Being sacked because of a scheming flatterer felt like the end, but fate had a proper gift in store—I found real love.
It began with something small, easy to overlook, yet it flipped my world upside down. I worked in logistics at a big London firm, and though Alaina and I were colleagues, we barely crossed paths. She sat in the next office but somehow always lingered nearby. From the start, there was something off about her—too many “chance” meetings by the kettle, forced conversations, artificial laughter at every remark. At first, I thought she was just overly friendly. Then it became clear: she was plotting something. I kept my distance, polite but guarded. Until the day she cornered me by the coffee machine and kissed my cheek out of nowhere. “For luck,” she whispered, locking eyes. It wasn’t just uncomfortable—it made my skin crawl. Instinctively, I shoved her away, more roughly than intended. She stumbled back. Of course, she never forgave me. I hoped the incident would blow over, but by the next morning, whispers followed me. Sideways glances. Then the summons to the boss’s office. No explanations, no chance to defend myself—just gone. The official reason? Breach of workplace conduct, conflict with staff, “inappropriate behaviour” towards a colleague. *Sexual harassment.* My protests fell on deaf ears. The manager barely looked up. “Sue if you want,” he said, “but you’ll waste your time. Plenty of witnesses.” Witnesses she’d rounded up from those too scared to lose their jobs. Overnight, my reputation crumbled. No work, no prospects. Rumours spread fast, and soon no one in my field would even interview me. This wasn’t just betrayal—it was sabotage.
But I refused to wallow. Self-pity would’ve drowned me. One evening, on the balcony of my rented flat, I scribbled a list of things I’d always meant to do but never had time for. Some wild, some simple. One item stood out: *learn to dance.* I’d fancied salsa and bachata for years but never had the push. Now I did. I signed up for lessons—cheap enough, and I needed to feel alive again. From the first class, I knew I’d made the right choice. But what stunned me wasn’t the dancing—it was the instructor, Evelyn. Not some classic beauty, but glowing, magnetic. No cheap flirtation, just warmth and quiet confidence. I fell for her instantly. Not out of loneliness or desperation—just this sudden, bone-deep certainty: *She’s the one.* I didn’t dare act on it. Then, after class one night, she asked if I fancied a coffee. My breath caught. We talked for hours. Then came everything—love like a film script. She admitted she’d felt it too but hesitated, afraid I wasn’t ready.
Now we’re together. Alive. Planning our own dance studio. And we’re expecting our first child—Evelyn’s pregnant. She didn’t just pull me back from the brink; she gave me a new life. And if not for that vile kiss, that twisted dismissal—I’d never have walked into that studio. Never found her. Never become who I am now. Sometimes fate tears your world apart just to hand you the pieces of something real.
