28October2025
Im still sitting at the kitchen table in our flat on Bethnal Green, pen in hand, trying to make sense of the mess thats been chasing me for the past year. It all began when Graham, my exhusband, tossed Blythe and the kids out onto the cold streets of the estate. A year later, bruised and beaten by life, hes turned up at my doorstep, voice crackling through the speakerphone, begging for cash.
Hey, love, he snarled, didnt expect to hear from me?
Blythe, clutching a bottle of perfume, froze. The dressing room smelled of sandalwood and the faint scent of ambition, but the air suddenly grew heavy, as if the hallway where shed once slept with the children on a thin mattress had pressed back in on her.
What do you want, Graham? she asked, forcing her voice steady, ignoring the laughter of the neighbours boy, Jamie, and the snide remarks of Emma from the next flat.
Straight to the point, then, Graham replied, his smile a rusted nail on glass. A whole year she hadnt heard that smile, that tone that made his claim to her life feel like a right.
I remember, he said. What do you need?
Blythe set the perfume bottle down on the marble countertop. Her fingers trembled, but her voice held.
Money, she said, blunt and brief. No apologies, no preamble. He hadnt changed.
You serious? he asked, anger flashing through his throat. I look like a joker to you? Ive got serious problems, Blythe. And you, with your posh life, a mansion, a wealthy husband, the whole tabloids say youre living the dream.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back wore a silk robe, hair done in a salon she could afford, not the exhausted, tearstained figure he had thrown out with two bags of childrens clothes.
Is that a problem for your new sugarmum? he sneered. The business didnt take off, did it? You invested in crypto and its gone, now you need cash to pay serious creditors.
Blythe imagined him collapsing in a chair, that same cocky grin, sure shed crumble again under his guilttrip.
You dumped us out in the middle of winter, Graham. Remember what Emma said when we were on the platform? she whispered.
Enough of your drama. Im not asking for a palace. £60,000. Its peanuts for you. Pay me for my silence, if you dare, he hissed.
Silence about what? she asked.
About the price you paid for this sweet life. Think your Lord Harrington will be happy if I spill some juicy details about your past? he taunted.
The door to the dressing room opened and Simon entered, calm in an impeccably tailored suit. He caught Blythes eye, frowned, and asked silently, All right?
She watched his concerned gaze, heard Grahams growl through the handset, and felt the two worlds collide the life shed built and the one he was trying to destroy.
Help a poor relative, Blythe? Graham persisted. If hes crawling on his knees for money in a year, his affairs must be in shambles.
She gave Simon a slow nod, signalling that she had the situation under control. For the first time, a cold, sharp edge cut through her voice.
Where and when? she asked.
We met in a bland café inside the town centre shopping arcade. Loud music, the smell of popcorn, teenagers laughing the perfect place to scream without being heard.
Old habits die hard; I always handle trouble where I least want a scene.
Graham was already at the table, a cheap-looking suit trying to pass for expensive, stirring his juice lazily.
Late, he said without looking up, its rude to keep a father waiting.
I sat opposite him, bag on the table, fingers clenched around the handle. I wont give you £60,000, Graham.
He finally met my gaze, envy flickering as he took in my dress and the ring on my finger. Changed your mind? I could just call your Simon now, get his number no problem.
I can offer you £300,000 and a job. Simon has connections, he
He laughed, head thrown back, drawing curious looks from nearby tables. A job? You think Im a schoolboy running interviews? Remember who I am, Blythe. Im a businessman. I need startup capital, not handouts.
His voice hardened. He leaned forward, quieter: You sit here, all prim. Do you think I dont know how you got that ring? You told him I was a monster, that you were a poor little lamb. And the night before you met him, you wept into the phone, begging him to come back. Hell love that story.
Every word was a strike at my deepest fear that Simon would see me as the broken, dependent woman I once was.
Silently I pulled out a cheque book, still hoping for a compromise, still trying to settle nicely.
Ill write you a cheque for £10,000, I said, voice hoarse. Thats the most I can do. Take it and disappear from our lives. Please.
I slid the paper across.
He examined it with two fingers, as if it were a priceless gem, then tore it into four pieces with a satisfied grin.
You think youve humiliated me? he hissed. £10,000? Thats your thanks for the years I spent on you? For the children?
He tossed the scraps onto the glossy tabletop like dead butterflies. £60,000, Blythe, or I wont vanish. Ill be your curse calls, messages, picking up the kids after school, telling them who their real dad is. Youve got one week.
He stood, threw a few crumpled notes on the table, and left without looking back.
I sat motionless, watching the torn cheque. The music blared, people laughed, and something inside me hardened like stone. Fear turned to icy resolve. The negotiation had failed, humiliatingly, definitively.
The week stretched like torture. I barely slept, jumped at every ring. I searched for an escape, but terror clung like glue. My fear wasnt for myself it was for the life Simon had given the kids.
On the seventh day he struck.
When I collected the children from the art club, Emma was unusually quiet. At home, as I tucked my daughter into bed, I saw a bright candy on a stick in her hand something shed never bought.
Where did you get that, Emma? I asked.
She looked terrified and whispered, Uncle gave it to me. Said hes my real dad and will soon take us away from bad Uncle Simon. Mum, we wont go with Simons dad?
Something clicked inside me. Fear and panic evaporated, replaced by a cold, firm emptiness. I was done letting him use my children as pawns.
That evening, Simon returned from work to find a different woman waiting. Her eyes were dry, her stare direct and hard.
We need to talk, she said, no preamble, pulling him into the office chair.
She poured out everything how Graham had thrown her out with the children, how shed slept in the stairwell, how shed been demeaned, how shed lived in fear of the past wrecking the present, and how hed approached Emma today.
Simon listened in silence, his face hardening with each sentence. When she finished, he asked simply, What do you want to do?
Her voice was steady, the calm in a storm. I want him gone. Forever. But not the way he thinks. I wont pay him. I want him to realise hes made the biggest mistake of his life.
She met his eyes, seeing not only love and care but full acceptance of the darkness shed been forced to embrace.
Ten minutes later she dialled Grahams number. Her hands no longer shook.
I agree, she said evenly. £60,000. Noon tomorrow. Ill send the address. Come yourself.
Graham chuckled smugly into the handset, Ah, clever little fox. Been a while.
She hung up. The address she sent wasnt a bank or a restaurant; it was the headquarters of Simon Harrington Ltd.
Graham entered the glass tower, swaggering in his best suit, eyes scanning the opulent lobby as if it were his kingdom. He was escorted to the 40th floor, a conference room with floortoceiling windows that made the city look like a toy set.
Blythe was already there, seated at the head of a long table, dressed in a stern darkblue dress. Simon stood nearby, and a man with an inscrutable face the head of security lingered a few steps back.
Sit down, Graham, Blythe instructed, pointing to the chair opposite her.
His confidence wavered. Hed expected a terrified woman with a suitcase of cash, not this.
Whats this circus? he asked, nodding toward Simon. A family council? I thought wed made a deal.
You made a deal with my family, Simon replied evenly, never breaking eye contact. This is something else.
Blythe slid a thick dossier towards him.
£60,000, Graham. You wanted it. But handing it over is too boring. We decided to invest it in you.
Graham stared at the folder, bewildered.
Its your business now, said the security chief, his voice like stone. Or rather, whats left of it debts, a couple of criminal fraud cases about to surface. Highrisk assets.
He opened the folder. Inside were copies of legal notices, bank statements, photographs of his meetings with unsavory characters. His complexion changed.
Weve cleared your most urgent debts, Blythe continued. The people who would have waited for a court sentence. Consider it a gift. In return
Simon placed a few sheets and a pen on the table.
you sign this. Full renunciation of parental rights and a threeyear employment contract.
Graham burst into a hysterical laugh. Are you mad? Work for you?
Not for me, Simon clarified. For one of our subcontractors. In Yorkshire, foreman on a construction site. Good pay, decent conditions. Youll be back in three years, debtfree, with a clean record.
Go to hell with that! Graham shouted, jumping up. Ill destroy you! Ill tell everyone!
The security chief tapped the dossier. Youll tell, but after you sign, your words will be worth less than that paper. Those documents will end up on a detectives desk today. The choice is yours.
Graham scanned their faces Blythes calm, Simons iron resolve, the security mans indifferent stare. No doubt, no chance. He was trapped.
He sank back into the chair, bravado evaporating like cheap gilt. His trembling hand finally grasped the pen.
When the last signature was laid down, Blythe rose, walked around the table, and stopped directly in front of him.
You once said if a man crawls on his knees a year later, his business is in ruins, she reminded quietly. Youre not on your knees, Graham. The floor here is just too pricey. Youve got your startup capital. Begin a new life.
She turned and left without looking back. Simon followed, laying a hand on her shoulder.
In that expansive conference room, under the indifferent gaze of the security chief, a broken man sat alone a winner who had lost everything.
Lesson learned: when you trade your dignity for a quick pound, you eventually pay the price in a currency you cant afford.
