**Diary Entry**
*June 3rd*
“Are you serious?” Edward’s voice wavered, not from surprise but from sheer restraint. He sat at the edge of the sofa, staring at the untouched sushi takeaway between him and Charlotte. “You actually bought yourself a *Porsche*?”
“Not a Porsche—a Taycan. Electric. At least learn the name if you’re going to judge it,” Charlotte replied without looking up from her phone. Her Instagram feed showed colleagues at a conference in Zurich, all in blazers with flutes of champagne. Typical.
The flat smelled of wasabi, frustration, and recently scrubbed tiles—Charlotte had wiped down the bathroom on autopilot before Edward arrived, though she 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 think people will respect you more if you’re driving some… spaceship?”
“Yes. Exactly. And I won’t have to park in the middle of nowhere—just normal spots with charging points. Plus, no traffic jams. Adaptive cruise control. It’s not about showing off, Edward. It’s comfort, safety, and—*ta-da!*—my money.”
“Did you even hear what Dad said?” Edward’s tone was rehearsed, like he’d memorised the line all night.
“Unfortunately, my hearing’s fine,” Charlotte finally put her phone down. “He said it’s ‘unseemly’ for a woman to own that car because it ‘stirs up unhealthy excitement among men.’ 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 that remotely resembles support.”
Edward opened his mouth, then shut it. Like an old telly with sound but no picture.
“Why couldn’t we discuss this? We’re supposed to be a team. I could’ve—”
“What? Suggested a Ford Focus like your mum’s? Or talked me into some ancient estate car?”
He smirked, humourlessly. “Cheers for the trust.”
Charlotte sighed, looking at him like a wobbling stool with a cracked leg—technically functional, but risky to rely on.
“Edward, have you ever felt like you could do what you *want*? Without weighing everyone else’s opinions, expectations, moods?”
“I don’t earn what you do, if that’s what you mean.”
“Not about money. About freedom.”
He shrugged, as if the word itself made him itchy.
“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 *you* would.”
The silence thickened, denser than last night’s dodgy takeaway curry. Edward slumped back onto the sofa.
“They just think you should be more… feminine.”
“Ah. Preferably driverless, opinion-free, and eternally grateful for a wedding ring?” Charlotte laughed bitterly. “Sorry, love. I’m not a side dish to your Sunday roast. I’m my own person.”
He turned away—just as a knock echoed through the flat. Too firm for Deliveroo, too quiet for the neighbours.
“Mum,” Edward exhaled, standing. “She wanted to drop by. See how we’re settling in.”
“She *happened* to be nearby? Or does she have a tracker on my car now?” Charlotte arched a brow, smoothing her blouse.
“Just… go easy, yeah?”
“I *am* easy. Like shower gel. You’re the one who needs to stop being a sponge.”
The door opened. Margaret strode in with a Waitrose bag, surveying the room like an inspector.
“Hello, lovebirds. Brought you a nitrate-free salad—could do you both good.” Her gaze slid to Charlotte’s heels. “All dressed up? Special occasion?”
“I’m always like this. Can’t afford to look like a retiree playing housewife.”
“Who’s *that* meant for?” Margaret’s smile stiffened.
“Oh, just a general observation. But if the shoe fits…”
“Edward, are you letting her speak to me like this?” Margaret turned to her son, ignoring Charlotte like a malfunctioning printer.
“He’s not my keeper. Or my translator from English to Family,” Charlotte said, grabbing the sushi. “Tea? Or shall we skip to criticising my car?”
“You’re sharp, I’ll give you that,” Margaret’s smile turned icy. “John and I need a proper car—country roads, visiting the cottage. What’s your excuse? Vanity?”
“Revenge, mostly. On you.” Charlotte said it calmly, like a surgeon announcing complications.
Edward froze. Even he sensed the shift.
Charlotte set the sushi down.
“Sorry. I’m done pretending this is normal.”
“*What* isn’t?” Margaret frowned.
“All of it. You treating this like a shift at a clinic. Edward acting like a monument to his childhood. Being told how to live, dress, spend. I’m done.”
She kicked off her heels—armour discarded—and walked to the bedroom. Edward gaped. Margaret turned to him, fury simmering.
“She humiliates me, and you just *stand* there? This isn’t marriage!”
“Won’t be one much longer,” Charlotte called from the bedroom. Her voice was steel.
—
*June 5th*
The wardrobe crashed like a earthquake. Edward was digging for paperwork—*hers*, of course. The car’s.
“Seriously?” Charlotte’s voice was hoarse, last night’s fight still raw.
“Where’s the V5C?” He didn’t turn. Wearing those stretched-knee joggers he always mumbled in while fixing the router.
“Same place as your backbone. Buried under fear of Mummy and Dad.” She passed him, deliberately uninterested. “Won’t find it. It’s with my solicitor. Surprise—the car’s in *my* name only. No transfers. No permissions. No Daddy.”
“You can’t do this! We’re *family*!”
“And you can rummage through my things because Mummy’s whispers itch your ears?”
She watched realisation hit him. For a second—*just* a second—she pitied him.
“Dad said you’re acting like… like some *feminist*.”
“How *awful*,” Charlotte clutched her chest theatrically. “Did he need smelling salts?”
“They just want what’s best. Respect. A proper wife!”
“*Proper*? Apron and curtsies? Edward, I’ve got a job, flights, people relying on me. I’m not a *bride*—I run European logistics.”
“I don’t *care*! I want you *home*! Not jet-setting, buying *tanks*!”
“It’s not a tank. It’s a ship. *I’m* the captain. And you’re not crew.” She eyed her silver Taycan gleaming below, outshining the neighbours’ hatchbacks.
He stepped closer. Eyes dark, mouth tight—suddenly a stranger.
“You think you’re *better*? You look down on my parents, on *me*! *You* married into *our* family!”
“And your ‘family’ is a checklist of demands. I’m not ‘Charlotte’ anymore—just ‘the wife,’ ‘the one with the car.'”
He grabbed her wrist. Hard. Not a lover—a man backed into a corner.
“Edward. Let go.” Cold. Final.
“We’re going to my parents. Today. Talking this out. *Properly.*”
“First, you let go. Then you leave. Then *maybe* I’ll text you. Or not.”
He recoiled like she’d burned him.
“You’re *ruining* us!”
“*Us*?” She scoffed. “Two years, Edward. One good, one with your mother’s commentary. You think I don’t hear her coaching you? ‘How to handle a difficult woman’?”
“Who do you even *think* you are?”
“Someone who chooses her own life. And you?”
He left without another word. The door slammed like a gunshot.
*June 8th*
A text from Margaret:
*”Knew you weren’t right for him. Too proud. Women like you end alone—just you and a car that won’t keep you warm at night.”*
Charlotte didn’t reply. But in her head:
*”Cars don’t judge my femininity at the car park.”*
*June 11th*
John and Margaret appeared with a stepladder and tape measure. Officially: “Checking the flat’s condition.” Unofficially: Scouting the enemy territory.
Charlotte blocked the doorway. John feigned calm:
“Edward’s name’s on the lease too.”
“For now. Court’ll fix that. You wanted papers? You’ll get them. Signed. Sealed. Legal.”
“Who’d**Diary Entry**
*August 15th*
Three months later, the divorce papers were final, the Taycan was traded in for a crimson Aston Martin, and Charlotte drove past Edward’s parents’ house just once—windows down, engine roaring, knowing she’d left them all in the dust where they belonged.
