“Blimey, who’re you?” came a deep voice from the bedroom as Rebecca opened the door to her flat.
“That’s my line,” she shot back. “What on earth are you doing in my bedroom?”
A blonde woman in a silk dressing gown sauntered into view, smirking.
“Ahhh, so you’re Rebecca! Ollie’s told me loads about you,” she drawled. “I’m Charlotte—your fiancé’s sister.”
After a gruelling day at work, all Rebecca had wanted was a hot bath. Instead, she’d come home to *this*.
“Oliver is my fiancé, not my husband,” Rebecca corrected. “And I don’t recall agreeing to hosting you.”
A sheepish-looking man peered over Charlotte’s shoulder.
“We’re here on holiday,” she cut in before he could speak. “Ollie said we could stay for a week.”
Rebecca marched into the kitchen, only to find chaos—dirty plates, empty takeaway containers.
“Funny, he didn’t mention guests this morning.”
“God, you’re so uptight!” Charlotte laughed, pulling wine from the fridge. “Ollie gave me keys ages ago. Thought you knew. If not, well, no harm done.”
“No, we *didn’t* discuss it. And why are you in *our* bedroom, not the guest room?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Guest room’s tiny. Yours has a king-sized bed. Ollie said you wouldn’t mind bunking on the sofa bed for a couple of nights.”
Rebecca remembered the first time she’d met Oliver’s family—his mother and sister had barely concealed their disdain.
“Sorry to disappoint, but this is *my* flat, *my* bedroom, and *my* bed,” she said firmly. “Oliver lives here *because I allow it*.”
“Ah, so the rumours are true,” Charlotte snorted. “Mum said you’ve got Ollie on a tight leash.”
“Listen, I’m exhausted. You can stay in the guest room—one night. But our bedroom is off-limits.”
“We’ll see what Ollie says,” Charlotte sniffed. “I’m sure he’ll explain how rude you’re being.”
When Oliver finally came home, his sister launched into theatrics.
“Ollie! Your fiancée’s trying to *evict* us from your room!”
“Becky, what’s going on?” he asked, bewildered.
“Why did you give your sister keys to *my* flat?”
“*Our* flat, Rebecca. I live here too, remember?”
“I remember. By *my* invitation. That doesn’t mean you get to hand out keys without asking.”
Out on the balcony, Oliver turned defensive.
“What’s got into you? She’s my sister. I *told* you ages ago they might visit.”
“So that means they get first dibs on our bed?”
“What’s the big deal? It’s only for a couple of nights.”
“The *deal* is you gave my keys away without telling me.”
“Tom’s not a stranger! He’s Charlotte’s bloke.”
“I’ve *never met him*! And I barely know your sister.”
“So you’ve just decided to hate my family?”
From inside, Charlotte’s whinging carried through. “She’s trying to kick us out! Ollie’s setting her straight.”
“Becky, be reasonable,” Oliver pleaded. “It’s just a week. If we’re getting married, you’ll have to compromise.”
With that, he walked off—straight to Charlotte, laughing like nothing was wrong.
Rebecca stepped inside. The trio on the sofa didn’t even glance her way.
Something inside her snapped. Two years of love, sacrifices—all flashing before her eyes.
“Get out.” Her voice was calm, icy.
Three heads swivelled.
“*What?*” Oliver gaped.
“Get. Out. Of. My. Flat. All of you.”
Charlotte snorted. “Oi, Ollie, control your nutter girlfriend.”
But Rebecca was already in the bedroom. She yanked open Charlotte’s suitcase, dragging it to the door, flinging clothes, makeup, shoes onto the landing.
“Are you *mad*?!” Charlotte shrieked.
Oliver grabbed her arm. “Stop this *now*!”
“No, *you* stop,” Rebecca said, shaking him off. “Letting your sister trample over me in *my* home? You’re delusional.”
Oliver switched to pleading. “Becky, let’s talk—”
“We’re done.”
She stormed back to the bedroom, tossing his shirts, trousers, watch—all onto the pile outside.
“You psycho!” Charlotte scrambled for her things.
Oliver, pale, finally spoke. “You can’t just *throw me out*. We’re supposed to get *married*.”
“Thank God we didn’t. I deserve a *man*, not a doormat. Go live with your sister.”
She slammed the door.
Half an hour later, the shouting died down. Rebecca ordered her favourite Thai takeaway. When the delivery bloke arrived, Oliver and Charlotte were still loitering on the stairs, glowering.
She took the food, thanked the driver, and shut the door—without so much as a glance.
As she poured wine and tucked into her pad thai, Rebecca realised: she wasn’t heartbroken. She was *free*.
How odd—to lose a relationship and find yourself in the same day.
Smiling at her reflection, she raised her glass.
“To me.”
*”In love, respect is everything. Without it, even the fiercest passion is just a passing fancy.”* —Honoré de Balzac.
