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 fucking 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 tits-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 in an hour.”
We parted ways, and I wandered the supermarket in a daze, tossing random ingredients into a basket while my mind replayed the conversation from earlier.
"I hate my mother."
What 12-year-old says that so bluntly to a near stranger?
And what exactly had she seen, or lived through, to say it with such cold certainty?
By the time I returned, the apartment was warm and dimly lit, soft music playing. She was already curled up on the couch, barefoot, wine glass in hand, watching me with unreadable eyes.
“Good?” she asked, gesturing to the food.
“Yes.” I set the bag down. “Got everything.”
She smiled, slow and knowing.
We cooked together, a surprisingly domestic scene, and sat down to eat. But my mind was still turning, still caught on the daughter’s words.
I took a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of my glass. “She seems like a great girl.”
She beamed. “She is.”
"She must miss her father."
And there it was.
A flicker of something in her expression - too quick to name. Then gone, replaced by a carefully composed sadness.
"Of course," she said softly.
I let the silence stretch.
Then, just as gently, “How did she cope after… everything?”
Her eyes flicked up to mine. A beat too long.
Then, the story.
Her husband, murdered by the state. They wanted his property. The courts were corrupt. The judge was bought. She and her daughter had been left penniless and forced to flee.
There was a script-like quality to it - like something polished over many retellings.
Still, I nodded. “That sounds… unbelievably hard.”
She exhaled dramatically. “You have no idea.”
She swirled her wine, gaze distant. “You don’t know what it’s like to have everything taken from you. To be powerless.”
My stomach twisted slightly.
I wasn’t a complete moron. The UK wasn’t in the habit of handing out visas to broke Russian widows, even those with tragic backstories. “So… why here?”
Another pause.
Just a flicker.
Then, a smooth recovery.
“I had no choice. The UK was the safest option.”
That sounded off.
But I didn’t interrupt.
She sighed, setting down her glass. “You know, I was a psychologist back home. A child psychologist. But my qualifications… they’re locked in a safe in my old apartment. I can’t access them. So now I have to work…” She trailed off, eyes flicking away.
She let me fill in the gap.
“…doing…?”
She nodded. “Menial work.”
A shadow crossed her face, her lips tightening in what I would later recognise as a deliberate pause - an opening.
And I, prat that I am, stepped right into it.
"Must be hard. For both of you."
Another pause. A delicate, deliberate breath. Then, she exhaled as if she’d been holding it in.
"We do our best."
A small smile. A soft touch of her fingers against my wrist. A slow tilt of her head.
"And I’m so grateful you understand, Mark."
I had many more questions but just like that, the conversation appeared to be over.
I blinked.
That… had been a masterclass.
The shift. The misdirection. The way she’d deflected, evoked sympathy, and closed the topic all in one elegant movement.
I opened my mouth to press further…
But in one smooth motion she was suddenly on my lap, straddling me, pushing me down against the sofa cushions.
She kissed me, deep and insistent, her hands already tugging at my belt.
I hesitated. Just for a moment.
I could feel the questions still lingering in my mind - unanswered, unresolved.
But then she whispered against my ear, her breath warm, “So many questions… when I just want you inside me.”
Well…. that, as they say, was that.
Later, tangled in sheets, limbs warm and loose, I lay awake while she slept, her breath soft and steady against my chest.
I stared at the ceiling.
There was a pattern. I could see it now.
* A question met with misdirection.
* An answer given just to fill the space.
* A shift, a pivot - then suddenly, sex.
Every time I got too close, she changed the conversation with her body.
And every single time, I let her.
‘What the actual fuck was I doing!’
It wasn’t that I wasn’t enjoying myself - objectively, I was. But I hadn’t yet achieved the expected outcome for a man.
My ADHD rarely lets me melt into sensation.
Instead, it narrates, catalogues, runs probability assessments. She, on the other hand, seemed to vanish into the moment completely - lost in it, fully absorbed. My approach to hiding my inability to switch off, was to focus intently on ensuring my partners pleasure, to distract and exhaust her… it seemed to have worked.
I envied that. I wanted to switch off and just exist in the experience… but my brain had other plans.
Too many conundrums.
Too many gaps in the story.
Too many little details that didn’t quite fit.
And yet, even as my mind turned over the inconsistencies, my body… well. My body had no real complaints.
I sighed, rubbing my face, then glanced down at her.
She looked angelic in sleep. Soft, vulnerable, utterly at peace.
Not remotely like a woman who had just executed the most effective interrogation shutdown in history with nothing more than a well-timed sexual offensive.
I frowned - at myself!
Then, purely for my own research purposes, I slowly lifted the edge of the sheet and stared down at her naked form.
I exhaled.
“Yeah,” I muttered to myself. “That’ll do it.”
I dropped the sheet, closed my eyes, and waited for sleep.
Tomorrow, over coffee, she would tell me about The Toad.
And yet, despite all of it - the inconsistencies, the unanswered questions, the plethora of red flags fluttering at the edge of my awareness - something in me had already shifted.
Her story had triggered something deep-seated.
That old, familiar instinct.
* Protect.
* Fix.
* Take responsibility.
* Make it better.
And it wasn’t just for her. It was for her daughter too.
By the time I left, I would have done something irrevocably stupid.
But for now?
For now, I had a suspicion…
I was exactly where she wanted me.
In the morning, as I showered, I ran through the last 18 hours in my mind. I needed space to reflect.
I dressed and joined her as she sat at the kitchen table, stirring her tea in slow, deliberate circles.
"My boss owns the apartment," she said. "Sometimes other employees stay here too. When they need somewhere."
Other employees. Sleeping on the floor.
I never saw them. Never heard them.
But the idea of three additional people periodically crashing in the same small one-bedroom apartment where she was raising her daughter - where I had just spent the night - unsettled me.
I kept my voice neutral. “How often are they here?”
She shrugged. “It depends.”
There was something oddly casual in the way she said it, as if this was a completely normal arrangement.
I asked more questions. Gently.
The answers shifted, just slightly, like a landscape seen through heat haze - there, but uncertain.
It wasn’t asylum that had brought them to the UK.
Not exactly.
* She’d been on a dating site after her husband’s death - to help her move on.
* She’d met a British man online and he’d come to visit her in Russia.
* And yes, he’d invited them to stay with him in the UK.
I said “That sounds like he was a good man.”
Anger flashed in her eyes and she spat out his name like it tasted bad.
“Him , he’s a Toad."
"He seemed so kind at first," she said. "But once we arrived, he changed."
I pressed - just a little.
"How do you mean?"
She stirred her tea again, the spoon clinking against the glass.
"He was weak," she said simply. "Pathetic. He didn’t know how to take care of a woman."
I didn’t know what to say to that.
She continued. "We had to leave. I had to find my own way."
Had to?
Or chose to?
A beat of silence.
Then, her eyes flicked up, watching me carefully.
"It’s not easy," she said softly. "London is expensive."
I nodded, still unsure where this was going.
"My boss helps," she continued. "But it’s… difficult."
Difficult
That word sat between us, open-ended.
I knew what I was meant to ask.
Difficult how?
But I didn’t.
Instead, like the absolute twat I was proving to be, even to myself, I said the worst possible thing.
"I have space."
It just slipped out. A reflex. A throwaway offer.
The effect was instant.
Her eyes flickered - sharp, assessing.
But her mouth? Her mouth said something else entirely.
"Oh, Mark," she murmured, shaking her head slightly. "I couldn’t possibly ask that of you."
A pause. A beat too long.
Then, with the faintest flicker of hesitation…
"Unless… you really want us to?"
I had just offered something I hadn’t even considered - not even with all of her spectacular bedroom efforts - cursed brain - so bloody impulsive!
And she had clearly heard exactly what I hadn’t meant to say.
I swallowed. Hard.
The air shifted.
A moment ago, I had been getting ready to leave. Now, suddenly, I was standing on the edge of something I did not want to step into.
She sighed, a soft, practiced sound.
"It’s just… I have to think about my daughter."
Of course. The daughter. The weight. The unspoken moral obligation.
She tilted her head, smiling gently.
"I mean, I don’t know. You’d have to be sure Mark. It’s a big decision."
Somehow, without quite agreeing to anything, I was suddenly captaining a ship I hadn’t realised I’d boarded.
The drive south was a blur
I barely remembered the motorway, the turn-offs, the endless monotony of tarmac stretching ahead.
My mind was too full - too tangled.
What the fuck had I just done?
I’d offered my home. My space. My life. To a woman I’d known for - what? Three or four weeks?
And now I had to explain it.
First, to P.
P, who had warned me.
Who had seen the red flags even when I refused to. Who was going to give me that look - the one that said, Mate, you’re being a complete fucking idiot.
And then, far worse - my daughter.
I couldn’t tell her the truth.
Couldn’t casually drop in, “Hey, sweetheart, I’ve met someone I quite like - in fact, so much so that she and her child are moving in after a handful of dates.”
The alternative? A lie.
Because I knew exactly what she was going to say.
“WTF, Dad.”
And then there were the doubts.
The inconsistencies.
The shifting stories.
The gaps where certainty should be.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t noticed them.
It was that, somehow, despite everything, I’d let them slide.
And now I had to face it.
Two conversations I was dreading.
🔹 Stay tuned for the next episode of From Russia with Love (Bomb): My Dating Disaster with a Narcissist Part 4. (of 6)
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