**Hiding the Truth**
On a quiet evening, while sorting through the wardrobe, Emily stumbled upon something unexpected. Tucked between her husband’s neatly folded jumpers was a small bundle wrapped in thick paper. Unfolding it, she discovered a box of expensive perfume—elegant, with a delicate scent, clearly not cheap. She turned the box thoughtfully in her hands, struggling to remember what occasion could have warranted such a gift. Her birthday had been a month ago, their anniversary was still far off, and her mother-in-law had never been fond of fragrances. Her own mother? No, Peter wouldn’t dare pick something like this for her, knowing how particular her tastes were.
*”Another woman?”* The thought flickered, but her heart didn’t tighten with dread. It seemed too absurd—Peter, always so predictable, capable of an affair. *”There must be a logical explanation,”* she told herself, determined not to jump to conclusions.
That evening, Peter arrived home right on time, as usual. Never late without warning—one of the little things she loved about him. Silently, she handed him the bundle, watching his reaction. He unwrapped it, saw the perfume, and his eyes widened in surprise.
*”Where did you find this?”*
“In your wardrobe, between your jumpers. Someone must have hidden it there.”
*”I’ve been looking everywhere for these! Thought I’d lost them! Had to buy another gift!”* His surprise seemed genuine.
“And who were they for?” Emily kept her voice steady.
*”Our boss, Margaret Blackwell. Remember I told you we were pooling money for her anniversary gift? The sales assistant said this was her favourite scent. The lads and I picked it, but that night I had a bit too much at the work do—got home, shoved it in the wardrobe, and forgot.”* He smiled, relieved. *”Thought I’d left it on the Tube.”*
“What a shame.” She nodded, masking her lingering doubt. *”But now you’ve got a gift ready for the next celebration.”*
*”Exactly! You’re a lifesaver!”* He kissed her temple. *”The lads will be gobsmacked when I show them tomorrow!”*
That should have been the end of it. But doubt had already taken root. Peter had been distracted lately—forgetting to mention overtime, leaving his phone at work. She blamed exhaustion, but deep down, a quiet suspicion gnawed at her.
—
Over lunch with her best friend, Grace, conversation turned to absent-minded partners. Emily mentioned the perfume and Peter’s recent behaviour.
*”Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”* Grace raised an eyebrow. *”Might there be someone else?”*
*”I doubt it.”* But her voice wavered. *”Though… he hasn’t been himself lately.”*
Grace shrugged, but the seed was planted. Emily had always been patient, preferring to wait rather than confront. Yet now, unease stirred within her. What if Peter *was* hiding something? A surprise? Or was the stress finally getting to him? She resolved to keep watching.
—
Doubt returned with a vengeance when she tackled a deep clean one sweltering July afternoon. Starting in the hallway, she checked coat pockets before packing them away—and in Peter’s, she found a crumpled scrap of paper. Smoothing it out, she read: *”Purchase agreement…”* The rest was torn off. *What was he selling?*
She rifled through another pocket and found a second scrap—no signatures, no figures. Just a draft. But what could Peter possibly be selling? Her pulse quickened. Abandoning the cleaning, she hurried to their safe, where joint documents were stored.
Her breath caught. The usually orderly papers were in chaos—certificates, contracts, receipts—all jumbled, as though searched in haste. Only Peter could have done this.
He was planning something behind her back.
The realisation settled like a weight in her chest. But she wouldn’t tip her hand. *Let him think I’ve no idea.*
Soon, Peter began pressing her about her flat—a cosy place in central London, inherited from her grandfather. He suggested renting it out, moving her grandfather in with her parents. *”Extra income,”* he insisted. She resisted; the idea sat wrong. Worse, he’d started scrutinising every expense, demanding receipts, despite their equal contributions. It didn’t add up.
—
Weeks later, another red flag. He stayed late at work, blaming a *”tight deadline.”* But when his colleague, James, phoned one evening, Emily answered.
*”Oh, Em! Just wanted a quick word with Pete—covering for me tomorrow.”*
*”Is this about his new project?”* she probed. *”He’s been swamped.”*
*”What project?”* James sounded baffled. *”Just the usual workload.”*
Her stomach lurched. Peter was lying.
She checked their joint account—the one they’d set up for savings. Finding the old password note, she logged in.
The balance was a third of what it should be. Two large withdrawals—one six months ago, another right after the perfume incident.
*”Perfect,”* she thought bitterly. *”He’s stealing from me, and I didn’t even notice.”*
She requested a stamped bank statement—evidence, just in case.
—
*”Can you believe it?”* she fumed to Grace. *”He’s been draining our account!”*
*”Where’s it going? Another woman?”*
*”No signs of that. But he’s lying about work.”*
Deciding to investigate, she tailed him one evening, dressed unobtrusively. He left work promptly—but didn’t head home. Instead, he walked briskly to a new housing estate on the city’s outskirts.
That night, she scoured property listings. Nothing connected to his job. Just cafés, salons—a solicitor’s office.
Then she found a termination letter in his bag. *He no longer worked at his firm.*
Stealing a glance at his phone, she found a contact: *”Lara Chesterton.”* Grace called the number—a woman hung up instantly. They found her online. In one photo, Emily recognised Peter—his profile unmistakable.
Infidelity? That cut deeper than stolen money.
That night, overhearing him whisper, *”How do I slip her the papers?”* confirmed her fears. He was planning to sell her flat behind her back.
—
She acted fast. With Grace’s support, she consulted a solicitor and prepared for divorce.
At breakfast, Peter brought up renting the flat again. *”Found someone to manage tenants,”* he said brightly, sliding a contract toward her.
*”Who suggested this?”*
*”A woman I met. Her father’s a solicitor—he advised it.”*
She scanned the papers, then flipped them over, eyes narrowing. His face paled.
*”Do you really think I’m that thick?”* Her voice was ice. *”I know about Lara. You’re selling *my* flat to fund your little venture with her? Not happening.”*
She slammed divorce papers onto the table.
—
The divorce was messy. Lara had convinced Peter to invest in a tech start-up, with her father’s backing. Their savings—and the flat—were meant to fund it. But Emily protected her assets, walking away with almost everything intact.
The only real loss? Her trust. Years later, even in new relationships, she struggled to believe. But maybe that was for the best.
