14October2025
I never imagined the day I would stand frozen outside a highend restaurant on Bond Street, watching my former wife glide past the window. Emma Clarkeonce the timid girl Id met at a trade shownow sat at a table, typing on her laptop, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a raspberrystrawberry tart placed before her. Her blonde hair caught the light, and a sleek designer bracelet glittered on her wrist. I clenched my jaw, slipped away from the entrance, and hoped she wouldnt notice me.
Wed first crossed paths six years ago, just after Id graduated from university and taken a junior role at a wellknown construction firm. My career was taking off. At an equipment exhibition in Birmingham, I struck up a conversation with a pleasant young woman manning a booth. Fancy a coffee instead of standing among all these diggers? I joked. She smiled, and we talked. Emma was quiet, polite, and immediately caught my eye.
In my head she was the perfect partner: compliant, agreeable, someone I could mould into the ideal, obedient wife. I told myself she was a little roundbodied, but a gym membership could fix that, I thought. If she ever strays after the children arrive, I could always find a mistress. I handed her a coffee and chuckled, What brings you here? She replied shyly, I write short stories; Im hoping to break into screenwriting. I imagined her as a grey mouse I could shape into anythingcooking, caring for the home, raising children, obeying me without question.
Later, after buying a coffee from a stall across the street, I settled on a bench and kept watching her. When Emma stepped outside, I was stunned by her poise, her furtrimmed coat, her graceful stride. In just three years she had transformed beyond recognition. The moment she slipped into a sleek sports car, I was speechless. She must have found a wealthy man, I muttered, gulping the hot coffee and gripping the cup as if it could keep my nerves together. Emma vanished down the road, and I spent the night scrolling through a new account Id created just to spy on her Instagram. Jealousy, resentment, furydrinking half a bottle of whisky only amplified them. I cursed the lavish photos of her in fivestar hotels, designer handbags, flawless physique. Shes lost at least ten kiloswhats her secret? Plastic surgery? The gym?
The next morning I recalled a conversation wed had. Its all a matter of taste, Emma had said, brushing off my criticism of her latest story. I already have readers. I scoffed, If you have no brains, perhaps thats why you write. She tried to explain, James, why cant you accept that I have my own ambitions? Im not attacking your work. I snapped, If you helped me, Id spend less time in the office. I declared that from now on she should abandon her writing and assist me with the business. She burst into tears, pleading that her stories were her soul. I told her she was useless, that she must become my tool, feeding me a daily list of tasks. She sobbed, I accused her of ingratitude, reminded her of the holidays and gifts Id given. Either help me or get out, I said, pointing at the door. She stayed, wiping her eyes, and never wrote again.
A year passed. With connections and a modest inheritance from my grandmothers house, I launched my own construction company. Emma became my fulltime assistanthandling paperwork, presentations, supervising crews, arranging meetings. The business grew; I built a housing development in Surrey. Yet, despite the success, I grew increasingly dissatisfied with Emmas appearance. She had developed a sweet tooth, and her weight ballooned. How am I supposed to go out with this pig? I complained to my mate, Tom, at a pub in Camden. He shrugged, Looks like a sad sight. I installed a dating app, seeking a replacement. Within days, I met Olivia Hart, a fit, demanding woman who agreed to meet at a chic restaurant in Mayfair. She whispered in my ear, You love how I look, as we lounged in a flat with a panoramic city viewmy private hideaway for secret trysts. I imagined spending three hundred pounds a month on her hair, nails, spa, and gym, yet I barely listened, simply admiring her beauty.
Olivia quickly took Emmas place in my thoughts; I spent weeks with her, neglecting home. When I finally returned, Emma greeted me with homemade pesto pasta, Did you enjoy your business trip? I grunted, Im not hungry. I treated her like an employee, demanding more than any staff member. My ventures began to faltercontracts fell through, partners left. I blamed Emma, and in a bitter divorce I ensured she walked away with nothing. By the next day, she was out on the street.
Three years later, I was sitting in my kitchen, sipping tea, when I saw a photo indicating Emma now lived in a modest cottage in Harrow, apparently with a wealthy benefactor. I have a meeting with an investor nearby, I muttered, maybe Ill swing by, see how shes doing. My thoughts were interrupted by a message from Olivia, who had flown off to the Maldives with my money. James, were breaking up. Ive met someone else. Take your belongings; Ill collect them. I erupted, typing a furious reply, hurling the worst insults. She replied calmly, Im blocking you; drama wont help my looks. I was furious.
Rejected by the investor, I drove to the upscale suburb where Emma lived, smoking a pack of cigarettes, waiting for her sleek car to pull up. Emma, what are you doing here? she asked, bewildered as I rang the doorbell repeatedly. I just wanted to see how youre doing. She smirked, You barred me from my passion. I worked for you for two years without pay, cooking, cleaning, believing in you while everyone doubted you. I tried to apologise, stumbling over words.
She laughed, You think youre the reason Im successful now? Ive sold scripts to major production houses. My shows are on the main channels. I was stunned; my resentment boiled over. You were a boring mouse, no talent, no contacts, no flat. All your success is because of me! she replied coolly, The only thing I learned from you is how low some people can sink. She stood, pointed to the door, and said Id get nothing more from her.
In a blind rage I seized her elbow, dragging her toward the living room, demanding the location of a safe where she kept her money. Tell me where it is or you wont leave, I snarled, brandishing a log from the fireplace. Emmas eyes narrowed. Lonely women get cats, she said, then smiled, But Im not just any woman. Two massive Dobermans, Chilli and Willy, stood nearby, eyes fixed on me. Chilli, Willystop him! Emma shouted. Their low growls filled the room. I lunged, but the dogs blocked me, and I felt the world tilt as they snarled.
The police arrived after a chaotic scuffle; I was given a suspended sentence and lost any hope of ever contacting Emma again. Rumour has it shes now married to a talented director and is expecting a child. Some say every successful woman has a man who broke her heart, and the sweetest revenge is to prove you can thrive without him. Whether thats true I cannot say, but I have learned something vital: trying to control anothers destiny only destroys your own.
