Naturally, I told Patrick. That same night, he showed up at my door with flowers, a bottle of wine, and—shockingly—a ring. He proposed, right there on my doorstep. Just two weeks earlier, he had brushed off the idea of marriage, saying rings were too expensive and we shouldn’t rush. But now, he was suddenly ready to spend his life with me.
Caught off guard, I said yes. But something didn’t sit right. I smiled, then added one condition: “From now on, you will never enter the apartment before me. Ever.” He looked confused but agreed quickly, clearly thinking he’d won some sort of prize.
Over the next few weeks, he played the part of the “perfect” fiancé. He gave me pet names, made dinner (though “cooking” was generous for what he did), and started talking about furnishing the apartment with his own ideas—mostly tech gadgets and gaming chairs. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t in this for the right reasons.
Then it happened. The day the apartment was officially mine, I didn’t say a word to Patrick. That afternoon, I came home early—and found him inside, with his mother, measuring the living room. She was suggesting new curtains like she already lived there. I stood silently in the doorway.
Patrick looked up, startled. “Babe! You’re home early!”
I dropped my bag and calmly said, “And I see you broke the one rule I gave you.”
He tried to explain, but his mother interjected, “Well, now that he’s your fiancé, it’s his home too!” That’s when everything became crystal clear.
I looked them both in the eye and said, “You thought we were actually getting married?” His face fell.
“Let me be honest,” I said firmly. “You didn’t propose because of love—you proposed because of the apartment.”
His mother gasped, calling me ungrateful, but I stood my ground. “You planned to move in without my knowledge. That’s not love—that’s convenience.”
Then, I pulled out a folder and placed it on the counter. “Good thing I made other plans,” I said. “As of this morning, I sold the apartment.”
Patrick’s expression was one of total disbelief. “You what?!”
I nodded calmly. “The sale is complete. The money’s already in my account.” His mother looked panicked, asking what they were supposed to do. That moment told me everything I needed to know.
I picked up my purse, walked to the door, and turned back one last time. “You were right, Patrick—I wasn’t going to do better. But now… I have.” Then I walked away.
The apartment sold quickly. Within days, I’d moved to a new city, found a place of my own, and started fresh. No drama, no manipulation—just me, living life on my terms.
Patrick tried to call, apologizing, asking for another chance. I didn’t answer. His mother left a voicemail filled with disapproval. I chose not to respond.
A mutual friend later told me Patrick was still living with his mother, with no backup plan and no savings. As for me, I was sipping wine on the balcony of my new apartment, feeling happier and more confident than ever.
For the first time, I wasn’t settling—and it felt amazing.