She dragged herself home from work just past midnight, utterly spent, starving, and furious. How many times had she sworn to quit that damned shop? Midnight had already waltzed its dark dance beyond the windows of her council flat when Veronica, barely lifting her feet, fumbled the key into the lock. Even the metal seemed to resist, unwilling to let this exhausted shadow of a woman back inside. “Utterly spent” didnt cover itshe felt like a broken machine, gears ground to dust, wires burnt out. The hunger was sharp and gnawing, the rage thick as tar, coating her from within.
“How much longer?” pulsed in her temples. “Wheres the breaking point?” She asked herself this nightly, a grim ritual since her life had turned to hell under the sign of “Vintage Spirits.”
Veronica worked there, that cursed shopan aquarium of alcohol and human flawsfrom eight in the morning till eleven at night. A prison sentence. Relentless, soul-crushing. The owner, a greedy spider named Archibald Prescott, had spun a web of surveillance cameras, his gaze through the lenses searing her back like a branding iron. Sitting down? A privilege punished with a hefty fine. “Sitting means youre not working!”a mantra burned into every cashiers mind. By evening, her legs burned, swollen and pleading for mercy.
And those crates Heavy, clinking coffins of bottles she and the other women had to unload themselves. Fifteen minutes to scarf down food, then back to the frontlinethe counter, where not every customer was sober or civil. She had to smile. Smile at drunks, at gruff men reeking of booze, at screeching women. Smile when she wanted to scream or collapse.
Her coworkers called her the epitome of endurance, an iron lady unbreakable. Most didnt last six months. Staff came and went like a river, slipping free of this hellish net. Veronica stayed. Because behind her wasnt just empty airit was the meaning of her life. Her seven-year-old son, Stephen. She needed the money, those grubby notes stinking of vodka and sweat, the only thread holding them to something resembling a life. Where else could she go? Their once-bustling industrial town was dying. The timber mill and chemical plant, once feeding thousands, now stood as gloomy monuments to a dead era, guarded only by ghosts and dust.
Crossing the threshold, Veronica barely shrugged off her coat before freezing at the muffled voices from the kitchen. Her heart clenchedhardened by constant dread. Then memory supplied the missing piece: her mothers words that morning. “Veronica, dont forgetAunt Irenes visiting today.”
Aunt Irene. Her mothers elder sister. From Manchester. A different, bigger life. She hadnt visited in five years.
The kitchen smelled of fresh tea and homemade pie. The two sisters, grey-haired and lined with age, sat bathed in warm lamplight. And that light fell on Veronicaon her gaunt face, the dark circles under her eyes.
“My dear!” Aunt Irene was the first to rise, a woman with soft features and kind eyes. “Look at you, poor lamb, worn to the bone!”
She hugged her niece, and for a moment, Veronica was wrapped in a long-forgotten sense of safety, of childhood warmth. They fed her, fussed over her, sat her down.
Then Aunt Irene set down her teacup and looked at her squarely. “Veronica, love, how much longer? Youre burning alive in that place. Leave it. Come to us. Manchesters a proper cityopportunities, decent work. And” She paused. “Life doesnt end at thirty. Youre young, beautiful. Who knows? You might even find happiness.”
The words dropped into silence like stones into mud. Inside, Veronica coiled tight with bitter resignation.
“No, Auntie. Enough.” Her voice was hoarse. “Ive had two tries at happiness. Two grand, blazing failures. In two months, I promise, Stephen and I will visit. A week. Ill take him to the circus, the theatre, the fair. Hes dreamed of it.”
She kissed her aunts cheek and retreated, pleading exhaustion. Stephen slept peacefully, his steady breaths the only calm in her storm. But Veronica, despite her fatigue, couldnt sleep. The visit had dredged up buried pain.
And her mind, like a cruel demon, began replaying scenes shed spent years forgetting.
Shed been eighteen. A gold-medal student dreaming of medical school, living with Aunt Irene in Manchester. Until, on a university trip to the medical museum, her heart had raced at the sight of Him. Arthur. A dentistry student, charming, confident. Hed noticed herthe shy girl with chestnut braids and sky-blue eyesand vanished into her life.
He was perfect. Educated, witty, immaculately dressed. A knight from a novel, sweeping her into a fairy tale. They married quickly, his wealthy parents throwing a lavish wedding. Veronicas side was sparsejust her mother, aunt, and a single friend.
They bought a penthouse, furnished it luxuriously. Arthur graduated, joined the family practice, earned more each month. At nineteen, she had Stephen. Dropped out of school.
Then things changed. Late nights became disappearances. Always with ironclad excuses. She believed, desperately.
Until she saw him in a café, kissing a blonde with the same adoration hed once shown her.
The confrontation at home was brutal. He didnt deny it.
“Veronica, be realistic,” hed scoffed. “Successful men have mistresses. Its expected. Loyaltys for fools.”
She endured. Five humiliating years. Too ashamed to return to her mother. Waiting for the man shed married to reappear.
But everyone has limits.
She left. Took Stephen and her scant belongings back to her mum. Their penthouse? Legally his mothers. The car? His fathers. Aunt Irene begged her to sue, but Veronica was broken. She knew theyd bury her in court. Arthur paid paltry child supporthis accountants saw to that.
“So thats it?” her mother had asked, staring at her aged, hollow-eyed daughter.
With Stephen in nursery, Veronica took the job at Vintage Spirits.
Yet youth and heartache conspired. She met Him. The second. Gregory. A tall, broad-shouldered rogue with a smirk. Owner of a bar he grandly called a “bistro.” He smelled of expensive tobacco and easy money.
“This ones real,” naive Veronica had thought. “Not like Arthur. This time, itll last.”
She was wrong. The honeymoon ended fast. Gregory came home drunk, reeking of cheap perfume. Fights, tears, smashed dishes. Two toxic years. Then, watching Stephen sleep, she knew: enough.
She left again. Done with love, men, herself. Just work. Home. Her son. And quiet despair.
Now Aunt Irenes visit had ripped open old wounds.
The summer trip happened. Veronica, her mum, and Stephen went to Manchester. Aunt Irene hosted a feast. Among the guests was Nicholas Peterson, a balding, kind-eyed council worker.
Aunt Irenes matchmaking was obvious. Veronica braced for resistance. But Nicholas was attentivepouring tea, telling gentle jokes. Still, he wasnt her type. Compared to Arthurs ghost or Gregorys brute charm, he seemed ordinary.
Yet he asked her to coffee. Polite refusal wasnt an option.
The date went well. He brought irises (howd he know they were her favourite?). Listened. Joked without ego. Real.
Walking her home, he stopped. “Veronica, I know this is new. But I see youstrong, beautiful. I could love you and Stephen. Properly. For keeps. Think about it.”
Three days later, she did. “Grand passion burned me. So did reckless love. Maybe quiet love is the answer?”
She agreed. A month later, a small wedding. They moved into his book-filled flat.
And thenthe miracle. Quiet Nicholas had steel will. He found Arthur, talked man-to-man. Not threats. Persuasion. Soon, Stephen was legally his. “Were family now. One name.”
He didnt cage her. He rented a boutique, stocked it with stylish dresses. “Women should be independent,” he said. “Then youll know real confidence. Real happiness.”
He was right. Within a year, the beaten-down Veronica became someone new. Straight-backed, sharp-eyed. Her business grew. One shop became three.
Nicholas was her anchor. Proud of her success. A father to Stephen. Three years in, their daughterEmilyarrived.
Seven years now. Steady. Solid. Real. No storms, no betrayals. Just respect, gratitude.
Veronica loves him. Not with wild passion, but deeply. Shes learned: happiness isnt a blinding flash. Its the steady sun after a storm. Worth every wave.
