Emily stood by the window, watching the thick London snow blanket the city. The phone call with her husband was winding downjust another routine conversation in their fifteen years of marriage. James, as usual, was updating her about his «business trip» in Manchester: everything was fine, meetings were going to plan, hed be back in three days.
«Alright, love, speak soon,» Emily said, moving the phone from her ear to press the red end-call button. But something stopped her. On the other end, she heard a womans voice, bright and youthful:
«Jamie, are you coming? Ive already run the bath»
Emilys hand froze mid-air. Her heart stopped, then pounded so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. She pressed the phone back to her earbut all she heard was the dull tone of the ended call.
She sank into the armchair, legs buckling beneath her. Her mind raced. *Jamie A bath What bath on a business trip?* Memories of the last few months flashedhis frequent trips, late-night calls taken outside, the new cologne lingering in his car.
With trembling hands, she opened her laptop. Logging into his email was easyshe still knew the password from when trust was unshaken. Tickets, hotel bookings A honeymoon suite in a five-star Manchester hotel. For two.
Then she found the messages. *Chloe.* Twenty-six. Personal trainer. *Darling, I cant do this anymore. You promised youd leave her three months ago. How much longer do I have to wait?*
Emily felt sick. She remembered their first dateJames, just a junior manager, her a junior accountant. Theyd saved for their wedding, renting a tiny flat, celebrating small victories. Now he was a commercial director, she a CFO, and between them stretched fifteen yearsand a twenty-six-year-old named Chloe.
In the hotel room, James paced furiously.
«What were you thinking?» His voice shook with anger.
Chloe lounged on the bed, wrapped in a silk robe, her blonde hair fanned across the pillow.
«Whats the big deal?» She stretched like a satisfied cat. «You said you were leaving her anyway.»
«That was *my* decision to make! Do you realize what youve done? Emilys not stupidshe *knows!*»
«Good!» Chloe sat up sharply. «Im tired of being your dirty secret. I want dinners, meeting your friendsI want to be your *wife!*»
«Youre acting like a child,» he hissed.
«And youre a coward!» She marched toward him. «Look at me! Im young, beautifulI can give you children. What can she do? Count your money?»
James grabbed her shoulders. «Dont you *dare* talk about Emily like that! You know nothing about us!»
«I know enough,» she spat, wrenching free. «I know youre miserable. That shes buried in work and chores. When was the last time you even touched her? Went on holiday together?»
James turned to the window. Somewhere in snowy London, their marriage was crumbling. Fifteen years collapsing like a house of cards, all because of one careless whisper.
Emily sat in the dark kitchen, cradling a cold cup of tea. Her phone buzzeddozens of missed calls from James. She ignored them. What could she say? *»Darling, I heard your mistress calling you to the bath»?*
Memories flickeredJames proposing in a crowded restaurant, their first cramped flat, him holding her when her mother died, celebrating his promotion
Then came the endless overtime, the mortgages, the renovations.
When had they last talked*really* talked? Watched a film curled up together? Made plans?
Another buzza text: *Em, lets talk. I can explain.*
Explain what? That shed aged? That life had dulled her? That a young personal trainer understood him better?
She studied herself in the mirror. Forty-two. Wrinkles, grey roots she dyed monthly. When had the fatigue set in? The routine? The chase for stability?
«James, whereve you been?» Chloe glared when he returned to the room after another failed call to Emily.
«Not now.» He slumped into a chair, loosening his tie.
«No, *now!*» She planted her hands on her hips. «What happens next? You cant pretend anymore!»
James looked at herbeautiful, confident, brimming with life. Emily had been like that fifteen years ago. God, how had he done this to her?
«Chloe,» he rubbed his face, exhausted. «Youre right. This has to end.»
She brightened, rushing to him. «Darling! I knew youd do the right thing!»
He gently pushed her back. «It *is* over. This was a mistake. I love my wife. Yes, weve drifted. But I cantI wontthrow away fifteen years.»
«Youyou coward!» Tears streaked her face.
«No. The coward was me starting this. Lying to the woman who stood by me through everything. Youre rightI *am* unhappy. But happiness isnt foundits built.»
The knock came just past midnight. Emily knew it was himhed taken the first flight back.
«Em, please open the door.» His voice was muffled through the wood.
She did. James stood thereunshaven, suit crumpled, eyes heavy with guilt.
«Can I come in?»
Silently, she stepped aside. They moved to the kitchenwhere theyd once dreamed together, made plans.
«Em»
«Dont.» She raised a hand. «I know everything. Chloe. Twenty-six. Personal trainer. I read your emails.»
He nodded, speechless.
«Why, James?»
He stared out at the city. «Because I was weak. Because I got scaredof how distant wed become. Because she reminded me of you. The *old* you.»
«And now?»
«Now,» he turned to her, «I want to fix this. If youll let me.»
«What about her?»
«Its done. I cant lose you. Em, I dont deserve forgiveness. But lets trycouples therapy, more time together, *us* again»
Emily studied himolder, greyer, achingly familiar. Fifteen years wasnt just a number. It was inside jokes, shared silence, forgiveness.
«I dont know, James.» For the first time that night, she cried.
He pulled her close, and she didnt push away. Outside, snow softened Londons edges.
Somewhere in Manchester, a young woman cried, facing a brutal truth: love wasnt just passionit was a choice, made daily.
And here, in the kitchen, two people tried to gather the pieces. Ahead lay hard worktherapy, painful talks, relearning each other. But both knew: sometimes you must lose something to understand its worth.
