Patrick always told me we needed more time before moving in together. More time before getting engaged. More time before making any real commitment. But the second I inherited a fully paid-off apartment? He couldn’t wait a second longer. And that’s when I knew—I was never his first choice.
For years, I watched my friends fall in love, get engaged, and start their lives with partners who adored them. Meanwhile, I was the one always third-wheeling, the one asked to take cute couple photos, the one joking about how I’d probably end up a crazy cat lady—even though I didn’t even own a cat.
So, when Patrick noticed me at a bar two years ago, I thought, finally. My turn.
He had this effortless charm and when he looked at me like I was the most interesting person in the room, I fell for it. Hard.
For two years, I ignored the little things. The way he never really gave—not gifts, not time, not effort. The way he still lived with his mom and had no plans to change that. The way he dodged every single conversation about moving in together or, marriage.
“We don’t know each other well enough yet,” he always said, usually while scrolling through his phone.
Two years together. And yet, he still wasn’t sure.
I swallowed the hurt and told myself love was about patience and that commitment would come.
But then something happened.
And everything changed.
Last month, my aunt passed away. It was sudden, unexpected. She was my mom’s older sister, the one who always remembered my birthday, who sent me random care packages even as an adult. Losing her felt like losing a piece of home.
Then came the shock.
She had no kids, no spouse, and she left her entire three-bedroom apartment to me.
It was bittersweet. I would’ve given anything to have her back. But this? This inheritance was life-changing. No more rent. No more stressing about rising costs. A home that was mine.
Naturally, I shared the news with Patrick.
And guess what?
That very night, he showed up at my door with flowers (his first ever), a bottle of wine (cheap, but still), and most shocking of all—a ring.
I opened the door, and there he was, standing awkwardly on my tiny welcome mat, holding up a small velvet box.
“Babe,” he breathed out, flashing that easy grin. “I couldn’t wait any longer. Will you marry me?”
I stared, not knowing how to respond.
Two weeks ago, I had casually mentioned engagement. His response?
“Babe, rings are crazy expensive right now. Let’s not rush it.”
But now? Now he was ready?
I swallowed the lump in my throat and put on my best surprised face. “Patrick… I— I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” he urged, his eyes gleaming. “We’ve been together two years, babe. It’s time. Let’s build our future together.”
Build. Right. Because now I had something worth building in. I should’ve thrown the ring back at him. Should’ve called him out.
But instead? I forced the biggest, most over-the-top smile I could manage. The kind of grin that would make anyone believe I was the happiest woman alive.
“Yes! I’ll marry you!” I gasped.
Patrick let out a relieved chuckle, slipping the cheap little ring onto my finger like he’d just won the lottery. Which, in a way, he thought he had.
He pulled me into a hug, squeezing just a little too tight. “You won’t regret this, babe,” he murmured against my hair. “We’re gonna be so happy.”
I almost laughed. Instead, I pulled back, holding up a single finger between us. “But—”
His face tensed. “But…?”
I tilted my head, giving him my best sweet but serious look. “I have one condition.”
His tense shoulders eased. “Oh, babe, whatever it is, consider it done.”
I took a slow breath, then dropped the bomb.
“From now on, you will always follow one rule of mine.” I paused long enough for him to lean in slightly, curious. “You will never enter the apartment before me. Ever. No exceptions.”
The smile on his face flickered for a second.
His brows furrowed. “Uh… what?” He let out a small, nervous chuckle like I had just told him he had to give up video games for life. “Why?”
“It’s just a personal thing,” I said calmly. “If we’re gonna be married, you should respect it.”
Patrick hesitated, his mouth opening and closing like he was searching for the right argument. But then, thinking he had already won the grand prize—a rent-free life—he gave me a smirk and nodded.
“Yeah, babe. Sure. Whatever you want.”
For weeks, Patrick transformed into the perfect fiancé.
He started calling me his queen, which was funny, considering I used to be just babe—or worse, dude when he was distracted.
He cooked me dinner for the first time ever. Well, if you count boiling pasta and dumping a jar of sauce over it as “cooking.” But I smiled and thanked him like he was a five-star chef.
He started casually mentioning our future in the apartment.
“Babe, I was thinking we should get a huge flat-screen for the living room.” Or, “I saw this gaming chair on sale. Would look sick in our office.”
He was slipping, getting too comfortable. Too confident. But I wasn’t buying any of it. Because beneath that sweet smile? I knew he was waiting.
Waiting for the day the apartment was officially mine.
And sure enough? That day came.
The apartment was finally in my name. But I didn’t tell Patrick right away. Then one day, I left work early and went home unexpectedly.
And guess what I walked into?
Patrick. Inside the apartment. With his mother. Measuring the living room.
I stood frozen in the doorway, gripping my bag so tightly.
His mother—who had never cared about our relationship, who barely acknowledged my existence—was now gesturing toward the windows.
“I think sheer curtains would brighten up the space,” she mused.
Patrick, caught mid-measurement, turned, “Oh! Babe! You’re home early!” he stammered, dropping the tape measure like it burned him.
I set my bag down very deliberately, crossed my arms, and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” I said coolly, letting my gaze sweep over them. “And I see you broke the one rule I gave you.”
Silence.
Patrick swallowed hard. “Babe, I—”
But before he could even attempt an excuse, his mother—bless her entitled little heart—sniffed and waved a dismissive hand.
“Well, dear, now that Patrick is your fiancé, it’s his home too!”
And that’s when I lost it.
I laughed right in their faces.
Patrick flinched, while his mother’s mouth pressed into a tight, disapproving line. The tension in the room got thick.
“Oh, you thought we were actually getting married?” I asked, shaking my head as I wiped an imaginary tear from my eye. “That’s cute.”
Patrick’s eyes widened in horror. “W-What? Babe, of course—”
“No, no, no,” I interrupted, holding up a hand. “Let me be clear: I knew why you proposed. You never wanted me—you wanted the apartment.”
His mother let out a scandalized gasp, clutching her chest like I’d just slapped her. “How dare you accuse my son—”
“No, how dare you two plan to move into my apartment while I was at work!” I shot back, my voice cutting through the room like a whip.
Patrick was sweating now, his hands raised as if he could calm the situation. “Babe, please, I just—”
“Stop. Just stop.”
His face twisted, caught somewhere between anger and panic, and I could tell his carefully crafted act was crumbling.
But I wasn’t done.
“Let’s talk about what’s really going on here, Patrick,” I said, folding my arms. “You weren’t ready to propose for two years. But the second I inherit a fully paid-off apartment? You’re suddenly down on one knee?”
Patrick blinked rapidly, scrambling for an excuse. “That’s not—I just realized how much I love you, babe!”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, really? So tell me, when exactly did you ‘realize’ that? Before or after you and your mommy started planning where her furniture would go?”
His mother scoffed, stepping forward like a queen addressing her subjects. “Young lady, you are being very ungrateful. My son is giving you his last name, and you’re treating him like a gold digger!”
I tilted my head, giving her a sickly sweet smile. “A gold digger? Funny, because as far as I remember, I’m the one with the apartment. And your son is the one who doesn’t even pay his own rent.”
Silence. Then, Patrick snapped.
“FINE! You wanna know the truth?” He threw his hands up. “Yeah! I wasn’t ready to marry you before because, frankly, you’re not the kind of woman men fight for!”
Oof.
But he wasn’t finished.
“You should be thankful someone like me gave you a chance! You weren’t gonna do any better, Janet!”
I took a deep breath. “You’re right, Patrick. Maybe I won’t do any better.”
His face lit up, thinking I was backing down. His mother smirked, clearly believing they’d won.
Then, I reached into my bag, pulled out a neatly stacked pile of papers, and tossed them onto the kitchen counter.
“Good thing I won’t have to find out,” I said casually. “Because, as of this morning, I sold the apartment.”
His jaw dropped.
“You WHAT?!” Patrick shrieked, lunging toward the papers as if he could undo what had already been done.
“You heard me,” I said, grinning. “I signed the paperwork this morning. The money’s already in my account.”
Patrick looked like he might pass out. His face paled, and for the first time since I’d known him, he had nothing to say.
“You—you’re lying,” he whispered.
I shrugged. “Call the realtor. Ask.”
He stumbled backward, his eyes darting wildly to his mother, who grabbed his arm in sheer panic.
“Mom, what do we do?!”
And that? That was the final nail in the coffin.
I grabbed my purse, walked to the door, and turned back.
“You’re right, Patrick. I wasn’t gonna do any better. But lucky for me…” I flashed him the brightest, most satisfied smile of my life.
“I just did.”
Then, I pointed to the door. “Now, get the hell out of this house.”
The apartment sold faster than I expected. Within a week, the paperwork was finalized, the money was in my account, and I was gone. I moved to a new city, got a cozy little apartment on my own terms, and started afresh. No freeloaders. No manipulative boyfriends. Just me, living life the way I deserved.
Patrick, of course, lost his mind.
He called nonstop, begging to “work things out.” He swore he “never meant to hurt me” and that we could “start over.”
Blocked.
His mother left a three-minute voicemail calling me a “heartless little witch” for “ruining her son’s future.”
Also blocked.
A mutual friend later told me Patrick had no savings, no backup plan, and—big surprise—was still living with his mom.
And me?
I was in my new apartment, sipping wine on my balcony, happier than I’d ever been.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t settling.
