**Friday, 12th May**
I shoved the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and switched on the express cycle. Dinner had gone wellOliver wolfed down my shepherds pie without complaint. Even Sophie, who usually turns her nose up at anything I make (she calls me that commoner behind my back), helped herself to seconds.
Im off for a shower, Oliver called from the hall. Got football with the lads tomorrowneed an early night.
Go on, I said, waving him off as I wiped down the counter.
Sophie was sprawled on the sofa, glued to her phone. Shed turned up the night beforeno warning, as usuallugging shopping bags and that permanent scowl. Just popping in for the weekend, shed said. Like always.
Fancy a cuppa? I asked, leaning into the lounge.
No, she snapped, not bothering to look up.
I shrugged and returned to the kitchen. Three years of marriage had taught me not to rise to her jibes. Oliver always said, Sophs sharp-tongued, but she doesnt mean it. Dont take it personally.
The shower started running upstairs. I flicked the kettle on and reached for my favourite mug when I caught Sophies voicelow, but clear in the quiet flat.
Mum, hi. Yeah, Im at theirs No, she made her usual slop Listen, I spoke to the solicitor.
I froze, mug in hand. Sophie dropped her voice further, but I caught every word.
Yes, through the courts Since Gran left the flat to Oliver, not both of them No, that idiot hasnt a clue she can be taken off the deed Oliverll sign anything if you phrase it right
The mug slipped from my fingers and shattered on the tiles.
What was that? Sophies voice sharpened.
Dropped a mug, I managed, ice flooding my veins.
The flatour three-bed in Kensington, where wed lived since the wedding. Olivers gran had gifted it to us. For the two of you, shed said. And now this viper was scheming to boot me out?
Typical, Sophie appeared in the doorway. Butterfingers, arent you?
Sorry, just clumsy, I bent to gather the pieces, glad she couldnt see my face.
Use the dustpan, for Gods sake.
I fetched it, hands trembling.
Whats got you shaking? Sophie narrowed her eyes. Its just a mug.
Startled myself, I lied.
Right. Our delicate little daisy, she sneered before flouncing back to the sofa.
One thought pounded in my skull: *They want me out. Thats why shes here.*
Oliver came downstairs, humming.
Oh, bit of an accident? He grinned. No worriesweve got stacks of those.
Yeah, I forced a smile.
He kissed my head and wandered into the bedroom.
I didnt sleep a wink. Oliver snored while I stared at the ceiling. Tell him? He adored Sophie, always took her side. Complain to his mum? She was clearly in on itnever warmed to me, though shed never say it outright.
*I have to handle this myself*, I decided by dawn. But how?
I was up first, creeping to the kitchen. My hands shook so badly I missed the mug twice with the sugar spoon.
Get a grip, I muttered. *Think.*
Then I spotted ita solicitors card pinned to the fridge since last month. Mr. Thompson had helped our neighbour with a property dispute. I grabbed my phone.
Morning! Is this Mr. Thompson? Its Emily Whitmore, from flat 3B Yes, urgent advice needed. Today at one? Brilliant.
Oliver shuffled in, hair tousled, a pillow crease on his cheek.
Youre up early, he mumbled, pecking my lips.
Couldnt sleep, I avoided his eyes. Oliver, Im meeting a friend today. Havent seen her in ages.
Which friend?
Lizzie, I blurted the first name that came to mind.
Righto, he yawned. Taking Soph to the cinema later. She asked last night.
*Of course she did*, I thought.
The solicitors office smelled of leather and coffee. Mr. Thompson, a balding man in wire-frames, listened intently.
So, the flat was a gift from your husbands grandmother Are you on the deeds?
Yes, right after we married.
And whose name is on the freehold?
Sorry?
The ownership documents. Deed of gift? Probate?
I blinked. Oliver handled all that.
He sighed. First, find out who legally owns it. If its just your husband, youve a problem. If its joint, his sister cant touch you.
How?
Get a copy of the title registerLand Registry website or the local council. Do it today.
Back home, I tripped over Sophies heels in the hall.
There you are! she called from the kitchen. Whereve you been?
With a friend, I kept my voice steady.
Went to the pictures with Ollie, she smirked, arms crossed. Still loves those ridiculous action films.
I nodded and slipped into the bedroom, locking the door. Pulled up the Land Registry site, paid the fee, and waited.
That night, once Oliver was snoring and Sophie was tucked away, I checked my email. The register had arrived. I opened it, heart hammering.
*Proprietor: Whitmore, Oliver James.*
My stomach dropped. Sophie was rightlegally, the flat was his alone. I was just a name on paper. Fear twisted into fury. *Not a chance.*
Next morning, I rang Mr. Thompson again.
The flats in his name only
Listen carefully, he cut in. Have you been there over three years?
Nearly.
Good. Youve established beneficial interest. Plus, furnishings and improvements are marital assets. Any receipts for renovations?
Kept them all.
Then youve a strong case. Gather every document. And *dont* sign anything they hand you.
Thank you.
Emily you should tell your husband.
I sighed. Doubt hell believe me over them.
The next two days, I walked on eggshells. Smiled, cooked, played the dutiful wife. Meanwhile, I gathered evidencereceipts for furniture, appliances, the kitchen refit. Bank statements showing my contributions. Our prenup, stating joint assets.
On Monday, Sophie announced she was staying the week.
Sudden holiday time, she told Oliver sweetly. You wont turf your own sister out, will you?
Stay as long as you like! he laughed.
I gritted my teeth.
That evening, I caught her whispering again:
Mum, its all sorted Yes, Ill stay No, hes clueless Papers are drawn up Olliell sign, hes putty
My blood boiled. *Not if I can help it.*
Next day, I took leave, visited the notary, then the Land Registry. By evening, I had a fat folder and a plan.
Darling, why not invite your parents this weekend? I asked casually over supper. Been ages since we all met.
Sophies head jerked up, eyes narrow.
Smashing idea! Oliver beamed. Soph, Mumll be chuffed youre here too.
*Thrilled*, Sophie muttered.
Saturday, I cooked like my life depended on it. Roast beef, Yorkshire puds, treacle tartthe works. *Last supper*, I thought bitterly, chopping parsley.
By six, the table groaned. Olivers parents arrivedCharles and Margaret. His mum gave me her usual once-over.
Youre looking well, Emily dear, she said, faux-sweet.
Thanks, I smiled back.
Once seated, Oliver raised his wine.
To family!
To family, I echoed.
Sophie caught my eye and smirked. *Not for long.*
Actually, I said brightly, theres something I need to discuss.
Silence. Sophie went pale.
Emily? Oliver frowned.
I overheard Sophie and your mum plotting to have me removed from the deed. To kick me out.
*Ridiculous!* Margaret gasped. Oliver, your wifes hysterical!
Em, whats this about? He looked between us, baffled.
Word for word, I said calmly. Sophie said, That idiot doesnt know she can be removed, and that youd sign anything if asked right.
Sophie shot up. You were
