**Diary Entry**
I stand at the door of my own home in Manchester, clutching a key that no longer fits the new lock, feeling my heart splinter into pieces. The marriage I fought so hard to save has crumbled in an instant. But my cheating husband and his mistress have no idea whats cominga lesson theyll never forget.
*James, its almost ten,*my voice trembled when I called him the night before*You promised youd be home by seven.*
He drops the keys on the side table without looking at me.
*Work, Emily. What do you want me to tell my boss? That I need to rush home to my wife?*his tone drips with irritation, as if Im an inconvenience.
I swallow hard, staring at the table I set for a simple birthday dinner. Two candles flicker beside the cake I bought on my lunch break.
*Yes, James. Thats exactly what you could do. For once,*I cross my arms, holding back tears*Its my birthday.*
Finally, he glances at the table. His face twists with realisation.
*Bloody hell, Emily, I forgot*he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
*Obviously,*I reply coldly, the ache inside me suffocating.
*Dont start,*he snaps*I work for us, you know that.*
I force a bitter smile.
*For us?*I counter*Youre barely home, James. When was the last time we had dinner together? Watched a film? Talked like husband and wife?*
*Thats not fair,*he frowns*Im building a career for our future.*
*What future? We live like strangers under the same roof!*my voice cracks*I earn more than you, so dont hide behind providing for the family.*
His face hardens.
*Right, you were bound to throw that in my face,*he sneers*How am I supposed to keep up with my high-flying wife?*
*I didnt mean it like that*
*Enough, Emily. Im going to bed,*he cuts me off and walks away, leaving me alone with the cold cake and burnt-out candles.
I blow them out, whispering to myself that things will get better. Hes my husband. I love him. Marriage has its rough patches, doesnt it?
How wrong I was to forgive him so easily.
Wed been married for three years, but the last one was a slow, painful unravelling. We never had childrenand looking back, I thank fate for that. My job as a marketing director covered most of our bills, while James, a sales executive, constantly complained about stress, long hours, traffic everything but the truth, which I discovered far too late.
Three weeks after my ruined birthday, I come home earlya splitting headache driving me to bed. But as I reach our house on the outskirts of Manchester, something feels off. The doorknob and lock, once brass, now gleam with new silver metal.
*What?*I murmur, sliding in my key. It doesnt turn.
I try again, but it wont budge. Checking the address, Im certainthis is my home.
Then I spot a note taped to the door. Jamess familiar handwriting stabs at me: *This isnt your home anymore. Find somewhere else.*
The world tilts. My blood turns to ice.
*Youve got to be kidding me,*I breathe out.
I bang on the door, screaming his name. Finally, it opens. James stands there, and behind hima woman wrapped in my cashmere dressing gown, a gift from my mother.
*Seriously?*my voice shakes with fury and hurt.
*Emily, listen,*he crosses his arms, smirking*Ive moved on. Anna and I are together now. We need this place. Find someone else.*
Anna. The same *just a work friend* hed mentioned for months. She steps forward, hands on her hips, and sneers:
*Your stuffs in boxes in the garage. Take it and leave.*
I stare at them, stunned. Then I turn on my heel and walk to the car, determination burning inside me. They think they can toss me aside and win. But Im not surrendering. I needed a planone that would hit them where it hurts.
I knew exactly who to call.
*Emily? Oh my God, whats wrong?*my sister Charlotte flings open her flat door, takes one look at my tear-streaked face, and pulls me inside*What happened?*
I collapse onto her sofa, the story pouring out between sobs.
*That absolute bastard!*Charlotte hisses when I finish*And that Anna woman wore your dressing gown?*
*Mums gift,*I sniff, wiping my eyes*The cashmere one from last Christmas.*
Charlotte marches to the kitchen and returns with two glasses of wine.
*Drink,*she orders*Then well figure out how to ruin them.*
*What can I do?*I take a sip*The flats in Jamess name. The mortgage was under his credit because mine was still recovering from my MBA.*
Charlotte narrows her eyes.
*And who paid for everything else?*she asks.
*Both of us, but*I pause, realising*I bought it all. The furniture, the appliances, the bathroom renovation last year. Its all under my name.*
*Exactly!*she grins*What does James have left? An empty flat.*
I pull up my banking app, scrolling through receipts.
*I have every invoice. I always handled the finances.*
*Of course you did, Miss Organised,*she laughs*Queen of spreadsheets!*
For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel a flicker of control.
*They think theyve won, dont they?*I whisper.
Charlotte clinks her glass against mine.
*They have no idea who theyre dealing with.*
The next morning, I call my lawyer friend, Sophie.
*What he did is illegal,*she says after a sip of coffee*He cant change the locks and kick you out, even if the flats in his name. You have a right to live there.*
*I dont want to go back,*I say firmly*But I want whats mine.*
Sophie smiles.
*Lets make a list.*
We spend the morning cataloguing everything I bought for the flatthe sofa, the telly, the fridge, even the rugs. By noon, I have a detailed record with receipts, dates, and amounts.
*Impressive,*she nods*With this, no one can argue its not yours.*
*So I can take it all back?*I ask.
*Legally, yes. But Id bring a police escort to avoid accusations of trespassing.*
I remember Jamess smug smirk. Anna in my dressing gown. Their confidence that theyd outplayed me.
*No,*I say slowly*I have a better idea.*
That same day, I contact a removal company. The owner, Mark, listens to my story and nods sympathetically.
*Weve handled cases like this before,*he says*Leave it to us.*
The next morning, while James and Anna stroll out for coffee, the movers arrive with my old key. They strip the flat bareevery fork, every lampshade, every trace of meleaving nothing but hollow echoes in the empty rooms.
