Once, in a quiet English town nestled in the rolling hills of Yorkshire, there lived a woman named Eleanor Whitmore. For thirteen years, she had shared her life with her husband, Geoffrey, a man she had loved fiercelyfor his unruly chestnut hair, his weary smile, and the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at their eight-year-old son, Oliver. Life in their little corner of the world had been steady, predictable, until the day everything shattered.
Geoffrey arrived home at half past nine, later than usual. Lately, he had been working late often, but Eleanor had dismissed ituntil tonight. The moment he stepped inside, the scent hit her. Not his usual cologne, but something cloying and floral, clinging to his jacket like a guilty secret.
«Hello, love,» he muttered, brushing a kiss to the top of her head. «Exhausted. Bloody long day.»
«Hello,» she replied evenly. «Will you eat? Ive kept supper warm.»
«No, ta. Need a shower.»
He moved past her, and Eleanor felt a cold dread settle in her chest. Again, he refused food. Again, he kept his mobile close, screen-down, as if guarding it.
«Youre late,» she said, picking up her teacup. «Busy at the office?»
Geoffrey paused at the bathroom door. «Aye, Elle. End of the quarter. Reports, you know how it is.»
«Why do you smell like that?» The question leapt out before she could stop it.
He stiffened. «Like what?»
«Perfume. Sweet. Flowery. Not yours.»
«Ahmustve been one of the lasses at work. Lucy from accounting bought some new scent. Reeked the whole office out.» He waved a hand. «Dont fuss, Elle. Im knackered.»
«Lucy from accounting,» Eleanor repeated softly, turning away.
The scent had haunted her for weeks. Shed tried to ignore it, told herself it was nothinguntil the day she walked into the bank.
Their dreama flat for Oliver when he came of agehad lived in a savings account theyd opened five years prior. Every spare penny had gone into it. Geoffrey, an engineer at the local factory, had sacrificed overtime pay; Eleanor, a seamstress, had taken on extra orders. Theyd skipped holidays, driven the same old car, scrimped on everything but Olivers future. By now, there should have been nearly fifty thousand poundsa fortune in their town, enough to secure their sons education and a proper home.
But when the teller, a young woman named Sarah, checked the balance, her face fell.
«Mrs. Whitmore its empty.»
Eleanors knees nearly buckled. «Thats impossible.»
«Last withdrawal was two weeks ago. The full amountall forty-nine thousand. Mr. Whitmore closed the account.»
Two weeks ago. The night Geoffrey claimed hed been stuck in a meeting.
She left the bank in a daze, the printout clutched in her hand.
***
When Geoffrey returned that evening, Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, the bank statement laid neatly before her. Her face was calm, her voice steady as ice.
«Sit down, Geoffrey.»
He hesitated, then sank into the chair opposite her.
«Elle, whats this about?»
«Dont play daft. You know. I went to the bank today. The accounts empty. Forty-nine thousand poundsgone.»
Geoffreys shoulders slumped. He didnt deny it.
«I bought a flat.»
«For whom?»
He exhaled sharply, frustration flickering in his eyes. «For her.»
«Her name, Geoffrey.»
«Sophie.»
Eleanor didnt scream. She didnt move. She simply stared as Geoffrey unraveled before her, confessing to an affair with a girl half his agea reckless, tattooed thing whod swept him off his feet. A girl whod later told him she was pregnant.
«I couldnt leave her with a bairn, Elle. Her mum kicked her out. What was I supposed to do?»
Eleanor rose, her voice deadly quiet. «So youll provide for a bastard child, but not your own son? Fine. Tomorrow, youll sign your half of this house over to Oliver. And come morning, Ill file for divorce. Try to stop me, and Ill ruin you.»
Geoffrey begged, pleaded, sent lettersall ignored. The divorce was swift. And when Sophies child was born, the truth was plain as day: the babys dark eyes bore no resemblance to Geoffreys.
Some betrayals, it seemed, cut both ways.
