Page 1 of Make You Mine

“There’s nothing I can do, mate,” my boss says, voice flat with resignation as he leans against the glass partition.

His tie’s loosened, his face gray and slack with defeat.

“Bloody Halberd’s buying up everything in sight.

Bastards are like sharks—one sniff of blood and they swarm.

Every little company from here to Milton’s getting swallowed up.

They’re expanding here in the coming years. ”

I nod like I understand, but my mind is still catching up. Sure, Branley was barely staying afloat, but I thought we had more time. I thought… I don’t know what I thought.

“You’ll have to pack up your desk today. IT’s shutting everything down by five.”

He casts a glance over my shoulder, ensuring no one is eavesdropping.

His brow lifts. “You tell her yet?”

A slow heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Not yet.”

He whistles low under his breath and pushes off the glass. “Messy business, Gareth. Hope it doesn’t tear your home to bits.”

It probably already has.

He disappears down the hall. I stay behind, clutching the edge of my desk as the office around me hums with defeat—thumping cardboard boxes, folders slapping closed, keys clanging as they’re dropped into bowls.

I pack slowly. Every stapler and loose pen feels like a small indignity. My hand pauses when I reach for the framed photo tucked into the corner of my cubicle. Chelsea and George. She’s smiling, one hand resting on her bump. George is tugging on her hair, laughing.

God, we were happy once. Weren’t we?

I shove the photo into the box and carry it down to the car park, the cardboard corners biting into my palms. It’s already started to drizzle, because of course it has. As if the universe is determined to piss on me just that little bit more today.

My car’s parked near the loading bay—a battered old Vauxhall Astra with one fog light out and a boot that won’t close properly. I shove the box into the passenger seat and slam the door.

Messages ping on my phone. One after another, lighting up the cracked screen. I ignore them all. I already know who it is.

She can wait…

I drive home with the rain smearing across the windshield in long, greasy streaks. Traffic moves forward at a crawl. I keep the radio off.

By the time I pull into the garage, I’ve decided I’ll leave the box in the car. I can’t face the questions yet, so I enter like it’s any other evening.

“George? I’m home!” I call out, voice bright. “The game on?”

No one answers.

But they’re both on the sofa.

Chelsea sits ramrod straight, arms crossed tightly above her belly. Her large glasses have slipped low on the slope of her nose, her blue eyes an angry storm cloud. George is curled beside her, watching the telly with a blank expression.

I follow their gaze. There on the screen, in bold letters:

HALBERD ANNOUNCES STRATEGIC ACQUISITION OF brANLEY PAPER CO.

Ah. Right. That.

I sigh and drag a hand over my scalp. “Alright, guess I’ve no choice but to come clean. Yeah, we’ve been bought out. Some acquisitions bullshit. Nothing to worry about though. I’ll find something else—you know I always land on my feet?—”

“She called again today,” she interrupts. “Hung up without even speaking.”

My blood runs ice cold.

“But she sent me everything. All the emails. The texts. Every message you’ve ever sent her.”

I laugh as if the possibility’s preposterous. “Sweetheart, she’s lying.”

“This was supposed to be our fresh start,” she says quietly. “How could you do this to us?”

She places a protective hand on her belly, her wedding ring glinting in the low light. My throat tightens.

“How long did you know about Halberd buying Branley, Gareth? How long have you been lying to me about everything?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. You’ve been so tired lately?—”

“And this woman? What about her? Who is she? Some airhead from work?” she hisses, rising to her feet. “What excuse do you have for that ?”

“It’s all a misunderstanding.”

“I’m going to my sister’s. For good this time.” She turns to our son. “Come on, George.”

“No… Chels… wait… please.”

But she’s already waddling upstairs to pack, refusing to look back.

For the next half hour, I follow her around the house, begging and pleading. Nothing lands. She marches out with George in tow and doesn’t even tell me when she’ll be back.

I doubt she will be; she said it’s for good this time.

They drive off into the evening drizzle, brake lights bleeding red across the wet tarmac, and I’m left behind in the silence they’ve condemned me to. I drop into the armchair with a groan, elbows on knees, hands cradling my skull like I can physically contain the noise. But it’s no use.

What the bloody hell am I meant to do now?

My phone buzzes from somewhere in the sofa cushions. Persistent vibrating like it knows I don’t want to answer. I fish it out and see her name flash across the screen.

Of course.

I answer with venom already coating my tongue. I don’t even try to hide it. I’m furious with her. And myself. And the mess we’ve made.

She swept in like a storm and tore everything to bits, and now she gets to just walk away while I’m left here in the wreckage.

“Yeah?” I bark. “You’re where? Outside? The garage? How the hell did you?—?”

I hang up without another word and shove myself to my feet, stomping out to the garage with dread pooling in my gut.

She’s already there, standing beside the car, damp from the rain, hair clinging to her cheeks, cardigan sleeves darkened from the drizzle. She looks small in the low light, like someone I might’ve pitied once. Not now, not after everything.

“You just missed her,” I say, nodding vaguely toward the drive. “But you can’t come in. Not while she’s not home. I’ll give you a lift and that’s it, alright?”

We climb into the car and the doors thud shut with the kind of finality that makes my skin crawl. I twist the key in the ignition. The engine stirs to life with a low hum, and I reach for the gearshift, but her hand comes down over mine, halting the motion.

“Let’s talk first,” she says gently. “I know this has all been... difficult.”

I let out a bitter laugh and shake her off. “It has to work out. Because I’m going to make sure Chels takes me back. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll walk through fire if that’s what it comes to.”

“You still love her…”

“I’ll always love her,” I mutter, eyes on the windshield. The condensation creeps in from the corners. “She’s my wife.”

The engine’s low purr grows louder in the enclosed garage, reverberating through the metal and brick. There’s already a faint sting in my nose, the toxic stench of carbon monoxide weaving into the air like a warning. I drag a hand across the top of my head and lean back with a sigh.

“Look... this ends, alright? I’ll drop you off. We’ll tell her together. Sort it like adults.”

But she’s shaking her head, lips tight and eyes glassy with something unreadable.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

I snap my gaze to her. “You what? You’re bloody joking. What do you mean it’s not possible?”

She doesn’t flinch or blink or answer me. She simply stares.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“But I do, Gareth,” she says at last. Her voice has lost all softness, replaced by a coldness that’s almost eerie in how unfeeling it sounds. “You made promises. And if you don’t keep them... there’ll be consequences.”