In a quiet corner of London, in a modest two-bedroom flat on the seventh floor, Eleanor had built her sanctuary. It wasnt grand or lavish, but it was hers. Every square foot had been earned through sleepless nights at the design agency, every piece of furniture chosen with care. Fluffy white towels hung precisely by size in the bathroom, cosmetics lined up neatly on the shelf, and dresses in the wardrobe were arranged by shadelight to dark.
Oliver walked into her life one chilly November afternoon, as the first snowflakes danced outside the window. Tall, with tousled dark hair and a smile that made her knees weak, hed bumped into her table at a café near Covent Garden, sending tea splashing across her cream blouse.
“Terribly sorry,” he murmured, handing her napkins. “Let me at least cover the dry cleaning.”
The stain never came out, but it didnt matter. Oliver was a photographer, capturing weddings and corporate events, living in a rented studio in the outskirts of the city. He spoke of his projects with such passion that Eleanor could listen for hours.
The first months passed in a blur. Oliver arrived most evenings with flowers or chocolates. They cooked dinners, watched films, made plans. For the first time in years, Eleanor felt whole, as if shed found the missing piece of her puzzle.
Then, in February, with a storm howling outside, she asked him to move in.
“Why waste money on that tiny place?” she said, hugging him in the kitchen. “Theres plenty of room here.”
Oliver hesitated, muttering about independence and not wanting to be a burden, but he agreed. In March, he arrived with two suitcases and his camera gear.
The first month was bliss. He tried to keep tidy, though not to Eleanors exacting standards. She dismissed it as typical bachelor habits, quietly rewashing dishes and realigning towels.
Only one thing nagged at herOliver never offered to chip in for bills or groceries. When she gently raised it, he joked about tight budgets or clients drying up. She let it go. The flat was hers, after all.
Then, mid-April, everything changed.
Eleanor returned home after a brutal dayher third website design rejected, her boss hinting at unpaid overtime. All she wanted was a hot bath and a glass of wine.
As she unlocked the door, unfamiliar voices drifted from the living room. Olivers, and a womans. He hadnt mentioned guests.
In the lounge, a stranger in pyjamas lounged on her cream sofa, painting her nails pink while a telenovela played. “Oh, hello,” the woman said, barely glancing up. “You must be Eleanor. Im Claire, Olivers sister.”
Eleanor froze. Oliver had vaguely mentioned a sister, never that she lived nearby.
“Darling, youre back!” Oliver appeared, smiling as if nothing were amiss. “Meet Claire. Remember I told you about her?”
“Vaguely,” Eleanor said tightly. “Why is she here?”
“Landlords kicking her out. Nephews back from uni, needs the room. Shell just stay a few days while she finds somewhere.”
Eleanors stomach turned. “Our” flat? This was *her* home.
“You couldve asked,” she said, forcing calm.
“Oh, come now,” Oliver said. “Its an emergency. Was I to leave her on the street?”
Claire finally looked up. “Dont worry, Im quiet as a mouse. Wont be underfoot.”
Her breezy tone grated. Eleanor bit back a retort.
The kitchen was a messdirty dishes piled high, crumbs everywhere. The remains of her beef stew, meant to last days, sat half-eaten in a pan.
“Oliver,” she said softly. “My stew?”
“Ah. Claire was hungry. Ill shop tomorrow.”
That night, in bed, Eleanor snapped. “This is too sudden.”
Oliver sighed. “What was I meant to do? She had nowhere to go.”
“Im not saying abandon her. Im saying *consult me*. This is *my* flat.”
“*Our* flat,” he corrected. “We live together.”
“Yet *I* pay for it.”
Olivers face darkened. “Is that all you care about?”
The next week was torture. Claire left makeup smudges on towels, rifled through Eleanors wardrobe, used her expensive moisturiser. When confronted, Oliver laughed. “Its just cream, love. Ill buy you more.”
The final straw came when Eleanor found Claire in *her* dressing gown, eating *her* chocolates.
“Thats it,” Eleanor hissed. “She goes. *Now*.”
Oliver gaped. “Youre being unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable? Shes a *squatter*!”
Claire appeared, smirking. “All this fuss over a bit of lotion?”
“Pack. Your. Bags.”
An hour later, Oliver stood at the door, suitcases in hand. “I thought love meant sharing everything.”
Eleanors voice was ice. “Love doesnt mean *taking* everything.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Alone, Eleanor rearranged the towels, reordered her dresses. Then she sat on the bedand wept.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Oliver:
*”Sorry. I truly thought love meant no boundaries. Clearly, I was wrong.”*
She deleted his number.
The flat was hers again. Perfect. Quiet.
Why, then, did it feel so hollow?
Days passed. Work became her refuge. At home, the silence echoed.
Then, a call from Claire. “I need my nail polish back. Its sentimental.”
“Bin,” Eleanor said.
“You *bitch*,” Claire spat. “Oliver was right about you.”
A suspicion flared. “Where *are* you staying?”
“Rented flat. Why?”
“Whos paying? Oliver, with his *no clients*?”
Silence.
“It was a *setup*,” Eleanor realised. “You never lost your place. He planted you here to soften me up, didnt he?”
Claire hung up.
That night, Eleanor found an old box of photographsher first paycheque, her student digs. Shed built this life *alone*.
Oliver wasnt a partner. He was a hitchhiker.
The next morning, she called a locksmith. Then she opened a design file, finally choosing that bold yellow armchair Oliver had vetoed.
Her flat would no longer be a fortress.
It would be *her*.
