The air between them crackled with tension. “When you buy your own flat, then you can invite whoever you bloody well like!” Emily’s voice shook with barely contained fury. “Until then, get outboth of you!”
Emily had always considered her two-bedroom flat on the seventh floor her sanctuary. Not the grandest, not the most luxurious, but hers. Every square foot had been earned through sleepless nights at the design agency, every piece of furniture chosen with deliberate care. The crisp white towels in the bathroom hung perfectly aligned, her skincare products stood in regimented rows, and her wardrobe was a gradient of dresses arranged from lightest to darkest.
Liam had walked into her life last November, just as the first snowflakes began to drift past her window. Tall, with tousled dark hair and a smile that made her knees weak. Theyd met in a café on Oxford Streethed bumped her table, sending coffee splashing across her cream silk blouse.
“Christ, Im such a klutz,” hed muttered, handing her napkins with an apologetic grimace. “At least let me pay for the dry cleaning.”
The stain never came out, but it hadnt mattered. Liam was a photographer, scraping by on weddings and corporate gigs, renting a cramped studio flat in Croydon. He talked about his projects with such infectious passion that Emily could listen for hours.
Those first months passed in a blur. Liam showed up most evenings with armfuls of tulips or boxes of Milk Tray chocolates. They cooked dinners, binged Netflix, made plans. For the first time, Emily felt wholeas if shed finally slotted the last piece of herself into place.
When Februarys blizzards rattled the windows, she asked him to move in.
“Why waste money on that shoebox?” shed said, arms looped around his neck in her minimalist kitchen. “Theres plenty of space here.”
Liam had hesitated, muttering about independence and not wanting to mooch, but by March, his two suitcases and camera gear crowded her hallway.
The first month was bliss. He tried to keep tidy, though his efforts fell short of Emilys standards. She bit her tongue, blaming it on typical bloke carelessness, and quietly rewashed dishes, refolded towels, realigned shoes.
Only one thing niggled: Liam never offered to split bills or even buy groceries. When she gently broached it, hed laugh it offclients were slow, money tight. Emily let it go. The flat was hers, and she could afford it alone.
Then mid-April arrived, and everything changed.
Emily came home after a brutal dayher third website design rejected for not being “innovative enough,” her boss hinting at unpaid overtime. All she wanted was a scalding bath and a large glass of Pinot.
As the lift doors opened on the seventh floor, she froze. Voices spilled from her flatLiams, and a womans. He hadnt mentioned guests.
She stepped inside and stalled. A stranger lounged on her dove-grey sofa, mid-twenties, honey-blonde hair piled messily atop her head. She wore pajamas dotted with Union Jacksnot exactly hosting attireand was painting her nails neon pink while half-watching *EastEnders*.
“Alright?” the girl said without looking up. “You must be Emily. Im Chloe, Liams sister.”
Emily gripped her handbag tighter. Liam had mentioned a sister in passingvaguely, like an afterthoughtbut never said she lived nearby.
“Em, love, youre back!” Liam emerged from the kitchen, clutching a mug of tea. His smile was too bright, too forced. “Meet Chloe. Remember I told you about her?”
“Barely,” Emily said flatly. “Why is she here?”
Liam set the mug down, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “Shes had a nightmare with her landlord. Blokes kicking her outhis sons back from uni. She just needs a few days to sort something.”
Emilys stomach turned to ice. *Our place?* This was *her* flat, *her* sanctuary.
“You couldve asked,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Come on, Em,” Liam chuckled, squeezing her. “Its an emergency. Was I meant to leave her on the street?”
Chloe finally glanced up, smirking. “Relax, I wont be underfoot. Im dead quiet, me.”
Her toneflippant, almost mockingset Emilys teeth on edge.
“Fine,” she snapped, too exhausted to fight. “How long?”
“Day or two, max,” Chloe said, blowing on her nails. “Already got viewings lined up.”
Liam kissed Emilys temple. “See? Sorted.”
In the kitchen, Emily found the sink piled with dishes and crumbs littering the counter. On the hob sat her Le Creuset potthe one with yesterdays bolognese shed planned to reheat.
“Liam.” Her voice was dangerously quiet.
“Yeah?”
“Thats my dinner.”
“Oh. Right, sorry. Chloe was starving, and there wasnt much else. Ill grab a Tesco shop tomorrow.”
She nodded, though fury bubbled beneath her skin. She stayed silent because she was polite. Because making scenes wasnt her way. But with every minute, the pressure built.
That night, as they got ready for bed, she cracked.
“Liam, this isnt okay.”
“What isnt?”
“Chloe. You shouldve warned me.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hands. “Em, I couldnt just leave her. She rang me in tears”
“Im not saying abandon her. Im saying *ask me first*. This is *my* flat.”
“*Our* flat,” he corrected tightly.
“Which *I* pay for.”
Liams face darkened. “So now its a tally, is it?”
“Its *respect*,” she hissed. “Decisions like this are *joint*.”
“Christ, fine. Next time Ill send a bloody memo.”
Emily left for work early the next morning, avoiding Chloe. But returning that evening was déjà vusame pajamas, same spot on the sofa, now crunching an apple from Emilys fruit bowl.
“Alright?” Chloe grinned. “Hows work?”
“Fine,” Emily bit out. “Found a place yet?”
“Not yet. Viewings tomorrow, though.”
She said it like discussing weekend plans, not homelessness. Emily locked herself in the bedroom.
Two days passed. Chloe remained glued to the sofa, still “looking,” still in pajamas. Meanwhile, Emilys things began disappearing.
On Thursday, her £90 La Mer cream was half-empty. Friday, her towel hung damp though she hadnt used it. Saturday, her wardrobe was in disarraythe red Diane von Furstenberg dress, always between black and burgundy, now wedged between navy and emerald.
Her pulse spiked. The thought of strangers touching her things, *using* them, made her skin crawl.
“Liam.” Her voice trembled. “Did you use my face cream?”
He glanced up from his laptop. “What? No.”
“My towel?”
“Used my own. Whats this about?”
“Someones going through my things.”
Liam snorted. “Seriously? Youre tracking *face cream*?”
“Its not *about the cream*!” Her voice rose. “Its about *boundaries*!”
“Em, shes *family*. Cant you share a bloody moisturiser?”
“Not without *permission*!”
“Christ, youre acting like shes a squatter!”
Emily saw red. “She *is*! You both are! Youve lived here two months, paid *nothing*, and now youve moved in your sister like its a bloody hostel!”
“Emily, *calm down*”
“Dont tell me to *calm down*!” She was shouting now. “When you buy your own flat, you can fill it with whoever you like! Until then, *get out*both of you!”
The silence was deafening. Liam paled, then nodded slowly.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Got it.”
He returned minutes later with his suitcases. “Chloe. Were leaving.”
“*What*?” She gaped at Emily. “Over *moisturiser*?”
“Now,” Liam snapped.
Grumbling, Chloe hauled a duffel bag from behind the sofa*packed the whole time*. As she passed Emily, she smirked. “Cheers for the hospitality.”
Liam lingered at the door. “Em, I thought we”
“*Go*.”
The click of the latch echoed like a gunshot.
Emily sank onto the sofa*her* sofaand exhaled. On the coffee table, Chloes neon nail polish gleamed: *Pink Fizz*. She snatched it, hurled it into the bin.
Methodically, she realigned towels, re
