“Are you serious?” Edward’s voice trembled, though not from surprise—rather from the effort of holding back words he’d regret later. He perched on the edge of the sofa, staring blankly at the untouched takeaway sushi he and Charlotte had ordered. “You actually bought a *Porsche*?”
“Not a Porsche. A Taycan. Electric. At least get the name right if you’re going to lecture me about it,” Charlotte replied, not bothering to look up from her phone. Her Instagram feed showed a colleague at a conference in Zurich—suits, champagne, the usual.
The flat smelled of wasabi, frustration, and the sharp tang of bleach—Charlotte had scrubbed the bathroom tiles on autopilot before Edward arrived, though she already knew it wouldn’t help.
“I just don’t get why you’d need a car like that,” Edward snapped, pacing the kitchen. “You’re not a racer. Not a millionaire. Do you really think people will respect you more if you’re driving some… spaceship?”
“Yes. Exactly. And I won’t have to park halfway to bloody Edinburgh—there’s charging bays everywhere. Plus, no more sitting in traffic. Adaptive cruise control, Edward. This isn’t about showing off. It’s about comfort, safety, and—ta-da!—*my* money.”
“And what about what Dad said?” Edward pressed, like he’d rehearsed the line all night.
“Sadly, my hearing still works,” Charlotte finally put her phone down. “He said women shouldn’t own cars like that because it ‘stirs up unhealthy excitement in male company.’ Direct quote, by the way.”
“He’s just worried. He’s old-school.”
“He’s fossilised, Edward. And you’re heading the same way if you don’t say something vaguely supportive right now.”
Edward opened his mouth, then closed it like a broken telly—sound, no picture.
“Why couldn’t you discuss it with me? We’re supposed to be a team. I could’ve—”
“What? Suggested I get a Toyota Prius like your mum? Or better yet, talked me into buying your granddad’s old estate?”
He smirked, but there was no joy in it.
“Cheers for the trust.”
Charlotte sighed, looking at him the way one eyes a wobbly chair—technically still standing, but you wouldn’t risk sitting on it.
“Edward, have you ever felt like you could just… do what you want? Without worrying about opinions, expectations, tantrums?”
“Not all of us are on your salary,” he muttered.
“Not about money. About freedom. Inside.”
He shrugged, as if the words gave him hives.
“You knew my parents weren’t like that. You knew what you were signing up for.”
“I hoped they’d at least start respecting me. Or that *you* would.”
The silence thickened, denser than yesterday’s dodgy kebab from the place near the Tube. Edward sat back down, shoulders slumped.
“They just think you should be more… ladylike.”
“Ah, right. Preferably without a licence, opinions, or gratitude for the engagement ring?” Charlotte scoffed. “Sorry, love, I’m not a side dish to your roast. I’m a person.”
He turned away. And then, as if scripted by a bad playwright, someone knocked—too firm for Deliveroo, too timid for the neighbour.
“It’s Mum,” Edward exhaled, standing. “She wanted to drop by, see how we’re getting on.”
“She just *happened* to be nearby? Or does she have a tracker on my car now?” Charlotte arched a brow, straightening her blouse.
“Just… go easy, yeah?”
“I’m already softer than shower gel. *You* need to stop being a sponge.”
The door opened. Margaret strode in with a Waitrose bag, looking less like a guest and more like an inspector.
“Hello, lovebirds. Brought a healthy salad—no nitrates. You could use it.” Her gaze slid to Charlotte’s heels. “All dressed up? Off to a ball?”
“I’m always like this. Can’t afford to look like a pensioner on maternity leave,” Charlotte said smoothly.
“Who’s that meant for?” Margaret’s brow furrowed.
“Abstract concept. But if it fits…”
“Eddie, are you letting her speak to me like this?” Margaret turned to her son, ignoring Charlotte like an unplugged printer.
“He’s not my supervisor. Or my translator from English to Family,” Charlotte said, sweeping past to grab the sushi. “Tea? Or shall we skip to discussing my *unseemly* car?”
“You know exactly what’s wrong,” Margaret smiled. “Your father and I need a car like that—visiting the countryside, the cottages. What’s it for you? A status symbol?”
“Yep. And revenge. On you.” Charlotte said it softly, like a surgeon announcing sepsis.
A pause. Even Edward seemed to sense the shift. Charlotte put the sushi back.
“Sorry. I’m done pretending this is normal.”
“What’s *this*?” Margaret blinked.
“Everything. You turning up like a probation officer. Edward stuck in his childhood. People dictating how I live, look, spend. I’m out.”
She kicked off her heels—armour discarded—and walked to the bedroom. Edward stood frozen. Margaret turned to him, fury brewing.
“She humiliates me in front of you, and you just stand there! This isn’t how life works!”
“It won’t be,” Charlotte called from the bedroom. Calm. Steel beneath.
—
Charlotte woke to a noise like an earthquake—or at least a lift collapse. The wardrobe rattled, shaking the old building’s pipes. Edward was rummaging inside. Not for his things, naturally. Hers. The car papers.
“Are you *serious*?” Her voice was hoarse, yesterday’s row still lodged in her throat.
“Where’s the V5C?” Edward didn’t turn. He wore those ratty joggers he usually reserved for router resets and half-arsed cooking.
“Where’s your spine? Buried under layers of parental guilt?” She walked past him, deliberately uninterested in his search. “Won’t find it. Left it with my solicitor. Surprise—the car’s in *my* name. No transfers. No permissions. No Daddy.”
“You can’t do this! We’re *family*!”
“And you can root through my things because your masculinity’s in crisis and Mummy’s whispering in your ear?”
He straightened, stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time. For a second, she almost pitied him.
“Dad said you’re acting like some… feminist nightmare.”
“How ghastly!” Charlotte clutched her chest melodramatically. “Did he faint? Or just need smelling salts?”
“They’re worried. They want what’s best for us. For you to be a proper wife!”
“Proper? Like what? Apron and slippers? Serve tea on command? Edward, I’ve got a job, clients, responsibilities. I’m not here to decorate your life—I *run* logistics for half of Europe.”
“I don’t care! I want you *here*! Not jetting off, buying bloody tanks!”
“Not a tank. A ship. And I’m the captain. You? No boarding pass.” She nodded to the window, where her silver Taycan gleamed, outshining the neighbour’s Fiestas.
He stepped closer. Jaw set, eyes dark.
“You think you’re better than us? Than *me*? *You* married into *our* family!”
“And your ‘family’ is a never-ending guilt trip. I’m not a person here—I’m ‘the wife,’ ‘the one with the car.’”
He grabbed her wrist. Hard. Not love—desperation.
“Edward. Let go.” Cold. A dispatcher calling emergency services.
“We’re going to my parents. Tonight. Talking this out. *Properly*.”
“First, you let go. Then, you leave. Then *maybe* I’ll text you. Or not.”
He released her like she’d burned him.
“You’re throwing it all away!”
“*We* had two years, Edward. One good, one with your mother supervising. You think I don’t hear your little corridor conferences? Her ‘how to handle a difficult woman’ lectures?”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Someone who chooses how to live. And you?”
He left without another word. The slam echoed.
—
Three days later, Margaret and Robert appeared in the hallway—stepladder, tape measure, clipboard. Officially: “checking on the flat.” Unofficially: reclaiming territory from their disobedient daughter-in-law.
Charlotte barred the door. Robert feigned calm.
“Edward’s name’s on the lease too.”
“For now. Court’ll fix that. You wanted paperwork? You’ll getShe handed them the divorce papers with a smile, knowing the only keys they’d ever hold were to their own outdated expectations.
