He watched her from the window… then stepped across the threshold of another’s flat.
Emma paced the apartment like a caged animal, her chest tight with an unease she couldn’t name. For days, her husband’s behaviour had set her on edge. James had suddenly become the perfect family man—cleaning, cooking, bringing home flowers. Were these efforts for her… or for his own guilt?
By the window, Emma glanced into the courtyard—and her breath caught. There he was, the man who’d sworn devotion, staring at their neighbour with a look that bordered on worship. She jerked back from the glass. *Could my James really do this?*
A voice cut through the silence behind him.
“Who were you just staring at?”
James tore his gaze from Sophie’s slender figure as she walked her terrier, turning to face his wife.
“Christ, Emma, you scared me. Thought you were at work.”
“I’ve been here for minutes. You didn’t even notice.” Her voice trembled. “What’s on your mind?”
“Just… work,” he muttered. “The new bloke cocked everything up. Had to redo it.”
Emma didn’t buy it. She knew every tell—the way his lips twitched, the flicker in his eyes. He was lying.
James changed the subject, asking about dinner. “I’ve got a late meeting,” she said flatly. “Sort yourself something.” So he did—beans on toast. She forced a nod, though the thought turned her stomach.
That evening, the office lost power. James came home early, flicked through the telly, paced, then—back to the window. And there Sophie was again. This time, he didn’t resist. He went downstairs. Approached her.
“Fancy a coffee?”
Sophie hesitated but agreed, amused. They sat in a café, chatting easily. Within half an hour, he was in her flat. Lines were crossed. James knew he was betraying Emma, but Sophie’s laugh drowned out the guilt.
Returning home, he caught sight of their wedding photo. His own vow—*forever*—echoed in his skull. He shook his head, baked a shepherd’s pie, Emma’s favourite.
She came home thrilled—promised a promotion at the meeting. Praised the meal. James forced a smile. *If she knew, she’d throw this plate at my head,* he thought, clinging to his mask.
For days, he avoided Sophie. Yet the pull grew sharper. When Emma left for work, he went back. No pretence this time—straight to Sophie’s door.
She seemed surprised but let him in. There was no romance—just novelty, which James mistook for something deeper.
Emma noticed. The forced kindness. The distance. And always—*the window.* One evening, she looked out too. And saw. *Her.*
“You’re cheating on me?!” she screamed, pointing.
James stalled, stammered, tangled himself in excuses. Too late. She threw him out, deaf to his pleading. He left… straight to Sophie’s.
“She knows. Kicked me out. Can I stay?”
Sophie wavered. But the door opened.
Downstairs, in the flat that still smelled of shepherd’s pie, Emma stood, tears streaking her face. Betrayed. Humiliated. Worst of all—he hadn’t fought for them. Just walked away.
But she wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t take back a coward. No. She’d get a cat. Maybe a dog. And learn to live again—without the pain, without the lies. With her head held high.