«Pack my things, my Emily is waiting for me,» the man declared triumphantly as he prepared to meet his mistress. But his wife merely smiled slyly
Alistair stood in the middle of their London flat like a conquering hero. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and announced with theatrical grandeur:
«Pack my bags, Lizzie. My Emily is expecting me.»
His voice quivered with anticipation. His eyes burned with the fire of liberation. Finally, hed done it. Mustered the courage. Escaped the cage of domestic drudgery, the suffocating weight of their «perfect marriage,» the unspoken accusations in his wifes heavy gazethe one that always seemed to know everything yet never spoke.
Elizabeth sat motionless on the sofa, an open notebook in her lap, her pen frozen mid-sentence. She lifted her head slowly. Her face was calm, almost serene. Then she smiled.
Not bitterly. Not spitefully. Not broken.
Like a cat whod finally cornered the mouse.
«Alright, Alfie,» she said softly, almost sweetly. «Ill pack them. But are you *sure* you want to take them with you?»
He scoffed, already striding toward the wardrobe.
«Of course! Theyre *my* things. I have every right.»
«Yes, of course,» Lizzie nodded, closing her notebook. «You have every right. Only do you actually remember where they are?»
Alistair turned, frowning.
«What nonsense? In the wardrobe, obviously!»
«Well,» she shrugged, «I just wanted to check. Because your phones been in repairs for a week now. Still there.»
«What phone?»
«Your *main* one. The one with your SIM. The messages. The photos. *Everything*.»
«But Ive got a spare!»
«You do. But you never texted Emily from it. Not once. All those cosy little chats? Only on the main one. And its still at the shop. Under warranty. For another fortnight.»
Alistair froze.
«How do you»
«Ah, *this*,» Lizzie rose, gliding toward the bookcase and retrieving a small USB drive, «is called a *backup*. I made it a month ago. Around the time you started mentioning colleague Emily a bit too often.»
Alistair went pale.
«You *read* my messages?»
«No,» she replied coolly. «I just *saved* them. For safekeeping. So if it ever came to it, I could prove youd systematically lied to your wife, cheated, planned your grand escape, and spent *our* money on gifts for another woman. Every word. Every transfer. Even the receipts from that little dinner last Friday.»
«Thats *private*!» he spluttered. «You had no right!»
«And did *you* have the right to spend *our* money on *her*?» Lizzie asked mildly. «The money for *our* future? The flat *you* wanted to sell to buy *her* a house?»
He recoiled.
«How do you know about the house?»
«Because I visited the estate agent. Posing as a buyer. I heard you discussing the deal. Telling them you were divorcing, that your wife was unhinged, that you needed a fresh start.»
Alistair sank onto the sofa. His head spun.
«Youve been *following* me?»
«No. Ive just been *everywhere* you were. At workposing as a client. At the cafésitting at the next table. In the parkwalking *your* dog, by the way, the one you mysteriously forgot to mention in your new life. I knew it all. Every step. Every lie.»
«Why?» he whispered. «Why didnt you say anything?»
«Why bother?» Lizzie smiled. «I needed time. To gather everything. To be certain. To let you reach *this* momentthe point of no return. Where *you* say, Im leaving. Because *thats* when the game begins.»
«What game?»
«Mine,» she said quietly.
A month ago, Lizzie had noticed the first red flag. Not a photo, not a letterjust a scent. Foreign perfume on his shirt. Light, floral, not hers. She hadnt screamed, hadnt confronted him. Shed just looked into his eyes and *known* he was lying.
Then came the little things. Missing evenings. «Work drinks.» Late nights. His phone, always switched off. Hed grown snappy, restlessyet oddly happy. Like a man whod tasted freedom.
Lizzie didnt cry. She watched. Then she acted.
Firstthe digital trail. She knew his passwords. Not because shed snooped, but because once, theyd trusted each other. And hed never changed them. Never imagined shed look.
But she had.
And there it *all* was.
Messages hidden under «Work Contacts.» Photos. Confessions. *Plans.* «When will you leave her?» «I want your child.» «Sell the flatwell buy a house by the lake.»
Emily. A colleague. Ten years younger. Smiling, hopeful. She thought Alistair was her salvation.
Lizzie felt no rage, no despair. Just cold clarity: he was ready to burn everything for an illusion. But she wouldnt be the casualty.
She collected evidence. Methodically. Like a scientist assembling data. Texts, photos, bank statementshed been transferring money to Emily, calling it «business expenses.» Hed even rented her a flat. With *their* money.
She recorded. Archived. Waited. Until *he* said, «Im leaving.» Because only then would the law side with her.
«So,» Lizzie said, drifting toward the window, «packing, then? Go ahead. The wardrobes right there. But know this: Im keeping what was bought with *our* money. Clothes? Take them. Shoes? Yours. But the laptop, the watch, the tabletthey stay. Marital assets.»
«Theyre *mine*!»
«No. Theyre *ours*. And your share? Youll get itvia court. Until then, they stay.»
«You cant do this!»
«I can. I have a solicitor. Proof of adulterynot a crime, but it *does* sway judges. Witnesses to your insults. Even recordings where you call me mad.»
«That was a *joke*!»
«Not to a judge. Especially with therapist notes claiming *I* was the toxic one.»
Alistair paled. The ground swayed beneath him.
«You *planned* this?»
«No. I just prepared. *You* laid the groundwork for your own downfall.»
The next day, he tried to leave. Packed a bag. Took the bare essentials. But a solicitor stood at the door.
«Mr. Whitmore,» the man said, «your wife has filed for asset division. Everythings frozen. You may only remove personal effects. Anything else constitutes theft of joint property.»
«Youre *joking*!»
«No. Heres the court order.»
Alistair turned. Lizzie stood in the bedroom doorwaycalm, sipping tea, wrapped in her old dressing gown.
«I warned you,» she said. «You dont just walk away. There are rules. And you broke them.»
He went to Emily. She waited. New flat. Dinner. Flowers. She rushed to him.
«Are you free?» she whispered.
«Almost,» he muttered. «But Lizzie shes playing games. Wont let me take anything. Threatening court.»
Emily frowned.
«Are you *sure* this is what you want? Maybe talk to her? Fix things?»
«*What*? Youre backing out *now*?»
«No, but I dont want to ruin you. You said she belittled you, controlled you. What if she was just protecting herself?»
«Youre taking *her* side?!»
«Im not taking *any* side. Im just scared you havent been honest. That Im part of your *escape*, not your new life.»
He left. No dinner. No embrace. No hope.
A week later, he returned home. The flat was the samebut cold, empty. His things sat boxed by the door.
«Take them,» Lizzie said. «But remember: if you file for divorce, Ill claim compensation. I have proof of your spending. The courts will side with me.»
«But we dont have *kids*!»
«No. But theres emotional harm. And a judge *will* award it. Especially with *this*.»
She handed him a printouthis messages to Emily. *»My wife is dull, cold, old. Im suffocating.»*
«You *printed* these?»
«Fifteen copies. For court. For your boss. For HMRCthose undeclared transfers. And one for Emily.»
«*What*?!»
«Shes read them. She even messaged me: Im sorry. I didnt know.»
Alistair slumped to the floor.
«Youve *destroyed* me.»
«No,» Lizzie said softly. «*You* did that. I just held up the mirror.»
Three months passed.
Alistair stayed. Not because Lizzie forgave him, but because he had nowhere else to go. He barely kept his jobhis boss had called him in after «*that* email.» Emily ghosted him. His reputation, his money, his careerall crumbling.
Lizzie, meanwhile, began to *live*. She took courses. Practised yoga. Smiled*properly*. They coexisted like flatmates. Occasionally, even like people whod once loved each other.
One evening, he asked:
«Why havent you filed for divorce?»
She gazed out the window.
«Because I dont need your suffering. I needed you to *understand*. To feel betrayed. Abandoned. *Used*. Now you do.»
«I never meant to hurt you.»
«And I refused to lose *myself*. I didnt. I grew stronger. *You*? You fell apart. Not because of mebecause of your own lies.»
One morning, he left. For good. No words. No ultimatums. Just gone.
A week later, a letter arrived.
*Lizzie,*
*I dont know how to apologise.*
*I was blind. Selfish. A fool.*
*I thought love was escape, new thrills.*
*But you showed me: love is honesty. Trust.*
*You didnt take revenge. You made me see myself.*
*Thank you.*
*Im leaving. Not for her. For me.*
*Goodbye.*
*Alistair.*
Lizzie read it. Folded it. Placed it in the memory box. Not discarded. Not treasured.
She stepped onto the balcony. The sun shone bright. Children laughed below. Life went on.
She smiled. Not slyly. Calmly. *Freely.*
A year later, Lizzie opened a small relationship consultancy. Helped women whod been cheated on. Not for revenge. For self-love.
When asked, *»What do I do if he leaves me for another woman?»* shed say:
«Dont pack *his* bags. Let *him* decide what matters.»
«Pack *yourself* instead.»
Because the most precious thing?
Is *you*.
Five years on, Alistair spotted Lizzie in the park by chance. She walked with a man, laughing, holding a childs hand.
He wanted to stop. To speak. But he couldnt.
He just watched her *live*.
And realised: he hadnt lost a wife.
Hed lost a *future*.
And she?
Shed found hers.
