You still here? Get out of my flat—I’m your husband’s new wife now! The blonde in the doorway glared at me.
The key turned in the lock with an unfamiliar, stiff scrape.
I pushed the door open, expecting the familiar scent of home—my perfume mixed with the faint polish of the wooden floors.
Instead, a sickly-sweet, foreign fragrance hit me.
I froze in the doorway, not turning on the light. Something was wrong.
On the coat rack beside my husband’s jacket hung a bright red cardigan I’d never seen before.
My slippers, always left by the door, had been tossed into a corner. In their place sat a pair of elegant stilettos.
My heart lurched. I’d come back from my business trip a day early to surprise him. Instead, the surprise was waiting for me.
Quietly, I moved into the living room. A vase of fresh lilies sat on the coffee table—I hated lilies. They made me sneeze.
Oliver *knew* that.
Beside the vase, a glossy book lay open. Not mine.
I pulled out my phone. Fingers trembling, I dialed my husband’s number. The endless ringing chipped away at my composure. No answer.
The kitchen showed signs of recent cooking. Two mugs from our wedding china sat in the sink. One had a smear of bright pink lipstick.
A dull hum filled my head, like a swarm of angry bees. This couldn’t be real.
Maybe it was a sick joke. Maybe his cousin from Manchester had dropped by unannounced? But why wouldn’t he warn me?
I called again. Still nothing.
Then—the sound of a key in the lock. I stepped back into the shadows, pressing myself against the wall.
The door swung open. A young blonde walked in, effortlessly slipping off her shoes as if she’d done it a thousand times. She set down grocery bags, turned to flick on the light—and saw me.
No fear crossed her face. Just mild surprise, then cold irritation. She looked me up and down like I was a misplaced object.
“You still here?” she said, as if I were some forgotten relic a maid had failed to tidy away.
I couldn’t speak. Just stared, breath trapped in my throat.
She scoffed, crossing her arms. “I won’t ask twice. Pack your things and get out of *my* flat.”
The shock gave way to ice-cold fury. I stepped forward.
“*Your* flat? Are you mad? This is *mine*—mine and my husband’s.”
She laughed—sharp, mocking. “*Ex*-husband,” she corrected. “And the flat’s ours now. We live here. Honestly, you’re a bit slow, aren’t you?”
She strode past me, grabbed the throw blanket I’d brought back from Paris last year, and tossed it aside like rubbish.
“Oliver said to keep it civil. He *hates* scenes. So be smart—take what you need and leave.”
My mind refused to process it. This felt like some absurd play.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, though my voice wavered. “I’ll call the police.”
“Go ahead,” she shrugged. “What’ll you say? That your ex-husband’s asking you to move out? They’ll laugh in your face. All the paperwork’s in order.”
She walked to the sideboard where our photos stood, picked one up—us laughing on holiday in Spain.
“Cute,” she said, fake smile in place. “But rubbish. Soon, there’ll be new, *better* photos here.”
She hurled the frame into the bin. Glass shattered.
That was the last straw. I lunged at her.
She pushed me back easily—stronger than she looked.
“I said *no* dramatics,” she hissed. “Oliver’s done *with* you. He met me and finally understood what real love is—not some dull habit.”
Her words were poison. She wasn’t delusional. She *believed* this.
I grabbed my phone again. Not the police. *Oliver.* I needed to hear it from him.
Just as I hit call, the front door opened.
Oliver stood there, glancing between us. His expression? Bored.
“Darling, what’s going on?” he asked *her.* Not even a look at me. Like I didn’t exist.
“Oliver,” I said, voice steady. “Explain this.”
He sighed like I was a minor inconvenience.
“Anna, I thought Kirsten already told you. We’re divorced. A month now. She’s my wife.”
The words didn’t hurt. They were just facts.
“Divorced? Without my signature? Without me even *knowing*?”
“Technicalities,” he waved off. “The papers aren’t final. But the flat’s mine—well, *ours*—per the prenup.”
Kirsten smirked, hand on his shoulder.
“So *go*, Anna. Don’t make a fuss.”
I smiled. Wide. Their smirks faltered.
“Know your problem?” I said calmly. “You think you’re clever. And everyone else is stupid.”
I walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a thick blue folder.
“You’re right, Oliver. There *is* a prenup. But you were too busy with ‘true love’ to *read* it.”
I flipped it open.
“This flat—*my* flat—was bought with money I inherited from my nan. Right here,” I tapped the papers. “Proof.
Clause seven, sub-section B: Inherited or gifted assets remain separate. *No* exceptions.”
Oliver paled.
I turned to Kirsten.
“You said, ‘Get out of *my* flat, I’m your husband’s new wife’? Sweet.
But your *husband* is broke. And the flat? *Mine.* Always has been. So both of you—*out.* And take your lilies.”
Silence.
Oliver stared at the papers. Kirsten’s eyes flicked between us—then she *snapped.*
“You *lied* to me?!” she shrieked at him. “You said the flat was *yours*!”
“Kirsten, love, just—”
“Don’t *touch* me!” She shoved him. “You’re *broke*?! I threw my life away for a *fraud*?!”
Their ‘love’ unraveled in seconds. Pathetic.
I stood by the door, watching. Not a participant anymore—just a witness.
Oliver mumbled excuses, but Kirsten was already grabbing her bag, slamming the door behind her.
Now it was just us.
He looked at me. No remorse. Just cold rage.
“You planned this,” he muttered.
“I protected what’s mine,” I said. “*You* destroyed everything. On your own.”
He snatched his coat, balled up the red cardigan, and threw it down. Grabbed the lilies, dumped them outside.
“I’ll be back,” he spat.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “Locksmith’s coming in an hour.”
He left. I locked the door. Twice.
Walked through the flat. Picked up the cardigan, tossed it in the bin—right on top of the shattered frame.
Collected their mugs, their groceries, dumped them outside.
Opened every window. Let the evening air wash away their cloying stench.
A month later, the flat was different. Walls painted terracotta. A new sofa, a rug with a playful pattern.
Where the lilies had been, a sprawling fiddle-leaf fig sat in a clay pot.
Oliver never came back.
My solicitor said his finances were a mess. Kirsten, last I heard, already had a new ‘promising’ bloke.
Sometimes I think about that day. Not with pain—just quiet detachment.
I realized: I’d been living with a stranger. And the scariest part? I hadn’t even seen it.
What do you think? Would love to hear your take.
