“For a long time, your husband hasn’t loved you—another woman holds his heart,” the fortune-teller in a colourful headscarf fixed Sasha with her night-black eyes. “It’s been half a year already!”

The woman’s fingers, weighed down by chunky rings, gripped Sasha’s hand tightly.

“But he keeps saying no one else matters to him,” Alexandra protested, bewildered.

“He’s lying!” The clink of rings punctuated the woman’s words. “Best let him go.”

“I’m not holding on…”

The exotic stranger had caught Sasha off guard in the middle of the bustling pre-Christmas street. She’d just stepped out of a shop, clutching a brightly wrapped gift for her husband Andrew, when the peculiar woman intercepted her.

“I see you’re living in a great deception,” the woman blurted before Sasha could react. “He’s got a mistress.”

Of course, Sasha had heard about these street scams—how women like this could hypnotise, convince you of anything, and empty your pockets without a second thought. Believing them was out of the question. Yet this fortune-teller was unnervingly persuasive… Or was it hypnosis?

“You *are* holding on—just not the way you think,” the woman insisted. “He pities you. Make him leave.”

“What nonsense are you spouting?” Sasha snapped.

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

With that, the talkative woman vanished, leaving Sasha in turmoil.
She trudged home on shaky legs, her holiday spirit gone. Pulling out her phone, she dialled her mum and recounted the strange encounter.

“Alex, honestly, don’t be so naïve,” her mother scolded. “How long have you lived in this world? You know they swindle people. Check your purse and jewellery!”

Her money was still there, as was the family heirloom ring.

“Rubbish,” her mum concluded. “Forget about it.”

Walking home, Sasha convinced herself her mother was right—these soothsayers were frauds. Almost believing it, she browsed articles about street scams and nearly calmed down. To distract herself, she focused on preparing the festive table. Tonight, she and Andrew were celebrating their tenth Christmas together.

At around nine, her husband called.

“Love, I’ll be late,” Andrew said. “Work’s chaos—year-end reports aren’t done. Won’t be home before midnight.”

“Fine, darling,” she answered evenly. “Besides, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Good, we’ll laugh about it later.”

After hanging up, Sasha rummaged through the wardrobe for a party dress. As she held options up to the mirror, the doorbell rang. A stranger—a man in his forties—stood there.

“Here I am! Happy Christmas!” he beamed.

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

“Come on, Alex—it’s me, Ian!” The man looked baffled, even hurt. “You invited me.”

“*I* did?” Sasha was stunned. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“What?” Ian genuinely frowned and pulled out his phone.

He recited her surname and address.

“Sound right?”

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

The final blow came when Ian showed her own photo.

“Who’s this then?” He studied her face. “You’re even lovelier in person. Alright, enough jokes—I’ve been on a train for three days.”

“This *has* to be a mistake,” Sasha insisted, desperate but helpless. “I’ve never used that site.”

Ian’s expression darkened.

“Brilliant prank. Happy Christmas.”

He left. Sasha shut the door, utterly bewildered.

“What *is* today?” she muttered aloud, dialling Andrew’s number.

Only ringing. As she stepped away, rustling came from the hallway. Peering through the peephole revealed nothing—until the sound repeated. Cautiously opening the door, she found Ian still there.

“You’re *still* here?”

“Where else would I go? My train’s not till tomorrow, and it’s freezing.” He scoffed. “Lovely invite to spend Christmas together.”

After hesitating, Sasha relented.

“Fine—come in and warm up,” she said. “I’ll explain when Andrew’s back… somehow.”

“You’re *married*?”

Sasha didn’t answer. Ian stepped inside.

“You must be hungry after travelling?”

“Why keep calling me *you*?” he snapped. “We’ve chatted like close friends for ages.”

“I still don’t understand, but hopefully, we’ll figure it out.”

With salads still in their bowls, she served Ian straight from them. He ate hungrily. By ten, Andrew hadn’t called. Sasha tried again—just ringing. *Odd*, she thought. Unlike him. To fill the silence, she asked Ian basic questions. He answered, baffled.

“You already know all this.”

Still, he shared: he was a rig worker from the Midlands, 38, unmarried, no kids. Pressing further, Sasha asked about the dating site—how they’d met, when.

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

Sasha was lost.
Ian didn’t seem drunk, high, or a prankster. He spoke earnestly. Was he *that* good an actor?

By midnight, Andrew still wasn’t answering. Sasha grew anxious. Ian eyed her warily.

“You *sure* you’re married, or is this part of the act?”

“He was here this morning!” she nearly cried.

After a pause, Ian asked Sasha about herself. She obliged—until he cut in.

“Wait… you told me completely different things online. Either you lied, or—”

Sasha stared.

“Call me mad, but I think someone framed you,” Ian said.

“You mean, someone pretended to be me and gave you my address?”

“Exactly. But who? And why?”

Sasha had no theories. She realised with horror it was almost midnight. Andrew was silent. Ian noticed too.

“Christmas is nearly here,” he said. “Shall we celebrate?”

Wordlessly, Sasha fetched champagne. At midnight, they clinked glasses.

“Well… Happy Christmas,” Ian offered.

“You too,” Sasha replied.

Her phone buzzed.

“Finally!”

She grabbed it, certain it was Andrew—but the number was unknown. The photo that loaded made her blood run cold. Andrew lay in bed, arm around a half-dressed woman.

“My God…”

“What’s wrong?” Ian asked, concerned.

Sasha dropped the phone, hands covering her face. Ian picked it up, glanced at the screen, then back at her.

“That’s… your husband?”

Sobbing, Sasha fled to the bathroom. Ian, mortified, pieced things together. When she returned, he had a theory.

“Did you know he was cheating?” he asked gently.

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

The fortune-teller’s words echoed: *Another woman holds his heart. Half a year already!* Sasha looked at Ian.

“You said I messaged you six months ago?”

“Yeah…”

They stared, realising the same thing. Then Sasha’s phone rang—a hospital. Andrew was in ICU, poisoned. In panic, she called a cab. Ian insisted on coming.

At reception, a doctor explained Andrew had severe intoxication. Police were questioning the woman who’d called the ambulance.

Nearby, Sasha recognised the woman from the photo. She overheard:

“—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! But I messed up!”

Spotting Sasha, the woman froze. Sasha glared, then walked away. Ian followed.

Outside, Sasha collapsed into tears, gasping in the cold air. Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around her—Ian.

“Shh… I’ve been there. Come on.”

Back home, he made tea, wrapped her in a blanket, and tucked her onto the sofa while he sat nearby.

By evening, the hospital called—Andrew was awake.

He looked at her like a cornered animal. Sasha was ice.

“Love, forgive me… I went to end it! Why I drank that tea… Alex, *please*—”

“I’m filing for divorce, Andrew,” she said calmly. “Get well.”

“Alex!” he shouted after her, but she didn’t stop.

That evening, she saw Ian off at the station. An awkward silence lingered.

“Happy Christmas… again,” he finally said.

“Thank you. You too.”

He hesitated.

“Listen… I was thinking… Maybe come with me? Don’t take it the wrong way—”

“I *will* come, Ian,” Sasha said firmly.As the train pulled away, Sasha watched Ian’s hopeful face through the window, knowing that sometimes life’s strangest twists lead to the most unexpected blessings.