In a sleepy English town where time moved like honey dripping from a spoon, Emma Whitmore had loved her husband, Oliver, with all her heart. She adored his perpetually tousled chestnut hair and that weary, tender smile he reserved for their eight-year-old son, Alfie. Life in their cottage on the edge of Dartmoor had been predictableuntil the scent of jasmine clung to Olivers collar like a guilty secret.
He arrived home at half past nine, later than usual. Work had kept him, he claimed, though his jacket smelled of another womans perfumesickly sweet, floral, foreign. Emmas stomach twisted.
«Hello, love,» he muttered, brushing his lips against her crown. «Rough day.»
«Dinners ready,» she offered, voice steady.
«Not hungry. Need a shower.»
He vanished upstairs, and Emma stood frozen. The mobile he once left charging by the bed now never left his pocket. If she so much as glanced at it, his jaw tightened.
«Youre late,» she called after him. «Reports again?»
«End of quarter,» came his muffled reply. «Paperworks a nightmare.»
«Whats that smell?» The question escaped sharper than shed intended.
He paused on the landing. «What smell?»
«Like flowers. Not your cologne.»
«Mustve been Lily from accounting. She bathes in the stuff.» He waved a dismissive hand. «Dont fuss, Em. Im knackered.»
For weeks, the ghost of jasmine haunted her.
Their shared dream£200,000 saved over five years in a Halifax savings account, meant for Alfies university flathad been Emmas anchor. Oliver, an engineer at the local plant, and she, a seamstress taking odd jobs, had skipped holidays, scrimped on groceries, patched clothes instead of replacing them.
Then came the storm. A client tipped her generously, and Emma, on a whim, visited the bank. The tellerSophie, whom shed known for yearsblinked at the screen.
«Mrs. Whitmore your accounts empty.»
«Empty?» The floor tilted.
«Withdrawn two weeks ago. All of it.»
The receipt trembled in Emmas hands. £200,000. Gone.
That evening, Oliver found her at the kitchen table, the printed statement laid between them like a duelists glove.
«Sit,» she said.
He did, shoulders slumped.
«I went to the bank today.» Her voice was glacial.
Oliver exhaled. «Em»
«Wheres the money?»
«I bought a flat.»
«For whom?»
His silence was answer enough.
«Her name,» Emma demanded.
«Zoe.» He scrubbed a hand over his face. «Met her at the company retreat last year. Nineteen, recklessmade me feel alive again. Then she rang me, said she was pregnant»
Emma rose, gripping the windowsill. «So Zoes child matters, but Alfie doesnt?» Her laugh was brittle. «Tomorrow, youll sign your half of this house over to him. And if you fight me in court, Oliver, Ill ruin you.»
He begged, of course. Loathed by dawn and dusk outside their gate, pleading texts unanswered. The divorce was swift.
Zoe, it turned out, had no use for him either. The baby girl, born right on schedule, had her fathers noseand her mothers new boyfriends unmistakable eyes.
And so the dream dissolved, like mist over the moors.
