**Diary Entry, 12th April**
I’d been cheated on for years… Yet in the end, he walked straight into his own trap.
You can tell yourself you’re in control—that you’re clever, perceptive, a grown woman who’ll never be fooled. Then one day, you realise you’ve been living with a man who’s lied to your face. For years. And you’ve forgiven, believed, stayed silent. Until fate decides it’s time to settle the score.
My name’s Emily. I’m forty. And nearly half my life was spent with Edward. Back at university, he was the star of our year—tall, handsome, charming, with a smile that made girls weak. I was naïve and in love; he was my first real man. We dated three years, then married. I was sure we’d last forever.
I was wrong.
The first betrayal came… on our honeymoon. We were in Paris—romance, a luxury hotel, champagne baths, strawberries in cream. A fairy tale. Until we returned to London, and a friend let slip that Edward had been seen in the arms of another girl—Charlotte—just before our wedding. A real beauty, that one.
At first, I denied it. Couldn’t believe it. Then the pattern set in.
Every pretty woman in my circle became a threat. Edward, a natural performer, swore his love so convincingly I forgave him again and again. I became that wife—the one who knows but hopes things will change. Foolish? Maybe. But it was love.
I drifted from my friends. At first, jealous distance—then just habit. We agreed: careers first, children later. He climbed the ladder. I built the illusion of a marriage.
Then a new neighbour moved in. Rebecca. Slender, sharp-featured, with a blunt bob. Not beautiful. Not even close. Edward privately called her “The Mare.” But she was clever, quick-witted, a brilliant storyteller. We became fast friends.
Edward scoffed whenever she visited. But I cherished her company—for the first time in years, I had a friend who didn’t feel like a threat.
Rebecca—or, as it turned out, “Beatrice”—was a photographer. Born in Spain, raised in Canada, spoke English with a faint accent and a vocabulary to shame any scholar. Her story moved me: adopted, devoted to art, well-travelled, lonely…
Seemed perfect: me, the married woman, and a friend my husband would never look at twice. Until one evening.
Beatrice invited us to a housewarming. Wine, music, laughter… and Edward, suddenly watching her differently. At first, I thought I imagined it. But no. I knew that look. Too well.
Then something strange happened: relief. No jealousy. No pain. Just quiet certainty—this was his end. Because Beatrice wasn’t some dazzled girl. She saw through people. She wouldn’t be kept “on standby.” And she certainly wouldn’t be used.
It didn’t take long. Edward, the “ladies’ man,” fell hard. For the first time, truly. And I? I simply left. No scenes. No shouting.
Packed my things, rented a flat, filed for divorce. He begged, called it a “mistake,” said he’d “lost his head.” I just smiled. Because finally, I felt free. No longer the victim. No longer an extra in his drama. Just a woman who’d survived betrayal—and walked away with her head high.
What happened to Beatrice and Edward? I don’t know. Don’t care.
And me? I’m stronger. Calmer. Whole. If you think I’m suffering—you’re wrong. Because sooner or later, everyone gets what they deserve. Even my once-beloved Edward.
**Lesson learned: Never mistake silence for weakness. Sometimes, it’s just patience—waiting for the right moment to walk away.**