The Pink Letter That Should’ve Been a Red Flag (STOP if you haven’t yet read the first two chapters of this story, the links are here: - Read Part One Here or Read Part Two Here ) I wish I could say I opened her letter with greater trepidation, that some deep instinct warned me I was holding a masterpiece of emotional manipulation. But no. I opened it with curiosity, skimmed the first few lines - then laughed. Not cruelly. Not dismissively. Just… incredulously. Four pages of undying love Four pages of a woman declaring that I was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, ‘The One.’ The man she had searched for her entire life. The man who had healed her heart, restored her faith, and - if her effusive prose was to be believed - ‘ruined her for all other men. I sat back, the letter resting on my lap, and let out a slow breath. It was ridiculous. Over the top. Something you’d expect from the fevered imagination of a romance novelist - not a grown woman with a child, a job, and a supposed history of tragedy. And yet. And yet, I read it again. Because even as my logical brain dismissed it, some part of me - the part shaped by a childhood of conditional affection and a single-sex boarding school education that left me woefully unprepared for women - started to second-guess itself. Could this be real? Was I simply too jaded, too cynical, to recognise genuine devotion when it landed on my doormat… in a pink envelope? All men like to think we’re good in bed - exceptional, even. But this? This was next level. The way she’d pursued me all weekend, the sheer force-of-nature intensity - was it possible I’d over-delivered? Had I, against all odds, accidentally ruined this woman for all other men? (I can hear you rolling your eyes - don’t worry !) I wanted to dismiss it too! Instead, I found myself evaluating, dissecting, trying to determine if there was some glimmer of truth woven into the absurdity. Because surely, surely, no one would go to this much effort if they didn’t mean it. Would they? I needed a second opinion. I reached for my phone to call P. Then saw the time - far too late. It would have to wait until morning. And so, I went to bed, leaving the letter on my living room table - its weight pressing lightly against the wood, but with far more pressure against something in my mind, something I wasn’t quite ready to name. I woke the next morning feeling slightly ridiculous. The letter had been absurd, overblown, and dripping with a level of devotion that should have set off alarm bells - but somehow, instead, it had merely left me… confused. And now, with dawn’s light making itself visible through the curtains, it all seemed even more surreal. I was overthinking. As usual. Yes, she was intense. Yes, she was a little much. But was that really a crime? Had I really reached the stage in life where an attractive woman declaring her undying love for me was something to be suspicious of? I was still putting away my breakfast things when the doorbell rang. Too early for a delivery and I hadn’t ordered anything. I was wrong - it was a courier with a large package! I took it inside, tore it open, and found myself staring at…. towels. Towels? Not just any towels. Two massive, heavy, Egyptian cotton, ridiculously high-thread-count bath towels, the kind you’d find in a five-star hotel. Along with two matching hand towels and a note … ❤️ … to my Love.. ❤️ What an unusual gift. Completely unexpected. Random. And yet, the moment I ran my hand over the fabric, something inside me softened. This was thoughtful. Generous. Practical, even. The weight of the towels, the sheer feel of them, made my lingering concerns about the letter seem almost… absurd. Later that day I met P for coffee We were fresh from the gym and still buzzing with endorphins. P, my long-suffering best female friend. The one who had, from the very beginning, regarded my Russian romance with suspicion. Her face had the same look we all wear upon stepping into a lift immediately after someone has let rip - pinched, vaguely nauseous, wishing to be anywhere else. I had barely sat down before she clocked my expression. "Jesus Christ," she said. "What now?" I sighed, stirring my coffee. "She sent me towels." P blinked. "Towels?" I nodded. "Big ones - the sort you’d probably steal from an expensive hotel." She stared at me. "Seriously? She sent you a f*****g love letter after one weekend. Now she’s redecorating your bathroom. Jesus - you must be much better in the sack than you are at burpees!" I laughed so hard I snorted. "You’re already in too deep," she said. "Anyone else would run a mile, but you’re treating it like a flaming science experiment." I opened my mouth to argue - then shut it again. She wasn’t wrong. Instead, I reached into my bag and slid the pink envelope across the table. P raised an eyebrow. "Oh, this should be good." She pulled out the letter, unfolded it, and cleared her throat dramatically. "Mark, Since I left, I feel your absence like pain. Every touch, every word, every moment - still on my skin." P barked a laugh. "Jesus. Did you give her some kind of religious experience?" I opened my mouth, thought better of it and simply shrugged. She skimmed further. "I see you, Mark. You are strong, kind, serious. A real man. A serious man." Her eyes flicked up, unimpressed. "Oh, well, if you’re a serious man, I guess you’d better marry her immediately." She turned the page. Then the next. Her smirk faded slightly. "I did not think I could love again. And yet here you are. I do not know what to do with these feelings. I was not ready. But now? I cannot imagine my life without you." P set the letter down, exhaling slowly My leg bounced unconsciously, heel drumming against the floor.. She stared at it for a moment. I caught her gaze and forced myself to stop. "Mate." "It’s a lot," I admitted. "It’s a lot!" she agreed. "But then… I mean, surely no one would go to this much effort if they didn’t mean it?" She closed her eyes briefly, then fixed me with the look of a woman resisting the urge to shake a toddler. With a sharp sigh, she set down her coffee. "I know you’re clever," she said, levelling me with a look. "But here? You’re being a complete knobhead - just watch yourself, alright!" Half joking I said, "I don’t think I like your tone." She rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh - well don’t expect me to save you when this goes t**s-up." I assured her that wouldn’t be necessary - little realising how prophetic her throwaway line was to prove to be. The weekend arrived and I hopped into the car Despite my best intentions - and without fully buying into the ‘undying love’ narrative- my body had apparently noticed my new girlfriend’s absence. And so, in a state of mild but persistent ‘discomfort’ in the trouser department, drove to London. After several hours, the Cromwell Road stretched ahead, the grand façade of the Natural History Museum rising on my left like an old acquaintance. Then onto Brompton Road, the traffic thickening, the pace slowing to a crawl. I knew these streets well from my early twenties - I'd worked here, walked these very pavements. The layout hadn’t changed, but the endless traffic-calming measures and aggressively cheerful cycle lanes were new. I cut through the backstreets of Knightsbridge, weaving into Belgravia until finally, I pulled up outside her address. I rang the intercom and she came to the door smiling in that way she did - warm, welcoming, like I was the only person in the world. I opened my mouth to speak, but she grabbed my lapel and yanked me forward, her tongue pushing into my mouth. Bloody Hell, I thought, as my ‘discomfort’ became far more pronounced! I pulled back, and she looked at me, teasingly. I was about to meet her daughter, and the last thing I needed was that problem. So far, I’d only seen a photo of her, a video of her playing the piano, and, of course, the top of her head on my very first visit. We entered the apartment and there, in the living room, was her daughter. She was a thin, polite, serious-looking girl with long, dark hair. She stood and - somewhat formally - greeted me by name, then reached out to shake my hand! I responded, with equal formality, I may even have clicked my heels together for effect. Both mother and daughter laughed and the ice was broken. We headed out and had a lovely day. We drove to Battersea park and wandered around for a few hours, then stopped for lunch and an ice cream. Her mother went to the loo, and I turned to her daughter with what I thought was a safe, easy question. "So, are you happy here in the UK?" She looked me straight in the eye. No hesitation. No flicker of doubt. Just cold, flat certainty. "I hate my mother." I blinked. Whatever answer I’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. A beat of silence stretched between us. Our eyes were locked. I wasn’t sure how to respond. A nervous chuckle? A concerned frown? I had a sudden and overwhelming desire to be literally anywhere else! Before I could decide on a response, she turned her attention back to her ice cream, as if she’d merely commented on the weather. And I - idiot that I am - didn’t press further. Her mother returned from the loo, smiling warmly, as if her daughter hadn’t just casually dropped an emotional hand grenade into my lap. We made our way back to the apartment, the conversation light, easy - completely at odds with the thoughts tumbling through my head. As we stepped inside, she turned to me. “She’s going to a friend’s house for the night,” she said, reaching for her daughter’s overnight bag. “I’m just taking her over.” I hesitated. “Alright. I’ll pop to the shops and grab something for supper while you do that.” She tilted her head. “You don’t have to.” “I want to.” I needed time to think She studied me for a beat, then smiled. “Meet you back here
