He’d been cheating on me for years… In the end, he walked right into his own trap.
You can tell yourself all you want that you’re in control, that you’re clever, perceptive, a woman wise to the world who no one could ever fool. Then one day you realise—you’ve been living with a man who’s been lying to your face. For years. And you keep forgiving, believing, staying silent. Until fate decides it’s time to collect what’s owed…
My name is Eleanor. I’m forty. Nearly half my life was spent with William. Back in university, he was the star of his year—tall, broad-shouldered, charming, with a smile that could melt anyone’s heart and eyes that made girls weak in the knees. I was naïve and head over heels, and he was my first real love. We dated for three years, then married. I was certain ours was a bond meant to last.
I was wrong.
I first sensed his betrayal… during our honeymoon. We were in Edinburgh—a romantic escape, a luxurious hotel, a deep copper bathtub and champagne in the bubbles. It was like a fairy tale. Until we returned to London, and a friend let slip that William had been seen just before the wedding, wrapped around one of our mutual acquaintances—Penelope. A real stunner…
Of course, I denied it at first. Refused to believe it. But then it just kept happening.
Every pretty woman in my circle became a threat. And William—a born performer—could swear his love to me so convincingly that I forgave him, again and again. I became that wife—the one who knows she’s being cheated on but clings to the hope that one day, things will change. Foolish? Maybe. But love blinds you.
I started avoiding my friends. First out of petty jealousy, then just out of habit. We’d agreed—careers first, then children. He built his career. I built the illusion of a marriage.
Then one day, a new neighbour moved in. Margaret. Thin, sharp-featured, with a blunt bob. Not pretty. Not in the slightest. William even joked about her behind closed doors—called her “The Mare.” But she turned out to be whip-smart, with a razor-sharp wit and a storyteller’s gift. We clicked instantly.
William scoffed whenever he heard she was visiting again. But I relished her company—for the first time in years, I had a friend who didn’t feel like a threat to my marriage.
Margaret—actually, Margot, as it turned out—was a photographer. Born in Ireland, raised in Canada, she spoke with the faintest lilt but a vocabulary that would put Oxford dons to shame. Her story gripped me—adopted, an artist’s soul, a life of travel, a quiet loneliness…
And so, for a while, everything seemed perfect: me, a married woman, with a friend who would *never* catch my husband’s eye, and peace at last. But it all changed one evening.
Margot invited us to a housewarming. There was music, wine, laughter… and William, who suddenly started looking at her differently. At first, I thought I was imagining it. Then—I knew. I recognised that look. I knew it too well.
And then something strange happened—I felt… relief. No jealousy. No pain. Just a quiet, cold certainty—this was his downfall. Because Margot wasn’t some foolish girl dazzled by charm. She was a woman who saw straight through people. She wasn’t the type to settle for second-best. And certainly not the type to be used.
It didn’t take long. William, the “king of women,” fell—hard, and for the first time in his life, truly in love. And me? I simply walked away. Without a word. No scenes. No screams.
I packed my things, found a flat, filed for divorce. He came begging, swearing it was a “mistake,” that he’d “lost his head.” I just smiled. Because at last, I felt it—I was free. No longer the victim. No longer a background player in someone else’s drama. A woman who had lived through betrayal and walked out with her pride intact.
What became of Margot and William? I’ve no idea. And I don’t care to find out.
Me? I’m stronger now. Calmer. Whole. And if you think I must be suffering—you’re wrong. Because everyone gets what they deserve, eventually. Even my once-beloved William.
