Emily sat stunned, unable to tear her gaze away from Edward. His words echoed in her head like a hammer shattering everything she’d believed in.
“You see, Em, women like you don’t get married,” he said calmly, almost indifferently, adjusting the pillow behind him. “There are women for love, for flings, for fun. And then there are those who save themselves for marriage. You, unfortunately, aren’t one of them.”
“What’s wrong with me, Ed?” Emily’s voice trembled with hurt. “I cook, I take care of myself, the flat’s spotless, you’re happy in bed. What’s the problem?”
“That *is* the problem!” he snapped. “You’re tainted, don’t you get it? Women like you don’t get wifed up. You’re for fun, no strings. A man marries a pure girl, untouched, who’ll worship the ground he walks on. That’s how it’s meant to be.”
Pleased with his speech, Edward turned to the wall and soon snored softly. Emily lay awake, her chest tight with pain. Just a week ago, she’d been in a cosy café in Brighton with her girlfriends, dreaming of weddings and children. Now her world crumbled.
At 32, Emily was no naïve girl. She had it all—a thriving career as a dentist, a flat in central London, a nice car, and looks to match. She knew her worth and felt it was time to settle down. Edward seemed perfect.
At 41, he was tall, distinguished, with silver streaks that only added charm. Never married, lived alone (though near his mum—their flats were in the same building), no bad habits, a high-up job in finance. A dream catch.
They’d met at her clinic. Edward came for a check-up and left smitten. That evening, he waited outside with a bouquet—not cliché roses but delicate dahlias in February! Dinner followed, and things spiralled from there.
Emily worked hard—NHS by day, private practice by evening—barely time for a love life. But Edward made her feel desired. Yet two years in, no ring. Her friends hinted it was time. Nervously, she broached the subject. And got the gut punch: she was “damaged goods,” not wife material.
Who did he think he was?
The next day, she met her friends at a café, shaking with fury.
“Can you believe it? He said I’m *tainted*! That no one marries women like me!”
“Bloody hell, Em!” gasped Sophie, the bluntest of the lot. “You’re gorgeous, successful—flat, car, career! Most blokes would kill for that!”
“He wants *pure*,” Emily scoffed bitterly. “Apparently, I’m second-hand. What do I do? I *like* him—smart, well-off, great in bed.”
“Dump him,” cut in Emma, a single mum who’d been divorced. “He’ll mess with your head, and you’ll spend years picking up the pieces.”
“Come to ours this weekend,” offered Sophie. “It’s mine and Tom’s twelfth anniversary. Bring Edward—show him what *real* marriage looks like.”
Edward, who rarely socialised, surprisingly agreed. He drove, and Emily relaxed, looking forward to time with friends.
Sophie and Tom’s cottage was warm and lively. Kids raced across the lawn—two of theirs plus a gaggle of nieces and nephews. Their energetic corgi, Duke, darted between guests, tail wagging. The barbecue sizzled, the air rich with smoke and herbs.
Dinner stretched into evening. The older generation retreated inside, the kids curled up asleep. Left at the table were Sophie, Tom, the girls, and Edward. Over tea and blackberry pie, talk turned to marriage. Then Edward dropped his bomb.
“Sophie,” he began smugly, “you think Em should marry. But why’s she still single? You’ve been wed twelve years. What’s her excuse?”
“How should I know?” Sophie laughed. “Tom and I married young—uni sweethearts. Em was busy building her career.”
“But you were *pure* when you wed?” Edward pressed, narrowing his eyes.
“Christ, what kind of question is that?” Tom barked. “We’ve been together since first year—course we weren’t virgins!”
“But she was untouched *before* you?” Edward pushed.
“Listen, mate,” Tom growled, standing—all six-foot-four of him. “What’s it to you? She was mine from the start, end of!”
“Exactly,” Edward nodded smugly. “Pure. *That’s* the right choice. But why marry a woman who’s been passed around? Ruined goods shame a family.”
Emma snorted into her drink. “What family? Royalty? Why’s purity matter? And why string Em along? She could’ve found someone decent by now!”
“No one’s stringing anyone,” Edward sneered. “Emily knows her place—second-rate. Marriage needs *standards*—she doesn’t meet mine. And *you*, Emma, are third-rate—divorced with a kid. No chance of remarrying. *Pathetic*.”
“How *dare* you—” Tom roared, hauling Edward up by his collar. “*Grades*? You’re the bloody expired goods here!”
“Get out,” Tom spat, shoving him toward the gate. “Ruining our night! If the girls weren’t here, I’d deck you!”
Edward, affronted, spun to Emily. “I’m leaving. Coming?”
Emily stifled laughter, unable to speak. Edward, humiliated, grabbed his bag, slammed the gate, and sped off.
“Tom, *brilliant*,” Emily wheezed, giggling. “Now I’m man-less—even the expired one’s gone!”
“Bad idea bringing him,” Sophie sighed. “*I’m* top-tier, you lot are rejects!”
They laughed late into the night. Emma drove Emily home, and life resumed—patients, paperwork, routine. Edward never called.
Months later, a nurse handed Emily an envelope. Inside—a wedding invite, all gilt edges and doves. Edward’s petty jab.
Over coffee, her friends groaned. “Don’t go,” Sophie said. “Why torture yourself?”
“I *have* to,” Emma grinned. “Let’s see this *pure* bride he rustled up in months!”
Emily hesitated but went. She wore a sharp crimson suit, styled her hair, and arrived early. Edward stood proud beside his bride—a doll-like girl, barely 20, drowning in white tulle.
Spotting Emily, he swanned over. “Emily, meet *Verity*.”
“And she’s *pure*?” Emily smirked.
“Obviously,” Edward preened. “Her family and I *insisted*.”
Verity blushed, which Emily chalked up to nerves. The ceremony was swift, guests sparse. At the reception, Edward’s colleagues and distant relatives mingled. Speeches began—until Verity’s father grabbed the mic.
He vanished, returned with two boys. “Edward, we’ve given you our Verity!” he boomed. “And here—your new sons, Danny and Leo! Meet Verity’s *children*!”
Emily choked on her wine. Edward recoiled like she’d spat poison. His mother went sheet-white. “*Pure*? She’s *given birth*!”
Edward bellowed, “I want a *divorce*! Not raising another man’s kids! You—” he jabbed a finger at Verity, “*lied*! Said you’d never been with anyone!”
“My parents said you’d never marry me otherwise,” Verity whispered. “Two others refused when they found out.”
Edward collapsed into a chair. Guests panicked, called an ambulance. Emily, assured he’d live, slipped out, stifling giggles. Karma’s bite was sweet.
The divorce was swift. Edward crawled back to Emily—she slammed the door. Why settle for *expired*? Especially when a kind, divorced consultant was already asking her out.
