I am the mistress. If I leave, I lose everything—my child, the money, the luxury…
But I am not happy.
I always despised the countryside. The narrow streets, five measly shops for the entire neighbourhood, the silence that hummed in your ears by evening. In winter, the world felt dead. If anyone had asked about my dreams back then, I wouldn’t have hesitated: “Just one—to leave. Forever.”
I wasn’t some great beauty. But there was always Jamie—my classmate, who worshipped me since we were kids. He endured my tantrums, my sharp tongue, my coldness. Even when I spent summers away at my father’s farm, he’d still be waiting outside my house when I returned, the same devotion in his eyes.
My brother and I were still in school. Father lost his job, Mother earned pennies. When we couldn’t even afford the hairdresser, I took scissors and trimmed my brothers’ hair myself. At some point, I realised—I was actually good at it.
One night, after prom, in the suffocating quiet of my nowhere town, I knew: this skill could pull me out. I packed a bag and left for London. Enrolled in hairdressing school.
Soon, my tutor noticed my talent and offered me a place in her salon. From the clients, I learned to take care of myself, mastered style, makeup. At first, I sat in dingy cafés, but then I started drifting into posh restaurants—I loved how people looked at me. Like I was becoming someone.
And that’s where I met *him*.
He picked up my dropped bag before I even noticed it was gone. I remembered him from the next table—frowning, lost in thought. Later, we were side by side on the escalator. He asked where I was headed, and somehow, I found myself in his car—a high-end Range Rover, latest model. I babbled about my work before he dropped me outside my rented flat.
A month later, I nearly dropped my scissors when he walked into the salon. He’d sought me out. That’s how it began.
He was thirty-five years older. But he looked at me like I was a goddess. Lavished me with Michelin-starred meals, luxury resorts, trips to places most only dreamed of. He said he was in love. Me—an ordinary girl from the sticks—living a fairy tale. And I didn’t want to wake up.
Of course, he was married. But he swore there was nothing left between them. Children? None, he said. That’s when I knew: this was my chance.
I was young. But was youth really a barrier to motherhood? I knew: a child would secure my future—and bind him to me forever. His affection had grown familiar, even pleasant.
I got pregnant almost immediately. And for those months, I lived in paradise. The attention, the gifts, the care… When our daughter was born, he glowed like the sun. Doted on her like porcelain, showered her with toys, designer clothes.
Millie grew up like a princess. A nanny, a schedule, private tutors. And me—I flitted between beauty appointments, adapting to my new self. I turned spoiled, cruel, snapping at waitresses, manicurists. No longer the country mouse. I was the **Mother of His Child**. And I wanted more.
He bought me my salon, made me the manager. A car, a penthouse. But I was still the mistress. That never changed. And inside, it festered. I raged. He tightened his grip—forbade me from going out alone. Afraid I’d leave.
It was all so opulent… but hollow. I missed the one thing I once had: freedom. The kind Jamie once gave me.
Then, one day, in a department store—I saw him. Jamie. Arm draped around a pregnant girl in a simple coat. Warm, laughing, browsing baby clothes. He didn’t just not see me. He looked *through* me. With disgust. Then passed by, kissing her temple. And I stood there—a withered petal, torn from the earth that once fed it.
Now, I’m trapped.
If I leave—I lose it all. Millie. The money. The life. His protection. If I stay—I remain someone’s mistress. Never a wife. Just a convenient shadow.
I’m terrified. I’m growing older. I don’t know if I’ll ever love again.
I’m terrified because Millie cries at night now. Because kids at school taunt her—”Your grandad’s here to pick you up.” Because one day, she’ll ask: *”Mum, why did you do this?”*
More and more, I wake up aching for that little house. To be free. Just to *live*. But with pockets full of cash.
So I grab my coffee, face the mirror, pick up the phone—and make the calls. Hairdresser, nails, massage, shopping… Clinging to the surface, so I don’t hear the collapse inside.
How long can I keep this up? I don’t know.
