Listen well! I’m wealthy now, and it’s time we divorced,” declared the husband with a sneer. He hadn’t the faintest notion of what awaited him.
“You can’t fathom how your dullness grates on me,” snapped Thomas, his eyes sharp as flint. “A plain sparrow like you? I deserve better!”
“Do you truly believe money elevates you?” Emily whispered, her voice trembling, fists clenched to stop the tears.
The golden glow of dusk bathed the kitchen where Emily stirred a pot of beef stew, the scent of rosemary and warm bread thick in the air.
Thomas barged in, brandishing an envelope, his grin wild.
“Em! Youll never guess!” he crowed, tracking mud across the floor. “A lettersome distant uncle left me a fortune! Were set for life!”
Emily turned, wiping flour from her apron.
“Thats wonderful, Tom,” she said softly. “But who was this uncle? Weve no family abroad…”
“Who cares!” He laughed, kissing her cheek with frantic glee. “Think of itmansions! Cars! Holidays in the Maldives!”
Emily blinked, but before she could speak, Thomas was pacing, weaving grand visions of yachts and tailored suits.
By dawn, the money had already poisoned him. He woke colder, sharper, his gaze skating over her like she was smudged glass.
“You realise,” he said over toast, “now that Im a man of means, our arrangement needs revisiting.”
Emilys teacup froze mid-air.
“Arrangement?”
“Dont play dim. Youre a shopgirl, Em. Ill be mixing with baronets and CEOs. Youd stick out like a weed in a rose garden.”
She fled to the café where her closest friends, Sophie and Gemma, waited.
“Toms lost his mind,” she choked out. “Some phantom inheritance, and suddenly Im common.”
Sophie snorted into her latte. “What rot. Whos this mystery uncle?”
Gemma leaned in, frowning. “Whatll you do?”
“I dont know,” Emily admitted. “Hes vile now. Like a stranger.”
Days passed. Thomas preened over brochures for Aston Martins, though not a penny had cleared. He snapped orders, left laundry in heaps, and smirked when Emily flinched.
“Tom, pleaselets talk,” she begged one evening.
“Not now,” he dismissed, flicking through Swiss watch catalogues. “Trivialities bore me.”
That night, over gin in a dimly lit pub, Sophie and Gemma exchanged glances.
“Em,” Sophie began slowly, “theres something you should know. That letter its a sham. We orchestrated it.”
Emilys glass hit the table. “Youwhat?”
Gemma gripped her hand. “Wed heard whispers. A solicitor from Londons been trying to reach youabout a real inheritance. But we needed to see his true colours first.”
Emilys laugh was brittle. “So this was all a test?”
Sophie nodded. “And he failed. Spectacularly.”
When Thomas returned, Emily stood in the parlour, spine straight as a poker.
“Its over. I know about the letter.”
His face contorted. “Youre choosing those harpies over me?”
“No,” she said quietly. “Im choosing myself.”
As the door slammed, Sophie and Gemma arrived with champagne.
“To freedom,” toasted Gemma.
“To truth,” added Sophie.
Emily raised her glass, the solicitors number burning in her pocket. Outside, the rain fell like shattered diamonds.
