Tears blurred my reflection, but I refused to break—this is my flat, and no one can force me out.

I blinked away the tears as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. No, I wouldnt fall apart. Not now. This was *my* flat, and no one was going to turf me out.

Whod have thought six years of marriage to Simon would end like this? We were the golden coupleor so all our friends said. A cosy flat in Kensington, a gift from my parents for my twenty-fifth, holidays in the Cotswolds, lazy evenings bingeing telly

I remembered Dads words before the wedding:

“Emily love, well put the flat in your name only. Not that I dont trust Simon, but you never know.”

Id brushed it off. I was sure our love would last forever.

“Emily Grace, are you hiding in there?” came an impatient voice through the door.
I gave my reflection one last glance, smoothed my hair, and straightened my shoulders. No way was I letting Simons new *friend* see me rattled.

“Coming,” I said, swinging the door open.

In the hall stood a statuesque blonde in her thirties. Designer suit, heels worth a months rent, makeup flawless. No wonder Simon had fallen for hershe was everything I wasnt: polished and corporate.

“Amelia Carter,” she said briskly. “Simons solicitor. Were here to discuss your eviction.”

“*My* eviction?” I nearly laughed. “From *my* flat?”

Amelia tilted her head. “Simon claims this is jointly owned property.”

Now I *did* laugh. “Did he forget to mention my parents bought it before we married? That its in my name only?”

A flicker of doubt crossed her perfectly contoured face.

I remembered how it startedSimon coming home late, barely speaking. Blamed it on a big deal at work. Id given him space, thinking it was temporary.

“Ive got all the paperwork,” I said calmly. “Fancy a look?”

“No need,” Amelia pulled out her phone. “Ill call Simon.”

As she stepped away, I perched on the sofa arm. The last few weeks played in my head like a rubbish telly drama.

That night Simon came home oddly sober. “We need to talk,” hed said, just as I pulled his favourite roast from the oven.

“Best we call it a day,” hed muttered, staring past me. “Im filing for divorce.”

I hadnt made a scene. Mum raised me to keep my dignity. Id quietly gathered the papers and filed first, beating him by two days.

Amelia hung up and turned. Her confidence had vanished.

“Theres been a misunderstanding,” she said stiffly. “Simon didnt quite explain the ownership situation.”

“You mean he lied?” I stood. “Classic Simon. Always been good at rewriting history.”

Amelia shifted her designer heels. “Apologies for the inconvenience.”

“Dont blame yourself,” I opened the front door. “You were just doing your job. Though” I hesitated. “A word of advice?”

She frowned.

“Watch Simon. Today its evicting his wife. Tomorrow”

I didnt finish, but her eyes widened. When the door closed, I slid down the wall, knees wobbling.

My phone rang. *Simon*.

“What was that little stunt?” he snapped. “Did you have to humiliate Amelia?”

“*Im* humiliated? Sending your *solicitor* to chuck me outthats not humiliation?”

“Amelias not myshes my *lawyer*!”

“Who just happened to end up in your bed?” I couldnt resist.

Silence.

“You know Ill get half in the divorce,” he finally said.

“Half of *what*? The flats mine. You sold the BMW last year. Whats left?”

“Our joint account”

“which has only *my* money,” I cut in. “Or forgot youve lived off my salary while building your business these past two years?”

More silence. I could practically hear him scrambling.

“You know,” I said slowly, “I always wondered how you fool people so easily. Now I seeyou believe your own lies. You actually think you deserve this flat?”

“Em, lets not”

“Exactly. Lets not.” I hung up.

A week passed. I threw myself into work, but my mind kept wandering. On Friday, I took a stroll in Hyde Parktime to start living again.

Autumn leaves crunched underfoot. Head down, I nearly walked right into themSimon and Amelia, hand-in-hand, laughing.

“Not your solicitor then?” I muttered, throat tight.

They didnt see me. I ducked down a side path, legs carrying me home on autopilot. Suddenly, all the late nights, “business trips,” the rush to divorceit clicked.

At home, I cracked open the wine my colleagues gave for my birthday. The doorbell rang.

Amelia stood thereno power suit now, just joggers and a messy bun.

“Can we talk?” she asked softly.

I stepped aside.

“Emily, I need to explain,” she began. “The eviction thing I didnt know.”

“You took Simons word for it?” I sat opposite her.

“Hes persuasive,” she looked down. “We met at a work do six months back. Said his marriage was dead, that you didnt get him”

“Original,” I said drily.

“I mixed personal with professional.” She shook her head. “Im sorry.”

“For what? Shagging a married man or trying to evict his wife?”

She flinched. “For all of it. Ive ended it.”

“Really?” I raised a brow. “Saw you in the park today.”

“You saw?” She paled. “He called, said he wanted me as his solicitor. Then started on about mistakes and second chances”

I snorted. “And you bought that?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Thats why Im here. Hell come to you next. Same speech.”

Like clockwork, he knocked that evening.

“Em, we need to talk,” Simon stood there with my favourite lilies.

“About?” I crossed my arms.

“I messed up. Amelia meant nothing,” he stepped closer. “We can fix this.”

“Fix what?” I studied the man Id loved, now a stranger. “What exactly do you want to fix?”

“Us. Our home.”

“And Amelia?” I watched him stiffen.

“A mistake. A moment of weakness.”

“Six months of weakness?”

“Been stalking me?” His voice turned sharp.

“No, just happened to overhear her telling a mate how she played you to get my flat. Hilarious, reallyyou thought you were using *her*.”

“Youre lying!” He stepped forward. “Amelia *loves* me!”

“Predictable,” I sighed. “Always believing what suits you.”

Next day, I met my solicitor, Margaret. We went through every documentthe flat was unquestionably mine.

“Legally airtight,” Margaret confirmed. “But lets dot every i.”

The divorce sailed through. Simon didnt showsent some junior solicitor droning through boilerplate legalese.

Outside court, I breathed deeply. For the first time in ages, I felt *light*. I rang Mum:

“Its done.”

“How are you, darling?”

“Oddly brilliant,” I smiled. “Signed up for interior design courses. Always wanted to.”

“Work?”

“Took leave. Doing up the flatout with the old.”

And I did. New paint, furniture, curtains. Each change erased more of the past.

Life settled. Reconnected with mates whod drifted away. Turns out theyd seen Simons antics but hadnt wanted to meddle.

“Youre different,” my best mate Sophie said over tea. “More *yourself*.”

“Just worked something out,” I stirred my cup. “Thought trust should be given freely. Now I knowits earned.”

“And you protect whats yours,” Sophie added.

“Exactly,” I set my cup down.

Six months on, my design Instagram gained followers. Coming home one evening, I bumped into Amelia leaving a nearby building.

“Emily!” she called. “Got a sec?”

She looked differentsofter, no power suit.

“Wanted to thank you,” she said. “What you said made me rethink things. I *was* using that situation. You showed me how it looked.”

“Glad to help,” I meant it.

Home again, I watched London glow at dusk. This flat had been just a gift once. Now it was *me*strong, independent.

On the windowsill, the cactus Id bought post-divorce bloomed. A little prickly thing, like me, learning to guard its space. I smiled. The future didnt scare me nowit glittered with possibility. And I *knew*: my happiness