Fate’s Comeuppance: A Triumph Over Betrayal
In the quiet town of Windermere, James froze in front of the window of an upscale restaurant, barely believing his eyes.
“She couldn’t have changed this much!” he muttered under his breath, staring at his ex-wife. “No, that’s not Emily. She couldn’t possibly have transformed like this!”
A glamorous woman with golden waves sat by the window, absorbed in her laptop. A waiter placed a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a berry-topped dessert in front of her.
“How did she become so… perfect? And that bracelet on her wrist—must cost a fortune!” James bit his lip and retreated into the shadows, terrified Emily might spot him.
James and Emily had met five years ago. James, a young engineer, had just started at a major construction firm in Windermere. His career was skyrocketing.
At a trade show for building machinery, he noticed a quiet girl behind one of the stands.
“What’s a girl like you doing surrounded by bulldozers? Come on, let’s grab a coffee,” he said with a grin.
They chatted. Shy, gentle Emily immediately appealed to James.
“Now *this* is the kind of wife I want,” he thought. “Obedient, never argues. She’ll make the perfect homemaker.”
“Sure, her figure isn’t model-perfect,” he mused, handing her the coffee. “But the gym will fix that. And if she lets herself go after kids, I’ll just get a mistress.”
“So, what brings you to this expo?” he asked as they stepped outside.
“I write stories—dream of being a screenwriter,” Emily replied softly, her big hazel eyes meeting his. “Just graduated with a lit degree. Freelancing to pay rent for now.”
“Perfect,” James thought. “No money, no connections. This meek little thing can be molded into anything I want. She’ll cook, clean, raise the kids. And obey me without question.”
He immediately launched into bragging about his career, detailing how he’d soon be top brass.
James bought a coffee from the kiosk opposite the restaurant and sat on a bench, still watching Emily. When she stepped outside, his jaw dropped. Graceful stride, a sable coat, confidence radiating from her—and when she slid into a gleaming sports car, James nearly choked on his drink.
“She couldn’t have changed this much!” he spluttered. “Must’ve found herself a sugar daddy. No other explanation.”
He gulped his scalding coffee, crushing the cup in his fist. Emily sped off into the distance.
That night, James didn’t sleep. After the divorce, Emily had blocked him everywhere. Desperate, he created a fake account to stalk her life. Envy, rage, hatred consumed him. Half a bottle of whiskey deep, he scrolled through her photos: Emily in five-star hotels, designer handbags, lavish gowns…
“Dropped at least two stone! How? Plastic surgery? Personal trainer?” James gripped his phone so hard the screen cracked.
Hangover pounding the next morning, he remembered one of their old arguments.
“What’s this rubbish? Who even reads this?” he scoffed at one of her stories.
“Each to their own,” Emily murmured. “I have readers now.”
“*Readers*?” James barked a laugh. “Maybe for people with no taste, your little fairytales pass as entertainment.”
“James, why do you do this?” Her voice trembled. “Two years together, and you belittle everything I care about. I don’t insult your work, even when you disappear for days!”
“Exactly!” he roared. “If you were a proper wife, helping with *my* career, I wouldn’t need to work late!”
He jumped up from the sofa.
“No more nonsense, Emily. From tomorrow, you stop scribbling and start assisting me.”
“What do you mean, *stop*?” She paled by the window.
“I mean *stop*,” he snapped. “Want to keep this marriage? Then quit the hobby and make yourself useful.”
“But this is my soul, my dream…” Tears streamed down her face.
“I don’t care!” he shouted. “Your scribbles are worthless. You’re nothing without me. Starting tomorrow, I assign tasks—you obey.”
“I don’t know the first thing about your work… Why are you taking this from me?” she sobbed.
“Ungrateful wretch!” James exploded. “I pay for everything—flat, holidays, gifts! Either help me or get out. Door’s that way!”
Emily stayed.
“Fine. If helping’s what you want,” she whispered, wiping her sleeve across her face. She shut her laptop. From that day, James never saw her write again.
A year later, James struck gold. Sold his inherited flat, schmoozed the right people, launched his own firm. Emily slaved for him—contracts, meetings, paperwork, no breaks.
Another year, and he built a luxury estate, raking in millions. Their marriage suited him… except Emily’s looks. Stress had her stress-eating, piling on weight.
“Embarrassing to be seen with this heifer!” James moaned to a mate over pints. “Was chubby before—now? Revolting.”
“Yeah, not great,” his mate agreed, eyeing a photo.
“Time to trade up,” James decided, downloading a dating app. “Thought I’d get a mistress after kids, but I can’t wait.”
Replacement came fast. Svelte Chloe, a personal trainer, agreed to be his new woman on their first date. Their fling ignited in a VIP booth at Windermere’s hottest club.
Chloe was *expensive*.
“You *love* my figure,” she purred in their rented flat with a city view.
“Obviously,” James whispered, tracing her spine.
“For starters, I’ll need two hundred grand. Spa, cosmetics, gym…” Chloe listed, but James wasn’t listening, too busy admiring her.
Within a month, Chloe eclipsed Emily. James barely came home, where his loyal wife still waited.
“I made your favourite—steak and mash,” Emily smiled as he returned from another “business trip.” “How was your day?”
“Fine,” he grunted, avoiding her gaze. “Not hungry. Let’s work. Any updates?”
Emily became his unpaid employee. He demanded more from her than anyone else, never appreciating her.
Soon, even seeing Emily at the office disgusted him. Business faltered—contracts collapsed, partners jumped ship. Whether it was Chloe draining his wallet or his distraction, James blamed Emily for everything.
The breakup was volcanic. He divorced her, left her penniless, and threw her out the same day.
Now, three years later, James couldn’t believe his eyes…
“Photos say she lives in Riverdale—poshest postcode around,” he muttered in his kitchen. “Definitely shacked up with some tycoon. Got meetings nearby tomorrow—I’ll drop in. Something’s off. A mouse doesn’t turn into a swan!”
His phone pinged. A text from Chloe, currently “relaxing” in Marbella:
“James, we’re done. Met someone else. No hard feelings. My friend’s collecting my things.”
“With *my* money?!” he howled, typing a venomous reply.
“Babe, you’re emotional,” Chloe voice-note replied. “Talk when you’ve calmed down. Blocking you for now—drama ruins my skin.”
She blocked him.
After a rejected investor pitch, seething and lost, James drove to Riverdale. Chain-smoking in his car, he waited until Emily pulled up to her mansion in a convertible worth more than his yearly earnings.
“James? What are you doing here?” she asked, wary after his insistent buzzing at her gate.
“Just seeing how you landed on your feet,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.
Emily tensed. James softened his tone:
“Actually… I came to apologise. Realised I was a right prat—”
“A *prat*?” Emily laughed bitterly. “You banned my writing, worked me to the bone for *two years*—cooking, cleaning, believing in you when everyone laughed. Then tossed me out in a day.”
“Go on then. Apologise,” she added, arms crossed.
“Let’s talk inside. Bit weird on the street…” he muttered.
Smug, Emily opened the gates.
“Blimey! This place!” James gaped at the grand hallway. “Come on, who’s bankrolling you?”
“No one,” Emily said calmly, handing him water. “Earned it myself.”
“Liar!” he spat.
“Why is it impossible I succeeded?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“But how… How are you *this* different? The figure, the house…” James spun the glass, bewildered.
“Went back to scripts,” she smiled. “Wrote a few pilots—turns out studios didn’t think they were rubbish. Now my shows air on major networks. Top screenwriter in the country.”
“You came to apologise,” she reminded him, sitting opposite.
James realized too late that the only mouse in the room had been him all along.
