Seven years I spent planning a future with the man I believed was my soulmate, only for him to drive a dagger into my heart.
My name is Catherine Whitmore, and I live in York, where the River Ouse winds past ancient stone buildings. My tale may seem ordinary, but it has left me shattered. I was ready to marry the man I thought fate had chosen for me, yet he betrayed me so deeply that even now, the pain steals my breath.
I met William seven years ago. Not a single quarrel, not a day without warmth and mutual respect. We were like two halves fused into one. Within months, I moved into his cottage—neither of us could bear to waste a moment apart. Together, we built a lifetime of memories I shall carry to my grave. Some days, we were playful as children: laughing, chasing each other through the garden, hiding behind hedgerows in jest. Other nights, we loved as if the sun might never rise again—with passion that left us trembling, with joy that brought tears.
No man had ever made me feel such devotion. William was everything to me—strong, tender, the man whose arms I wished to wake in every dawn of my life. The eighth of August became a day etched in fire upon my heart. He woke me with breakfast in bed—buttery scones, steaming tea, his smile. Then we loved each other slowly, as though time had stilled. We were on holiday, basking in freedom and in one another. A week in Cornwall—salt-kissed air, golden sunsets that seemed spun from magic. It was a dream.
That morning, as he bathed, a knock came at the door. A stranger stood there, offering a bouquet of crimson roses and a note: *»Yours always. W.»* My pulse fluttered like a bird’s wings. I kissed William in thanks, and we strolled toward the shore. But it was only the beginning. At the inn’s front desk, another lad handed me a single rose. By the time we reached the beach, six more strangers had pressed roses into my hands—one for each year of our love. William merely grinned. «Wanted to surprise you,» he said. We spent the day by the waves, and at dusk, we waded into the sea, kissing beneath the sky’s painted glow. Then, suddenly, he sank to one knee in the water. «Catherine,» he murmured, «will you be my wife?» My breath fled. Tears spilled hot down my cheeks, my legs shook. «Yes!» I cried, and the world spun into gold.
All was well until December. Before Christmas, he left for business in London. He returned a week later—a stranger, cold, his eyes hollow. For three days, I begged him to speak, but he was silent as stone. At last, he broke. He’d lain with a colleague. They’d drunk too much, and «it just happened.» My world crumbled. The man who swore I was his universe, who held me as if I were the only woman alive, had shattered me. A knife in the back—that’s what it was. I sobbed; he wept too, but his tears meant nothing.
The next day, I packed my trunks and left. He begged me to stay, clutched at my hands, swore he loved me, called it a mistake. But I could not—something inside me had died. I slammed the door and vanished from his life. There were calls afterward, long talks, his tears and mine. Yet the agony lingered—betrayal burned like a brand. I still love him, so fiercely it aches. But when I remember what he did, grief strangles me, and love twists into hate. We met thrice after parting. Each time, I longed to run to him, to kiss him—but I stopped myself. I cannot. It’s poison I refuse to swallow.
I want to return to him—to the days when he was my knight. Yet I fear he’ll break me anew. This wound still bleeds, and I know not how to mend it. I walk York’s cobbled lanes, see couples hand in hand, and feel hollow as a ghost. He was my everything. Now I am alone, love choking me, betrayal a chain I cannot loose. Tell me—what must I do? Do I leave him in the past, or grant forgiveness? The pain is unbearable, and I drown in it, lost at sea. What must I do with this love that has become my torment?