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 another second. 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, the kind that made you feel special just by standing next to him. 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. 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.
“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.
And sure enough? The day came.
The apartment was officially mine.
And guess what I walked into that afternoon?
Patrick. Inside the apartment. With his mother. Measuring the living room.
I stood frozen in the doorway.
His mother—who had never cared about our relationship—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!”
I set my bag down, crossed my arms, and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. 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.
“Oh, you thought we were actually getting married?” I asked, shaking my head. “That’s cute.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. “W-What?”
“No, no, no,” I interrupted. “I knew why you proposed. You never wanted me—you wanted the apartment.”
Patrick was sweating now, his hands raised as if he could calm the situation.
But I wasn’t done.
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.”
Patrick’s jaw dropped.
“You WHAT?!”
“You heard me,” I said, grinning. “The money’s already in my account.”
Then, I pointed to the door. “Now, get the hell out.”
