The Promotion Emily Couldn’t Share

Emily hadn’t breathed a word about her promotion to Simon.

“Still feels surreal—I’m deputy director now!” she beamed into the phone.

“Well done, sweetheart,” her mother, Margaret, replied warmly.

“I honestly didn’t think I’d get it. They chose me out of five candidates.”

“And rightly so! When are you going to tell Simon?”

Emily paused. The joy in her voice faded a little.

“I’m not.”

Margaret frowned. “Why on earth not?”

“I just… I don’t want him to feel small. You know how he is.”

Simon worked long shifts at a manufacturing plant in Birmingham, barely clearing £30k a year. Learning that his wife now earned more than triple that might crack his already fragile ego.

“He doesn’t need to know,” Emily continued. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

“But that won’t stay hidden forever.”

“I’ve opened a separate account. I’ll save most of the raise. Keep things simple.”

That evening, as if to prove her point, Simon stomped into the kitchen, frowning.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Beef stew and roasted potatoes,” Emily said.

“Again?” He made a face. “Leftovers?”

“Leftovers are food, Simon.”

He slammed his fork down. “It’s Friday. Normal people go out to eat. We’re not beggars.”

Emily bit her tongue. A few months ago, she would’ve tried to cheer him up. Now she just felt… tired.

Later, she found him slouched on the couch, gaming like a teenager.

“You’ve grown quite fond of the finer things lately,” she said, arms crossed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that your tastes are growing faster than your income.”

He rolled his eyes. “You think I’m not earning enough?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, maybe you should earn more. Men work themselves into early graves. I want to enjoy life a little.”

She laughed, dryly. “You’re the one demanding five-star Fridays.”

“Then make enough money for five stars!”

His contradictions spun in circles—always wanting more, always expecting less from himself.

Emily had once worried that telling him about the promotion would make him feel insecure. But now she realized the real danger: he’d probably quit his job and call it a day. “You earn enough for the both of us, babe! Let’s travel, let’s splurge!”

She needed clarity. So she turned to Sophie.

“You really want me to go through with this?” Sophie asked.

“Please. Just play along.”

“Alright. Let’s see what your prince is made of.”

A week passed. Simon began coming home later, suddenly cheerful, humming as he showered. Claimed he was job hunting. Emily played dumb.

Another week, and Sophie called. “He’s hooked. Told me he’s leaving you in two days. Says we’ll be living it up—with your money, I assume.”

“Perfect,” Emily said coldly.

The trap was set. Sophie had played the role of an heiress flawlessly—designer clothes, chauffeured cars, endless restaurant dates. In truth, she was Emily’s oldest friend—the same one who once pulled her out of a disastrous relationship. This time, she was saving her again.

“You look drained,” Margaret said a few days later.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Em.”

Emily confessed everything.

“I always suspected he was no good,” her mother said. “Back when you were dating, he asked what kind of car your father drove and whether you owned the flat. It was never about love.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried. You were too deep in.”

But now, Emily saw everything clearly.

The next evening, Simon came home whistling and headed straight to the bedroom to pack.

“I’m leaving,” he said smugly. “Found someone who actually appreciates me.”

Emily folded her arms. “Dinner every Friday?”

He grinned. “More like dinner every night.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“You’ll regret this.”

“Oh, I doubt it.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be her,” Emily said, walking over.

Sophie stood in the doorway, radiant.

“Sophie?!” Simon froze, color draining from his face.

“The one and only,” she said, tossing him a rental keycard. “Car’s due back tomorrow. Oh—and thanks for the steak dinners.”

Emily and Sophie burst out laughing.

Simon stared, stunned. “You tricked me…”

“We tested you,” Emily corrected. “You failed.”

Minutes later, his bags were on the porch. The women clinked teacups in celebration as the gold digger slinked away—exposed, humiliated, and finally gone for good.