“He hasn’t loved you for ages—there’s another woman in his heart,” the fortune-teller in a brightly patterned headscarf fixed Sasha with her dark, night-like eyes. “It’s been six months already!”

The stranger squeezed Sasha’s hand tightly, her fingers weighed down by chunky rings.

“But he keeps saying no one else matters to him,” Sasha protested, upset.

“He’s lying!” the woman declared, her rings jingling. “Best let him go.”

“I’m not holding onto him…”

The exotic-looking woman had caught Sasha off guard in the middle of the street, amid the pre-Christmas bustle. Sasha had just stepped out of a shop, clutching a brightly wrapped gift for her husband, Andrew, when the strange woman intercepted her.

“I see you’re living a great lie,” she blurted out before Sasha could react. “He’s got a mistress.”

Sasha had heard about these street scams before—how these women could hypnotise you, convince you of anything, and clean you out. You weren’t supposed to believe a word of it. But this one was so convincing… or was it just hypnosis?

“You *are* holding onto him,” the woman insisted. “You’re the one keeping him. He pities you. Make him leave on his own.”

“What nonsense are you on about?” Sasha snapped.

“Listen to me,” the fortune-teller pressed. “Tonight, your life will change forever. You’ll see.”

With that, the talkative stranger disappeared, leaving Sasha in turmoil.
Her legs felt like jelly as she trudged home. The festive mood had evaporated. She called her mum and told her about the bizarre encounter.

“Honestly, Sasha, grow up,” her mum scolded. “Are you fresh out the womb? Don’t you know how they con people? Check your purse and jewellery!”

Her money was still there, and the heirloom ring hadn’t moved.

“Still rubbish,” her mum concluded. “Forget about it.”

On the walk home, Sasha convinced herself Mum was right—she shouldn’t believe a word of it. Just another fraud. And she almost managed it. To be sure, she googled street scams and nearly put it out of her mind. Distracting herself, she started setting the table—after all, tonight was her and Andrew’s 10th Christmas together.

Andrew called around 9 p.m.

“Love, I’ll be a bit late,” he said. “Work’s a nightmare—still wrapping up the annual report. Won’t be back till midnight at least.”

“Alright, darling,” Sasha said calmly. “Actually, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Whatever it is, it’s nothing. We’ll have a laugh about it later.”

After hanging up, Sasha rummaged through the wardrobe for a festive dress. She was holding up options in the mirror when the doorbell rang. A complete stranger, a man in his 40s, stood on the doorstep.

“Here I am! Happy Christmas!” he announced cheerfully.

“Who are you?” Sasha asked, startled. “You must have the wrong house.”

“Come off it, Sasha, it’s me—Greg,” the man said, looking genuinely offended. “You invited me.”

“*What?*” Sasha was stunned. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“I don’t get it,” Greg muttered, pulling out his phone.

He recited her surname and address.

“Right?”

“Yes,” she admitted, baffled. “But how—?”

Greg finished her off by showing her own photo on his screen.

“And this? By the way, you’re even prettier in person. Alright, enough jokes. I’ve just spent three days on a train—not in the mood for games.”

“But it *must* be a mistake,” Sasha pleaded, feeling utterly lost. “I’ve never signed up to that site. Honestly.”

Greg’s face darkened.

“Great joke. Happy Christmas, then.”

He left, and Sasha shut the door, completely bewildered.

“What kind of day *is* this?” she muttered, dialling Andrew.

The line just rang out. She was about to step away when she heard shuffling outside. Peering through the peephole, she saw nothing. The noise came again. Cautiously, she opened the door—Greg was sitting on the floor.

“You’re still here?”

“Where else am I supposed to go? My train’s not till tomorrow, and it’s freezing out. Lovely invite, I must say.”

Sasha hesitated, then relented.

“Fine, come in and warm up,” she said. “I’ll figure out how to explain this to my husband when he gets back—though God knows how.”

“You’ve got a *husband?*”

Sasha didn’t answer, and Greg stepped inside.

“You must be starving after your trip?”

“Stop with the ‘sir’ rubbish,” Greg snapped. “We’ve been talking like we’re close for months.”

“I still don’t understand, but I hope this gets sorted soon.”

The salads weren’t plated yet, so Sasha served Greg straight from the bowls. He wolfed it down. By 10 p.m., there was still no word from Andrew. She tried calling again—just ringing. *Strange.* This wasn’t like him. To fill the silence, she asked Greg polite questions about himself. He answered, baffled.

“I already told you all this.”

But he humoured her. He was from Yorkshire, worked offshore on rigs. Thirty-eight, single, no kids. Sasha pressed him about the dating site—how they’d met, when.

“Six months ago,” Greg said. “*You* messaged *me*.”

Sasha was more confused than ever.
Greg didn’t seem like a drunk, a addict, or a prankster. He spoke earnestly. Was he *that* good an actor?

By midnight, Andrew’s phone still didn’t answer. Sasha grew agitated. Greg eyed her suspiciously.

“You *sure* you’ve got a husband, or is this some game?”

“He was here this *morning!*” Sasha choked out.

Greg thought for a moment, then asked her to tell him about herself. After a few sentences, he frowned.

“Hold on,” he cut in. “You told me completely different stuff online. Either you lied, or—”

Sasha stared at him.

“Call me mad, but I think someone set you up,” Greg said.

“You’re saying someone made a profile *pretending* to be me?”

“Exactly. And gave me your address. Just need to figure out who and why.”

Sasha had no theories. She glanced at the clock—nearly midnight. Andrew still hadn’t called. Greg noticed too.

“Almost Christmas,” he remarked. “Shall we celebrate?”

Silently, Sasha fetched a bottle of champagne. At midnight, they clinked glasses.

“Well… Happy Christmas,” Greg said uncertainly.

“You too,” Sasha replied.

Her phone buzzed—a notification.

*Finally!*

She grabbed it, sure it was Andrew. But the number was unfamiliar. What she saw stunned her: a selfie of her husband in bed with a half-naked woman. Ice flooded her veins.

“God…”

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked, concerned.

Sasha dropped the phone and buried her face in her hands. Greg picked it up, glanced at the screen, then at her.

“That… your husband?”
Sasha burst into tears and fled to the bathroom. Greg shifted awkwardly. He studied the photo, piecing things together. When Sasha returned, he had a theory.

“Did you know he was cheating?”

“No,” she whispered. “Not till now… Though—”

The fortune-teller’s words flashed through her mind: *”There’s another woman. Six months!”* She looked at Greg.

“You said I messaged you six months ago?”

“Yeah…”

They stared at each other, realising they were thinking the same thing. A call interrupted them—a hospital. Andrew was in intensive care, poisoned. In a panic, Sasha called a cab. Greg insisted on coming.

At reception, a doctor explained Andrew had been brought in severely intoxicated. The woman who’d called the ambulance was being questioned by police.

Sasha overheard snippets:

“I got scared and called 999,” the woman said.

“What did you slip him?” an officer asked.

“Dunno. A fortune-teller gave it to me. I paid her to open his stupid wife’s eyes… I just wanted him! I didn’t mean to—”

The woman spotted Sasha and froze. Sasha just stared coldly, then walked away. Greg followed.

Outside, Sasha crumbled. Sobs wracked her body as she gasped in the cold air. Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around her—Greg.

“It’s alright, Sasha. I’ve been there. Come on.”

Back at her flat, Greg made tea. Sasha trembled as he tucked a blanket around her.

“Drink.She looked up at Greg, smiled through her tears, and whispered, “Let’s go home.”