I’m moving out. I’ll leave the keys to your flat under the doormat,” he texted.

“I’m moving out. I’ll leave your flat keys under the mat,” my husband texted.

“Not this again, Emma! How many times? We’re counting every penny, and you demand yet another coat! What’s wrong with the old onefallen apart, has it?”

“It hasnt fallen apartits just old! Seven years old, James. Seven! I look like a scarecrow in it. Everyone at work has refreshed their wardrobe three times over, and Im stuck looking like Im from another century. Dont I deserve one bloody coat?”

“Course you do, darling, course you do!” James threw his hands up, face twisting into that familiar scowl. “Just not right now, yeah? You know Ive got that project hanging by a threadevery quids tied up. Once the deals done, Ill buy you a mink coat if you like. Till then, hold tight.”

“Ive been holding tight for twenty years, James. My whole life with you. First, waiting for you to finish uni. Then saving for your first car. Then this flatwell, the renovations, since my parents left it to me. Always something more important than me.”

Emma surprised herself. Usually, she swallowed her hurt, made tea to calm down. But tonight, something snapped. She studied her husbandonce beloved, now a stranger with that permanent frown and dull eyes.

“Here we go,” he muttered, snatching his jacket. “Request hour. Cant deal with thisIve got a meeting.”

“At nine in the evening?” she asked softly, though she knew. These “meetings” had grown frequent these past six months.

“Debrief, Emma, debrief! Not all of us clock out at five like you library mice. Some of us work so the likes of you can dream of coats.”

The door slammed, rattling the old china cabinet. Emma stood frozen in the hall. The silence after his exit was deafening, thick as custard. Mechanically, she put the kettle on. Her hands tremblednot from anger, but from the hollow ache inside. She knew he wasnt at a meeting. Knew about the younger woman from his office. Shed ignored the signs, but they buzzed in her head like flies.

Her phone vibrated. Probably his usual apology: “Sorry, lost my temper. Well talk later.” She pulled it out. His name, but different words:

**”Im moving out. Keys under the mat.”**

Eight words. Short, sharp, like axe blows. She reread them, letters swimming. A joke? He couldnt. Not after twenty years. Not by text.

She rushed to the wardrobe. His side was near-emptybest suits, shirts, jumpers gone. A lone tie forgotten on the shelf. His watch, charger missing. Hed packed in advance. The coat argument? Just an excuse.

Her legs buckled. She stared at the gap in the wardrobe, breath short. Twenty yearsher entire adult life. Theyd met at uni, married right after. Lived in this flat her parents left. Painted walls, picked furniture, dreamed of kids that never came. Shed worked at the local library; hed built his little business. Life wasnt perfect, but it was theirs. Now hed erased it with a text.

She called Sophie, her only close friend.

“Soph… hes gone,” Emma whispered, voice cracking.

“Whos gone? Where?” Sophie mumbled, half-asleep. “Em, whats happened?”

“James. Left. For good. Texted hes moving out.”

Silence. Then:

“That absolute wanker! Told you his late meetings were dodgy! Rightno panic. Hell slink back. Wheres he gonna go?”

“No, Soph. He took his things.”

“All of them?”

“Nearly. Said hed leave the keys under the mat.”

“Oh, hes” Sophie fumed. “Stay put. Im coming. Get wine. Or vodka. Were fixing your heart.”

Sophie arrived in forty minutes with crisps, cheese, and brandy. She marched to the kitchen, slamming snacks onto the table.

“Right. Spill. What blew up?”

Emma, steadier now, explained the coat, his constant irritation, the chill between them lately.

“Figures,” Sophie snorted, pouring brandy. “Midlife crisis twat found some floozy and decided youre cramping his new glam life. Standard.”

They drank. The brandy burned, warmth spreading.

“What do I do, Soph? How do I”

“Live, Em. First, change the locks. Tomorrow. Second, divorce him and take half. Hes got that window-fitting business, yeah?”

“Had… has. But its all in his name. The car too.”

“Perfect. Halfs yours by law. Let his new bird enjoy him showing up with one suitcase.”

They talked till dawn. Sophie ranted revenge; Emma stared blankly. She didnt want vengeance. She wanted yesterday morning, when theyd shared coffee and everything was normal.

At sunrise, Sophie left for work. Emma wandered the silent flat. Every creak echoed his steps. His dressing gown hung on the kitchen chair. She buried her face in itstill his smelland sobbed.

The first days blurred. She called in sick, lying about flu. She lay on the sofa, barely eating or sleeping. Her phone stayed dead. James didnt call. As if hed never existed.

On day three, she forced herself to call a locksmith. The man clucked at the old lock, handed her new keys thirty minutes later. Safe now. Her fortress.

Next, she cleared his leftovers: old T-shirts, socks, a toolbox on the balcony. In the loft, a dusty box labelled “James Docs”. She dragged it down. Hed stuffed it up there years ago, muttering about old contracts.

Curiosity won. She opened it. Top layer: dull paperwork. Underneath… her flats deeds. Inheritance papers, receipts. Why here? Then she found ita loan agreement. Three years old. James had borrowed a massive sum. Collateral? Her flat.

Her blood iced. Hed mortgaged her home without consent. She was the sole owner! She kept reading. Attached: her passport copy and… a power of attorney. Full control over her property. Her signature. But shed never signed this.

She racked her brain. Three years back, hed expanded his business. One night, hed dumped paperwork on her”Tax stuff, sign quick.” Shed trusted him, scribbled without reading. The POA mustve been buried there.

Her pulse pounded. Three years, her home unknowingly held hostage. And James? Silent.

She called him. No answer. Texted: **”Found the loan papers. You mortgaged MY flat?!”**

He replied thirty minutes later, cold as his first text:

**”Not your business. My problem. Ill handle it.”**

**”NOT my business?! Its MY HOME, James! You had NO RIGHT!”**

**”Had the POA. Stay out of it.”**

Hopeless. She rang Sophie.

“Soph, its worse…” She choked out the discovery.

“WHAT?!” Sophie roared. “Thats not just vileits criminal! Right. No tears. You need a solicitor. My bosss husband knows one. Robert Clayton. Helped with a messy case. Ill get his number.”

An hour later, Sophie sent it. Emma hesitated. Humiliated, terrified. A fool duped by her own husband. But fear of homelessness outweighed pride.

Robert Clayton wasnt the grey-haired elder shed pictured but a fortysomething with calm grey eyes. His cosy central London office felt safe.

“Emma. Tell me whats happened.”

She spilled it all, showing photocopied documents. Robert listened, jotting notes.

“Tricky,” he said finally. “The POAs valid. Sos the loan. He borrowed against your flat. Repayments due in two months. If he defaults, the lender can seize it.”

“Theyd… evict me?”

“Sadly, yes. But its not hopeless. We can argue undue influenceyou were misled. Its called an unconscionable bargain. Long process, but winnable.”

“Any other way?”

“Yes. He repays. Have you spoken?”

“Told me to butt out.”

Robert frowned. “Right. Ill send a formal demandmight wake him up. Simultaneously, well prep court papers to challenge the POA and loan. Times tight.”

Leaving his office, Emma breathed easier. For the first time in weeks, there was a plan.

Days later, Robert called.

“Emma. I contacted James. He blew upsaid its none of my concern, hell repay on time. But he sounded… shaky. Bluffing, Id say. Hes broke.”

“Now what?”

“We wait, prep