Rupert Ashworth stood in the middle of the spacious, softly lit living room and looked down at his wife. He felt as if he had just won the lottery. At fifty, he believed he was at the peak of his form, and the huge changes coming in his personal life only sharpened that victorious confidence.
“Let’s not have a drama, Imogen,” he said in a smooth, faintly patronising voice, buttoning his jacket. “We’re adults. I’ve met someone else. Maybe you suspected, I don’t know. Anyway, she’s thirty, and what we have is real. I don’t want to play a double game, so I’ll be straight with you: we’re getting divorced, and as of today, we don’t live together.”
Imogen Hartley, forty-five, sat in a leather armchair. Striking and self-possessed, she did not wring her hands, rush for valerian drops, or try to force an emotional conversation.
She simply took a sip of coffee from a porcelain cup and waited for him to continue. Her calm threw Rupert off balance, but he recovered quickly.
“The flat, as you remember, is mine. It was mine before the marriage.” He stressed the last word as if hammering a nail into wood. “I’m not a monster. I’m not going to put you out on the street tonight. I’m giving you two days to pack. The weekend is yours. I’ll be away with Poppy in the country, so I won’t get in your way. On Monday morning, we’re coming back here. She doesn’t need your tears, your hysterics, or anyone else’s bad energy in the house. I trust you’ll have the place cleared by then?”
“By Monday?” Imogen repeated in a level voice. “Fine. Two days is all I need.”
Rupert nodded with satisfaction. He liked that the divorce was going so civilly. He had always thought of himself as a generous man.
His generosity, however, always stopped where his personal finances began. Throughout fifteen years of marriage, he never missed a chance to remind Imogen that she had moved onto “his territory.”
Only that “territory,” fifteen years earlier, had been a grim concrete shell of a three-room flat with almost no furniture and not even a hint of comfort. In those days, Rupert proudly announced that square footage was what mattered, and a mattress on the floor was good enough to sleep on. He was pathologically tight-fisted when it came to the home. Every spare penny he had went into expensive cars, which he wisely registered in the name of his mother, Agatha Ashworth.
Imogen, a woman with a good income and excellent taste, had no intention of living in Spartan conditions. She needed comfort. Within the first few months of marriage, she furnished the entire flat from top to bottom using her own savings.
She was the one who ordered the furniture for every room and the classic Italian kitchen that would never date. She chose the high-end integrated appliances, paid for the expensive parquet flooring, bought the chandeliers, and had heavy curtains made to measure so they matched the interior perfectly.
Then Imogen found a hobby: antiques. Throughout the marriage, she quietly acquired elegant pieces. Rupert only smirked and said, “Your money, your dust-catchers. Knock yourself out. I wouldn’t have those museum pieces if you paid me.”
Still, he asked his mother to come over for the weekend while Imogen packed.
“Mum, we’re getting divorced. It’s all going to be civil. But just in case, keep an eye on Imogen. Make sure she doesn’t help herself to anything extra from my house.”
“Of course, Rupes. I’m always on your side,” Agatha assured him.
But fate loves an irony. On Saturday morning, just as Agatha was about to leave for her son’s flat, her blood pressure shot up. An ambulance had to be called, and the doctors ordered strict bed rest. The watchdog was out of action.
Rupert, meanwhile, was packing his leather holdall while giving his wife last-minute orders.
“Right then, Imogen,” he said, stopping in the middle of the hallway to survey his domain. “Take your clothes, your cosmetics, your little vases. Just no vandalism.”
Imogen leaned against the doorframe and folded her arms. “Define vandalism.”
“Don’t touch the integrated appliances. They were fitted for this kitchen, so they’re part of my flat now. The oven, the dishwasher—everything stays where it is. I’m used to them. And leave that antique chest in the bedroom too.”
“The chest?” Imogen raised an eyebrow. “You called it firewood.”
“Poppy will love it,” Rupert snapped. “She’s completely taken with the decor. Says I have excellent taste. So don’t wreck the interior.”
Poppy was indeed delighted. Thirty years old, working as a receptionist at a beauty salon, she genuinely believed she had won the jackpot. Rupert seemed to her a wealthy, refined connoisseur. In every photo on social media he lounged in a deep leather armchair, or posed against expensive paintings, or leaned elegantly on that same carved antique chest. Poppy was absolutely convinced she was moving into a sumptuous flat with a rich man who would keep her in luxury.
“If you say so, Rupert.” A faint, cold smile slid onto Imogen’s lips. “I’ll only take what’s mine.”
“There’s a good girl. I’m glad we can do this without a scene. I always knew you were smart enough not to fight me. No need to leave the keys—I’ll just change the locks on Monday.” He picked up his bag and walked out, already savouring his triumphant return with his new wife.
Once Rupert had settled into a country spa hotel with Poppy, a text came in from his mother.
“Rupes, I couldn’t get through to you. My blood pressure went up, the ambulance came. I won’t be able to get over and keep an eye on Imogen.”
Rupert swore under his breath. He could not and would not cancel the trip with his new lover. “Imogen won’t take anything. She’s not that kind of person,” he thought, and answered his mother with a cursory message telling her to take care of herself.
Meanwhile, the moment Rupert left, Imogen dialled the number she had prepared the night before.
“Hello, this is Imogen. I called earlier. Yes, same address. I’ll expect you in an hour. I need the largest vehicle in your fleet. Yes, with tools. A lot will need to be dismantled.”
After that call, she confirmed a booking for a storage unit for her belongings. Finding a good, empty flat for a long-term rental in the two days her soon-to-be-ex-husband had given her was impossible. So she had decided she would stay at her mother’s for a while, until she found something suitable.
By noon, six sturdy men in work overalls entered the flat, along with a professional electrician and a furniture dismantling specialist.
“Where do we start, ma’am?” the foreman asked briskly, taking in the scale of the job.
“We start with everything,” Imogen said calmly. “Take the fronts off the kitchen units. Remove the hob, the oven, the extractor hood, the microwave and the dishwasher. Then the upholstered furniture and the bedroom suite. Wrap the antiques in three layers of bubble wrap—I’ll check every corner myself.”
Work exploded. The flat filled with the whir of drills and the rustle of packing tape. This was not the frantic packing of a wronged wife; it was a precise, ice-cold logistical operation. Imogen directed the whole affair with the grace of a field marshal.
Heavy velvet curtains vanished from the windows; paintings came off the walls. The electrician disconnected and removed the expensive chandeliers and wall lights, leaving ordinary bulbs in their place.
The Italian parquet groaned under the removal men’s boots as they carried out the leather sofa, the wardrobes, the carved chest and the appliances. The flat rapidly lost its shine, reverting to the hollow, grim concrete box it had been fifteen years earlier.
By Saturday evening, the huge removal van parked outside the entrance was packed to bursting. The foreman wiped sweat from his forehead and came upstairs one last time. Imogen stood in the middle of the gutted kitchen.
“Ma’am,” the man said, breathing heavily. “Problem. The van won’t hold another matchbox. It’s packed right up to the roof—we could barely shut the doors. We’ve still got the dining table and a stool left over. Do we call a second van for those?”
Imogen looked at the solid wooden table and the lonely stool beside it.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” she said with a smirk. “Leave them. Consider them my farewell gift to the newlyweds. They need something on which to build their bright future.”
She took one last look at the bare walls with their exposed wiring, then walked out and closed the door behind her.
Monday morning was sunny. Rupert parked the car outside the entrance, gallantly opened the door for Poppy, and helped her take out the suitcases. She was ready to cross the threshold of a luxurious flat as its new mistress.
“Well, here we are at home, darling,” Rupert announced solemnly, turning the key in the lock. He pushed the door open and waved Poppy inside.
She took two steps into the hall. Click, click. Her heels echoed through the empty flat, hollow and jarring. Poppy froze. Rupert, following behind, bumped into her and opened his mouth to complain. The words died in his throat.
Before them stretched an absolutely empty flat. The living room had no furniture, no television, no pictures, no curtains. Instead of the magnificent crystal chandelier, a single bare bulb swayed forlornly from the ceiling. The bedroom gaped back at them—no bed, no antique chest that Poppy had admired.
Rupert dashed into the kitchen in shock. Where the expensive Italian kitchen with its integrated appliances had stood on Friday, there now gaped exposed pipework and blackened sockets.
In the middle of that ringing emptiness stood one table and one stool. On the table lay Imogen’s keys, gleaming dully.
“Rupert…” Poppy’s voice cracked into a thin squeak. She turned to him slowly, her face twisted with confusion and rising fury. “What is this? Where is everything?! Where’s the furniture? Where are the appliances?!”
“Imogen…” was all the stunned man could force out, his stare moving from the empty floor to the bare walls.
“You said your flat was fully furnished! You said we’d live in comfort! Are we supposed to take turns sleeping on that stool?! Then order new furniture right now!”
Rupert swallowed hard. He knew perfectly well there was no money for new furniture, let alone furniture of that standard. Every penny he had was tied up in the car registered in his mother’s name, and payday was still two weeks away. To furnish a three-bedroom flat again with even the cheapest wardrobes and beds would mean taking out a huge loan. And tonight they would either sleep on the floor of this flat or drive back to Poppy’s rented one-bedroom flat.
Leaning against the wall, Rupert remembered Imogen’s words from their last conversation: “I’ll only take what’s mine.”
And his soon-to-be-ex-wife had kept her word. She hadn’t touched his walls. She had taken only what belonged to her.
You know, I’ve always found those cardboard sorrows from cheap melodramas genuinely amusing. Oh no, he’s brought another woman! I’ll pack a tiny bag, hold my head high, wipe away a tear and ride off into the sunset, leaving them everything I worked my fingers to the bone for.
Why on earth should a grown, accomplished woman bankroll someone else’s happiness? Pride is not walking out with one suitcase and graciously handing your ex all the comfort you created. Pride is taking back what is yours, bought with your own hard-earned money, and leaving the arrogant swine with exactly what he deserves. Rupert was so proud of his “pre-marital square footage”? Fine. Imogen returned his concrete box to its original state. Enjoy it, you two.
