The Dress That Broke the Spell
That Friday, after surviving a miserable day at work and an even worse commute, all I wanted was to collapse into bed.
Instead, I froze. The red dress was stretched across my pillow like a calling card.
Tom’s explanation arrived too quickly to be innocent: it belonged to “Emily,” an “interior designer,” a “friend’s daughter,” a person who apparently needed my bedroom to change clothes and take photos.
“Oh, Emily’s taste is divine,” Linda chirped. “When she’s done, this place will finally look like a proper home.”
That was the moment I understood it wasn’t about taste. It was about territory.
When “Emily Says” Became a Theme
Over the next week, Tom practically recited an “Emily Says” sermon in every room. He started dressing nicer. Showering midday. Wearing cologne like he was auditioning for a version of himself I’d never agreed to marry.
And Linda? She gleamed with the confidence of someone who thought she was running a long game I wouldn’t notice until it was too late.
The Day I Set My Trap
The following Thursday, I casually mentioned an early training session. Linda brightened instantly.
“Perfect! Emily’s coming by again. Shame you’ll miss her.”
I smiled. Left. Parked two streets away. Slipped back into the house.
