When you buy your own flat, then you can let whoever you want stay in it! Until then, get outand take your sister with you!
Emily had always thought of her two-bedroom flat on the seventh floor as her fortress. Not the biggest, not the fanciest, but hers. Every square metre had been earned through sleepless nights at the design agency, every piece of furniture chosen with care. The fluffy white towels in the bathroom hung by size, her skincare products lined up in neat rows on the shelf, dresses in the wardrobe organised by colourlight to dark.
Oliver came into her life in November, when the first snowflakes swirled outside the window. Tall, with tousled dark hair and a smile that made Emilys knees go weak. Theyd met at a café on Regent Streethed bumped her table while passing, sending her latte splashing across her white blouse.
*Sorry, clumsy me,* he muttered, handing her napkins. *Let me at least pay for the dry cleaning.*
The blouse was ruined, but it didnt matter. Oliver was a photographer, shooting weddings and corporate events, renting a tiny flat on the outskirts of London. He talked about his projects with such passion that Emily could listen for hours.
The first months flew by in a haze. Oliver turned up at hers most evenings with flowers or chocolates. They cooked together, binged Netflix, made plans. For the first time, Emily felt like shed found the missing piece of her puzzle.
Then, in February, during a blizzard, she suggested he move in.
*Why waste money on that shoebox?* she said, hugging him in her spotless kitchen. *Theres plenty of room here.*
Oliver hesitated, mumbling about independence and not wanting to mooch, but eventually agreed. He arrived in March with two suitcases and his camera gear.
The first month was bliss. He tried to keep things tidy, though his efforts were half-heartedtowels folded wonky, shoes left by the sofa. Emily let it slide, chalking it up to *typical bloke mess*. She quietly rewashed dishes, rehung towels, realigned his stray trainers.
But one thing niggled: Oliver never offered to split bills or pay for groceries. Whenever she mentioned it, he joked it off or blamed slow clients. Emily didnt push itafter all, the flat was hers, and she could manage the costs alone.
Then mid-April changed everything.
Emily came home after a brutal daya client rejected her third website design, demanding something *more edgy*, and her boss hinted at unpaid overtime. All she wanted was a bath and wine.
On the seventh floor, keys in hand, she froze. Voices insideOlivers and a womans. He hadnt mentioned guests.
She stepped into the hall and stopped dead. On her cream sofa sat a strangermid-twenties, blonde hair in a messy bun, wearing pyjamas dotted with daisies. The girl was painting her nails neon pink, eyes flicking between the telly (playing some overdramatic Spanish soap) and her phone.
*Hiya,* the girl said, barely glancing up. *You must be Emily. Im Sophie, Olivers sister.*
Emily stood rooted, processing. Oliver rarely mentioned Sophiejust vague mentions of her *living in Croydon or something.*
*Em! Youre back!* Oliver appeared from the kitchen, clutching a mug of tea. He looked sheepish but grinned like nothing was amiss. *Meet Sophie. Remember I told you about her?*
*Vaguely,* Emily said flatly. *Why is she here?*
*Flat trouble,* Oliver said, setting the mug down. *Her landlord booted her outhis sons back from uni. She just needs a few days to sort something.*
Emilys stomach dropped. *Our place*? This was *her* flat, *her* space. No one got to invite guests without asking.
*Right,* she said tightly. *And you couldnt check with me?*
*Come on, Em,* Oliver shrugged. *Its an emergency. Was I supposed to leave her on the street?*
Sophie finally looked up, assessing Emily with a smirk. *Dont stress, Ill be invisible. Hardly take up any room.*
Her tonefake breezyrankled more than the uninvited presence.
*Fine,* Emily said through gritted teeth. *How long?*
*Day or two,* Sophie waved a hand. *Already flat-hunting.*
Oliver kissed Emilys cheek. *See? Sorted.*
In the kitchen, the sink piled with dishes, crumbs on the counter. The leftover spaghetti Bolognesemeant to last two mealswas gone, pot still on the hob.
*Oliver,* Emily said quietly.
*Hm?*
*My Bolognese.*
*Oh. Yeah, sorry. Soph was starving, and there wasnt much else. Ill grab groceries tomorrow.*
Emily nodded, fury simmering. She bit her tonguegood manners, no scenes in front of guestsbut every little thing grated.
That night, in bed, she snapped.
*This is *really* sudden.*
*What is?*
*Sophie. You shouldve asked me.*
Oliver sat up, sighing. *Em, she rang me sobbing this morning. What was I meant to do?*
*Not *ask*? Its *my* flat.*
**Our* flat,* he corrected. *We live together.*
*But *I* pay for it.*
Oliver frowned. *So now its a tally?*
*No. Its about respect.*
*Fine, next time Ill *ask*,* he muttered, turning away.
But *next time* came daily. Sophie, still in pyjamas, still *flat-hunting*, still eating Emilys food. By Thursday, Emilys expensive face cream had mysteriously shrunk. By Friday, her towel was dampunused since morning. By Saturday, her wardrobe was jumbleda red dress now wedged between navy and black.
*Oliver,* Emily said, voice shaking. *Did you use my cream?*
*What? No.*
*Someones going through my things.*
Oliver laughed. *Seriously? Youre tracking *cream*?*
*Its *not* about the cream!*
*Em, its *Sophie*. Shes family.*
**My* family doesnt raid my stuff!*
*Christ, youre possessive.*
That did it. *Possessive*? In her own home?
*Im *done*,* Emily spat. *When you buy your own place, *then* you can play host. Until thenget out. Both of you.*
Silence. Oliver stared, then nodded slowly.
*Right. Crystal clear.*
He packed within minutessame two suitcases from March. Sophie, now in jeans, smirked as she slung a duffel bag over her shoulder.
*Cheers for the hospitality,* she said breezily, vanishing out the door.
Oliver lingered. *Em I thought we were building something.*
*Just go.*
The door shut. The lift whirred. Thenquiet.
Emily sat on the sofa (now *hers* again), spotting Sophies forgotten neon nail polish on the table*Bubblegum Pink* from Boots. She dumped it in the bin.
Then she rearranged the towels. Rehung the dresses. Realigned the skincare.
Her flat. Her rules.
Alone.
Her phone buzzedOlivers text:
*Sorry. Never meant to hurt you. Just thought love meant sharing, no matter whose names on the lease. Guess I was wrong.*
Emily deleted his number.
The silence shouldve been relief. Instead, it ached.
But by morning, clarity hit. She changed the locks.
Then, while clearing the top shelf, she found an old boxchildhood drawings, uni awards, photos of her first shoebox flat, crammed with fabric samples.
Shed built this life *alone*. No shortcuts, no handouts.
Oliver wasnt a partner. He was a passenger whod tried to hijack her journey.
By evening, shed sketched a living-room redesignslate grey walls, a mustard-yellow armchair (the one shed never dared buy before).
Her home wasnt a fortress. It was *her*. Strong. Independent. Unapologetic.
She saved the file: *Fresh Start*.
Outside, London glittereda city where she had her corner. *Her* corner.
And that was enough.
