Victor fell in love. So deeply it stole his breath. When that first dizzying rush struck him at the sight of *her*, he told himself it was a passing fancy—something that would vanish once indulged.
But after their first night together, desire detonated like a grenade, obliterating everything but its own hunger.
This might have been manageable, were Victor not already happily married to Emily, raising their two cherished children in a cozy Hampshire cottage they’d called home for a decade.
Victor loathed lies. His mistress—sharp-tongued Clara—threatened to cut him off unless he divorced Emily.
Numb with dread, Victor rehearsed the scene endlessly: Emily’s devastation, the tears, the pleas. He braced for chaos as he turned his key in the familiar front door.
Emily lounged in the parlour, wrapped in a silk robe, laughing into her mobile. *“God, she’s radiant,”* Victor thought absently. He clattered about, hauling down a suitcase, yanking shirts from wardrobes. Still, Emily’s chatter about *“Mia’s ballet recital”* and *“that dreadful PMQs debate”* never faltered.
Finally, coat slung over his arm, he faced her. “Em… I’ve met someone,” he stammered. “It’s beyond my control. I’m sorry.”
Emily blew a kiss to the phone. “Clara, love—my husband’s off with some tart. Ring you back?” She pecked Victor’s cheek, then shut the door.
He lingered, ear pressed to the wood, listening as she dissected *Strictly Come Dancing* costumes with Clara. Not one word about him.
Victor abandoned his suitcase on the step. Fumbling for his mobile, he dialled Clara.
“Well?” she barked. “Done? You’re mine now?”
“Don’t wait,” he said flatly. “It’s Emily I love.”
Chain-smoking Marlboros outside the pub, he wondered how to claw his way back.
Inside, Emily white-knuckled her phone. “I did *exactly* as you said, Dr. Bennett!”
“Wash your face, put on that lipstick,” the therapist crooned. “He’ll be begging forgiveness by supper.”
