10/23/2025
**The Vengeance of a Scorned Woman**
Anthony Smith, a physics teacher at a rural school in Somerset, married for the second time. At forty-one, his new wife, Emily, was just thirty—young, beautiful, gentle, and kind-hearted, everything he had ever wanted.
His first marriage to Victoria had ended after nine years, leaving him with a daughter, Sophie, whom he adored. But after the divorce, Victoria moved back to her hometown and cut off all contact, never letting him see Sophie again.
"Anthony," his close friend William, the local constable, had advised, "if you’ve left that drama behind, why not start fresh? Find someone new."
"I would, but I haven’t met the right woman yet. There are plenty out there, but... I’m just afraid of repeating the same mistake."
Then Emily arrived in the village—a young nurse. Anthony spotted her by chance on his way home from school.
"Who’s the newcomer?" he wondered, catching her eye as they passed. She greeted him first, and he returned the gesture.
"Will, who’s that new woman in the village?" Anthony asked later, stopping by the constable’s office.
"Who? Oh! You must mean Emily. She started at the clinic three days ago. Old Mrs. Thompson retired, so she took over. Pretty, isn’t she? Don’t waste time, mate."
It wasn’t hard to get to know her. Two days later, he "accidentally" ran into her after her shift.
"Hello, I’m Anthony—physics teacher at the school. And, for the record, single," he grinned. "You’re the new nurse, then. What about *your* marital status?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that really any of your business?"
"It is. More than you know."
Soon enough, they were dating, and before long, they had a small wedding at the village pub.
Emily had been married before, but only briefly—just a year. She thanked God she hadn’t gotten pregnant. Her ex-husband had turned out to be a drunkard, constantly badgering her for money. She’d fled quietly from her town to start fresh here.
On the first of September, after the school assembly, the teachers always celebrated the start of term with drinks.
"Emily, love, I’ll be late tonight—you know how it is. Can’t skip out on the team."
"Fine. But don’t come home smelling of another woman’s perfume again."
"Come on, it was just Miss Henderson’s coat hanging over mine!" That was when he realized how jealous she could be.
The evening was lively, slightly chilly, full of toasts and laughter. Anthony was in high spirits—except for Miss Henderson, who kept shooting him melancholy glances. A woman in her forties, never married, she’d once hoped to win him over. But then Emily came along.
Tipsy, Anthony stumbled home late. The house was dark.
"Emily?" he called cheerfully, hanging his jacket in the hall. "Safe and sound!"
He wandered into the living room—still dark—then assumed she was reading in bed.
"There you are," he chuckled, finding her sitting under the lamplight, book in hand. "Great night. Had a few, but not too many!"
Emily looked up, her eyes cold and empty.
"Love, what’s wrong?" he asked, suddenly sober. "Usually, you’re all smiles. Worried I drank too much? Just a little, for fun—it’s a special night!"
She nodded stiffly toward the living room.
"There’s a letter for you on the table. Read it."
Puzzled, he picked up the opened envelope. The elegant handwriting was unmistakable—no return address.
*"Dear Anthony, I had to write. You know who this is—I was your first love. I wouldn’t have reached out, but I’m expecting your child. What you do next is your choice. I know you’re married now..."*
Anthony was stunned. He wracked his brain—when could this have happened? It had to be a joke. He was a devoted husband!
"Emily, you can’t believe this," he pleaded, suddenly clear-headed. "It’s someone playing games. You *know* how much I love you."
She turned away, silent. She *wanted* to believe him, but the letter had shaken her. She’d opened it thinking, *We have no secrets.*
He argued, swore his love, but she wouldn’t listen. Defeated, he fell silent, hoping morning would bring clarity. He moved to lie down, but she stopped him.
"Sleep in the living room."
The next day, after school, Anthony showed the letter to William.
"Are you having me on?" William scratched his head. "How am I supposed to trace handwriting? No crime here—just a bitter love note."
"*My marriage is falling apart!* Emily won’t believe me!"
"Should I interrogate the whole village? Might not even be from here..."
Emily wouldn’t speak to him, and his mood sank so low even his colleagues noticed—except Miss Henderson, who hovered near him.
*What if it’s her?* It struck him. *She’s always fancied me.* He snatched the school register, flipping to her subject page—surely the handwriting would match.
But no. Her scrawl was jagged, nothing like the elegant script in the letter. Frustrated, he slammed the book shut.
At home, silence. He found Emily in the bedroom, eyes red.
"Tell me, Anthony—what did I do wrong? Why would you do this to me?"
"You’re perfect. I’d never betray you."
"If you cheated, I’m *not* perfect. I want a divorce."
She wasn’t hysterical—just heartbroken. Calm, wise beyond her years.
"I’ll stay at the clinic tonight. Then we’ll see."
He couldn’t stop her. She left.
Two days later, collecting post at the village office, Anthony spotted a familiar hand on another letter—this one addressed to London. The return address: *Maple Lane, Oakwood, Lydia Hughes.*
*Oakwood’s the next village over.* He memorised the house number and sped …
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