The fortune-teller, her head wrapped in a paisley shawl, fixed Sasha with eyes black as midnight. “Your husband hasn’t loved you for ages,” she hissed, her fingers—heavy with rings—squeezing Sasha’s palm. “There’s another in his heart. Six months now!”

“But he swears I’m the only one,” protested Alexandra, her voice trembling.

“Liar!” The woman’s rings clinked as she shook her head. “Best let him go.”

“I’m not holding him back…”

The exotic stranger had ambushed Sasha in the middle of the high street, amidst the bustle of Christmas shoppers. Alexandra had just stepped out of the shops, clutching a bright bag with a gift for her beloved husband, Andrew, when the peculiar woman intercepted her.

“I see you live buried in deceit,” the woman blurted. Before Sasha could react, she declared, “He’s got a mistress.”

Of course, Sasha had heard of these street cons—how such women could hypnotise, twist minds, and empty pockets in seconds. Never to be trusted. Yet this one spoke with unsettling certainty. Or was it hypnosis?

“You *are* holding him,” the woman insisted. “With pity. Make him leave on his own.”

“What nonsense!” Sasha snapped.

“Listen to me,” the fortune-teller pressed. “Tonight, your fate takes a sharp turn. Mark my words.”

With that, the chatty stranger vanished, leaving Sasha reeling. She stumbled home, her festive spirit snuffed out. She dialled her mother, recounting the bizarre encounter.

“Alex, don’t be daft,” her mother scolded. “You’re not a child—you know how these charlatans operate. Check your purse and jewellery!”

Her money was untouched. The family heirloom ring still adorned her finger.

“Rubbish,” her mother concluded. “Forget it.”

On the walk home, Sasha convinced herself her mother was right—fortune-tellers were frauds. Almost. For good measure, she googled street scams and nearly settled her nerves. Distracting herself, she laid out their anniversary feast—ten New Year’s Eves together.

Andrew called around nine.

“Love, I’ll be late,” he said. “Year-end reports are chaos. Might not make it by midnight.”

“Fine,” Sasha replied evenly. “Actually, I’ve something to tell you.”

“Save it. We’ll laugh about it later.”

After hanging up, Sasha rummaged through the wardrobe for a festive dress. As she held options against herself in the mirror, the doorbell rang. A stranger, mid-forties, beamed at her.

“Surprise! Happy New Year!”

“Who are you?” she asked, startled. “You’ve got the wrong house.”

“Alex, it’s me—Greg,” he said, baffled. “You invited me!”

“I—what?” Sasha gaped. “I’ve never seen you before.”

Greg frowned, pulling out his phone. He recited her surname and address.

“Right?”

“Yes, but how—?”

He silenced her by showing her own photo.

“Recognise this? Blimey, you’re even prettier in person. Good joke, though. Bit much after three days on a train.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Sasha insisted, helpless. “I’ve never used that site.”

Greg’s face darkened.

“Right. Happy New Year, then.”

He left. Sasha shut the door, dazed.

“What *is* today?” she muttered, dialling Andrew.

The line rang endlessly. As she turned away, a rustling sound came from the hallway. Peering through the peephole revealed nothing. The noise repeated. Cautiously, she opened the door to find Greg crouched outside.

“You’re still here?”

“Where else? My train’s tomorrow, and it’s brass monkeys out here. Crackin’ invitation, this.”

After a pause, Sasha relented.

“Come in. Warm up. I’ll explain when Andrew’s back—somehow.”

“You’ve a *husband*?”

She didn’t answer. Greg stepped inside.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Quit with the ‘sir’ nonsense,” Greg huffed. “We’ve been close for months.”

“I still don’t understand,” Sasha admitted, ladling salads from bowls.

Greg ate ravenously. By ten, Andrew still hadn’t called. Sasha tried again—nothing. Strange. To break the silence, she asked Greg about himself.

He answered reluctantly. “Told you all this already.”

Still, he obliged—a roughneck from Yorkshire, 38, unmarried. When she pressed about the dating site, he shrugged.

“Six months back. *You* messaged *me*.”

Sasha’s confusion deepened.

Greg wasn’t drunk or mad—just sincere. Was he that good an actor?

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

“*Do* you have a husband, or is this part of the act?”

“He existed this morning,” she near-whimpered.

Greg asked about her life. As she spoke, his frown deepened.

“Wait—online, you told me the opposite. Liar, or…”

Sasha stared.

“Call me mad, but someone’s framed you,” he said. “Catfished me with your photos. But why?”

Sasha had no answers. The clock struck twelve. They clinked glasses half-heartedly.

Then—her phone pinged.

*Finally.*

But the number was unknown. The photo froze her blood: Andrew in bed, arm around a near-naked woman.

“Oh God—”

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked.

Sasha dropped the phone, sobbing. Greg picked it up, then looked at her, horrified.

“This… your husband?”

She fled to the bathroom. Greg pieced things together. When she returned, he posed the question:

“Did you know he was cheating?”

“No,” she whispered. “But…”

The fortune-teller’s words echoed: *Another in his heart. Six months!*

“You said I messaged you six months ago?”

Greg nodded.

Their silent realisation was cut short—a call from the hospital. Andrew was in intensive care, poisoned. The woman with him was being questioned.

At the hospital, Sasha recognised the girl from the photo.

“… got scared and called an ambulance,” the girl was saying.

“What did you give him?” an officer pressed.

“Dunno. Some herb from a fortune-teller. Paid her to ‘open his wife’s eyes.’ Just wanted him for myself! Didn’t mean to—”

The girl spotted Sasha and paled. Sasha left without a word.

Outside, she crumbled. Greg held her tight.

“Easy now. Been there. Come on.”

Back home, he made tea, wrapped her in a blanket.

“Drink. Then sleep.”

He stayed the night in the armchair.

By New Year’s afternoon, Andrew woke. He looked at Sasha like a cornered animal.

“Love, forgive me. Went to end it, but she slipped me something—”

“I’m filing for divorce,” Sasha said flatly. “Get well.”

“Alex!” he cried, but she didn’t look back.

That evening, she saw Greg off at the station. An awkward silence hung.

“Happy New Year. Again,” he mumbled.

“Same to you,” she smiled.

He hesitated.

“Look… why not come with me? Just a thought—”

“I will,” Sasha said firmly. “Once the divorce is done.”

Greg lit up. The train whistle blew. He leapt aboard.

“I’ll wait!” he shouted over the clattering wheels.

Sasha only waved, warmth blooming in her chest. For the first time, she felt the quiet thrill of a new beginning. Where, she didn’t know—but *with whom*? That much was clear.