tart on her table. How does she manage to look so polished? And that designer bracelet on her wristmust have cost a fortune. Oliver bites his lip, edging away so she doesnt notice him.
***
Six years ago, Oliver meets Poppy. He has just graduated from university and lands a junior role at a wellknown construction firm in Manchester. His career quickly gains momentum.
At a construction equipment exhibition, Oliver chats with a pleasant girl manning a booth. What do you think of these excavators? Fancy a coffee instead? he says cheerfully. They fall into conversation. Poppy, shy and friendly, catches Olivers eye immediately.
Exactly the kind of woman I needalways agreeable, never argues. he thinks. She might be a bit round, but a gym could fix that. If she ever gets pregnant and I lose interest, Ill just find a mistress. He hands her a coffee cup.
Later, as they walk out of the venue, Oliver chuckles, What are you really doing here? Poppy smiles, a hint of embarrassment in her blue eyes. I write short stories and hope to become a screenwriter, she admits. I just finished my literature degree and Im still learning the ropes. Rents a pain, though.
Olivers mind races: Shes perfectno house, no family. I could mold her into a devoted wife, a perfect housewife, a good mother, and obedient to my every wish. He brags to himself, already picturing the future.
***
Oliver buys a coffee from a kiosk across the street, sits on a bench, and keeps an eye on Poppy. When she steps outside, Oliver cant believe his eyes. She glides in a mink coat, her walk graceful, her hair perfectly coiffed. A sleek sports car pulls up, and Poppy slips inside. Olivers throat tightens.
She must have found a rich man, he mutters, draining his hot coffee in a gulp, clutching the cup as if it might shatter. Poppy drives off in an unknown direction.
That evening, Oliver lies awake. After their breakup, Poppy blocks him on every social platform. Unable to resist, he creates a new account just to stalk her photos. Jealousy, envy, rage swirl inside him as he downs half a litre of whisky. How could she become so glamorous? She was nothing onceno money, no flat, no looks. Where do these luxury pictures come from? Which gym does she worship? Did she have a tenkilogram weight loss? he snarls at his phone.
***
The next morning, a memory of a conversation with Poppy drifts into his mind. Its nonsense. Who reads this? he says, shaking his head at her latest short story. Taste is subjective, Poppy replies softly. I already have a few admirers.
Admirers? Oliver smirks. People with no brain probably enjoy that drivel.
Poppys voice trembles, Oliver, why are you like this? Weve been together a year, and you cant accept that I might have my own thing. Im not critiquing your work; you spend days buried in it.
Exactly, Oliver snaps. If you helped me with the business, I wouldnt be stuck in the office all day.
Fine then, he leaps up, Stop writing nonsense and start doing useful work for me.
Poppy freezes at the window, stunned. What do you mean, stop writing? Im terrified. Olivers anger flares. If you want to keep this marriage and improve our life, you quit your stories and become my assistant. Ill give you a daily task list, and youll follow it.
Your stories are my soul, she sobs. I cant just bury my lifes work.
Dont care. No one else needs it. Right now youre useless. From now on youll be productive for me. Oliver declares.
What? I dont even understand this! Why are you taking away what matters to me? Poppy whimpers, turning away.
Ungrateful. Ive supported you for a year, bought you gifts, taken you on holidays. Either you help me or youre out. He points to the door. If you dont like it, the exits right there.
Poppy wipes her tears, shuts down her computer, and never writes another story.
***
A year passes. Oliver builds connections, amasses capital from the sale of his grandmothers house, and launches his own construction company. From dawn till dusk, Poppy handles his paperwork, prepares presentations, manages crews, and arranges meetings.
Another year later, Olivers firm completes a suburban housing development, earning a tidy profit. He enjoys the partnership with Poppyexcept for her appearance. Stress and endless work make Poppy crave sweets; she quickly gains weight.
Where am I taking this chubby mess? Oliver complains to a mate at a pub in Liverpool. She was already a bit round before we married, but now shes obscene. I cant be seen with her. His friend glances at a photo on his phone. Looks like its time to bench her.
Oliver downloads a dating app, swipes, and matches with a fit, ambitious woman named Harriet. Within days Harriet agrees to meet and soon becomes Olivers new companion, joining him in a fashionable Mayfair restaurants private booth.
Harriet whispers, You love the way I look, dont you? Oliver smiles, running a feathered hand over her back. Of course.
Ill need about three hundred pounds for hair, nails, a dermatologist, and a gym. Harriet lists her expenses. Oliver watches her, already knowing he can afford it.
Within a month, Harriet eclipses Poppy in Olivers thoughts. He spends most evenings with the attractive brunette, rarely returning home where Poppy waits with a simple pasta and pesto sauce she made herself. How was the trip? he mumbles.
Dont need it, Poppy replies, her eyes now those of a weary employee. Oliver treats her harsher than any other staff, demanding more despite her unpaid labor.
A month later, Olivers business starts to wobble. Contracts slip, partners pull out, and his fortunes wane. In his frustration, he blames Poppy and drags her to court, ensuring she receives nothing in the divorce. He throws her out in a single day.
Three years later, Oliver sits in his kitchen, scrolling through photos. Shes now living in a posh suburb of Brighton, probably with some rich bloke. He sips his tea, noting a meeting with an investor nearby.
His phone buzzes with a message from Harriet, now on a holiday in the Emirates. Oliver, we should break up. Ive met someone else. Ill send my things back. Oliver fumes, typing a furious reply, hurling every insult he knows.
Harriets voice note replies, Calm down, love. Ill block you for a while. Drama hurts my skin. She ends the call and blocks him.
Dejected after the investors rejection, Oliver drives to the affluent gated community where Poppy now lives. He parks, smokes a cigarette, and watches a sleek car pull up to the gate.
Oliver, what are you doing here? Poppy asks, startled as he rattles the doorbell three times.
I just wanted to see how youre doing, he mutters.
Poppy eyes him warily. Oliver tries to soften his tone. Im actually here to apologise. Ive realised a lot while you were gone. Things got ugly.
Apologise? Poppy chuckles. You banned me from writing, made me work for free, cooked, cleaned, believed in you while everyone else doubted you. Then you kicked me out in one day.
Fine, Im sorry, Oliver stammers, hugging himself.
Maybe you could let me back in? Its a bit awkward, he says, kicking a small stone.
Poppy considers. Maybe. I bought everything myself. No ones feeding me. She walks to the kitchen.
Dont lie, Oliver snaps, following her. Whos actually supporting you?
Im selfmade, Poppy says, pouring a glass of water.
Impossible Oliver whines, spinning the glass. How did you transform in three years? How did you earn enough to live like this?
I returned to writing, but this time to screenplays, Poppy replies, fixing her hair. I sold a couple of pilot scripts to major studios. They thought my ideas were rubbish at first, but now Im one of the countrys most recognized screenwriters. My shows air on the main channels.
Right, youre here to apologise, Poppy notes, sitting opposite him.
Oliver feels a flood of bitterness. The breakup, the failed investment, Harriets departure, Poppys meteoric riseall crush him. He cant contain his rage.
You were once a plain, talentless mouse. All this success is because I pushed you, taught you the hard way, he mutters. Half of your money belongs to me.
Poppy smiles faintly. Your apologies sound more like demands. The only thing you gave me was a glimpse of how low people can be.
You wont get anything from me now, she says, standing. Its time you leave.
Open the safe, rat. Hand over the cash, or you wont walk out. Oliver lunges, grabbing Poppys elbow and dragging her toward the living room.
Stop, it hurts! she screams.
The mouse stays a mouse, Oliver growls, shoving her onto the sofa. He grabs a log from the fireplace, advancing.
Lonely women get cats, Poppy says, rubbing her elbow, meeting his gaze. Im not just any woman. I have dogs now. She glances behind Oliver.
Two large Dobermans, Chilli and Willy, stand a metre away, eyes fixed on him. Chilli dribbles saliva onto the marble floor; Willys low growl fills the room.
Chilli, Willy, guard! Poppy shouts.
Olivers confidence crumbles. He tries to retreat, but the log blocks his path. The dogs lunge. The scene erupts into chaosshouting, a crash, police sirens, and a flood of stitches later.
CCTV footage from Poppys house lands Oliver in court; he receives a suspended sentence and a permanent restraining order. He never finds his way back to his former life.
Today, Poppy thrives. Rumour has it shes married a talented director, expecting a child, and living happily. People say behind every successful woman stands a man who broke her heart. And the greatest revenge is proving you can succeed without him. Whether thats true or not, only you can decide. One thing is clear: if you truly believe in yourself, nothing can stop you.
