Patrick always said we needed more time before moving in. Extra time before engagement. More time before committing. The second I inherited a paid-off apartment? He couldn’t delay. I realized then—I was never his first choice.

I watched my friends fall in love, get engaged, and start their lives with loving partners for years. I was always third-wheeling, asked to take nice couple shots, and joked about becoming a crazy cat lady—even though I didn’t own a cat.

So when Patrick saw me at a bar two years ago, I thought, finally. My turn.

I fell for his effortless charm when he looked at me like I was the most intriguing person in the room. Hard.

I neglected minor issues for two years. His lack of gifts, time, and effort. How he lived with his mom and had no plans to change. The way he avoided all talk of marriage or cohabitation.

“We don’t know each other well enough yet,” he typically stated while browsing through his phone.

2 years together. He was still unsure.

I swallowed the hurt and convinced myself love takes patience and commitment will come.

Then something happened.

Everything changed.

Last month, my aunt died. It was sudden and unexpected. She was my mom’s older sister and always remembered my birthday, sending me unexpected care packages as an adult. Her departure felt like losing home.

The shock followed.

She left her three-bedroom flat to me without children or a spouse.

Bittersweet. I would’ve done anything for her. But this? Life-changing inheritance. Stop renting. Stop worrying about growing costs. A home for me.

Of course, I told Patrick.

And guess what?

That night, he delivered his first flowers, a cheap bottle of wine, and most shockingly, a ring to my door.

He was awkwardly standing on my tiny welcome mat with a velvet box as I opened the door.

He exhaled “Babe,” smiling easily. “I couldn’t wait any longer. Will you marry me?”

I looked, unsure what to say.

Two weeks ago, I casually mentioned engagement. His reply?

“Babe, rings are crazy expensive right now. Let’s not rush it.”

But now? He was ready?

I swallowed the lump and assumed my best astonished face. “Patrick… I— I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” he said, beaming. “We’ve been together two years, babe. It’s time. Let’s build our future together.”

Build. Right. Now I had something to build on. I should’ve returned the ring. Must’ve confronted him.

But instead? I tried my hardest to smile broadly. A smile that would make everyone think I was the happiest woman alive.

I exclaimed, “Yes! I’ll marry you!”

Patrick laughed in relief as he put the cheap ring on my finger like he’d won the lotto. He thought he had.

I was squeezed too tightly by his arms. “You won’t regret this, babe,” he whispered into my hair. “We’re gonna be so happy.”

I nearly laughed. I retreated, holding a finger between us. “But—”

His face stiffened. “But…?”

With a tilt, I gave him my sweetest, most serious face. “I have one condition.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Oh, babe, whatever it is, consider it done.”

I inhaled slowly and dropped the bomb.

“From now on, you will always follow one rule of mine.” I waited long enough for his interested lean. “You will never enter the apartment before me. Ever. No exceptions.”

He smiled briefly.

He frowned. “Uh… what?” he laughed nervously, like if I had forbidden him from playing video games forever. “Why?”

“Just a personal thing,” I answered quietly. “If we’re gonna be married, you should respect it.”

Patrick seemed to be seeking for the appropriate argument, opening and closing his jaws. However, he smirked and nodded, thinking he had won the top prize—a rent-free life.

“Yeah, babe. Sure. Whatever you want.”

Patrick became the perfect fiancé for weeks.

He called me queen, which was odd because he used to call me babe or dude when distracted.

I had my first supper cooked by him. If you call boiling pasta and pouring sauce over it as “cooking.” I smiled and thanked him like a five-star chef.

He casually discussed our future in the apartment.

“Babe, I was thinking we should get a huge flat-screen for the living room.” So, “I saw this gaming chair on sale. Would look sick in our office.”

He was slipping, too comfy. Overconfident. No way was I buying it. Because behind that lovely smile? I knew he waited.

Waiting for the apartment’s official ownership.

Sure enough? The day came.

Finally, I owned the apartment. I didn’t tell Patrick immediately away. One day, I unexpectedly left work early and headed home.

I entered what?

Patrick. Apartment interior. By his mother. Living room measurement.

Holding my luggage securely, I stood paralyzed in the doorway.

The windows were pointed at by his mother, who had never cared about our relationship and hardly noticed me.

“I think sheer curtains would brighten up the space,” she said.

Patrick turned mid-measurement and gasped, “Oh! Babe! You’re home early!” dropping the tape measure like it burned him.

I carefully placed my luggage, crossed my arms, and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” I answered calmly, scanning them. “And I see you broke the one rule I gave you.”

Silence.

Pat swallowed heavily. “Babe, I—”

His mother, bless her entitled heart, sniffed and waved him off before he could make an excuse.

“Well, dear, now that Patrick is your fiancé, it’s his home too!”

Then I lost it.

I laughed in their faces.

Patrick cringed as his mother frowned. Room tension rose.

“Oh, you thought we were actually getting married?” I shrugged, wiping a tear from my eye. “That’s cute.”

Patrick’s eyes widened in terror. “W-What? Babe, of course—”

“No, no, no,” I said, adding a hand. “Let me be clear: I knew why you proposed. You never wanted me—you wanted the apartment.”

His mother gasped, gripping her chest like I’d hit her. “How dare you accuse my son—”

“No, how dare you two plan to move into my apartment while I was at work!” I shouted.

Patrick was sweating and raising his hands to settle the situation. “Babe, please, I just—”

“Stop. Just stop.”

His face contorted between fury and panic, and I could tell his carefully prepared act was disintegrating.

But I continued.

I said, “Let’s talk about what’s really going on here, Patrick,” folding my arms. “You weren’t ready to propose for two years, but when I inherit a paid-off apartment, you’re kneeling?”

Patrick blinked quickly, searching for an explanation. “No—I just realized I love you, darling! ”

I laughed sharply. “Really? When did you’realize’ that? Before or after you and your mommy planned her furniture placement? ”

“Young lady, you are being very ungrateful,” his mother mocked. My son gave you his surname, and you’re treating him like gold, digger! ”

Silence.

Then Patrick snapped.

“FINE! You want the truth? “He threw his hands up.” Yeah! I wasn’t ready to marry you since you’re not a woman guys fight for! ”

Oof.

But he continued.

“Be grateful someone like me gave you a chance! Janet, you couldn’t improve! ”

Inhaled deeply. “Yes, Patrick. My performance may not improve.”

He smiled, thinking I was giving up. His mother grinned, feeling they beat them.

I then took a nicely piled bundle of documents from my backpack and placed them on the kitchen counter.

“Good thing I won’t have to find out,” I answered. “Because, as of this morning, I sold the apartment.”

His jaw fell.

You WHAT?! “Patrick screamed, lunging at the papers to reverse the damage.

“You heard me,” I grinned. “I signed the paperwork this morning. My account has the money.”

Patrick looked faint, his face paled, and he had nothing to say for the first time in my life.

“You—you’re lying,” he murmured.

Call the realtor,” I shrugged. Ask.”

He staggered back, desperately looking at his mother, who grasped his arm in panic.

“What now, mom?! ”

That sealed the deal.

I grabbed my purse, went inside, and turned around.

You’re right, Patrick. I couldn’t improve. Fortunately, I smiled with the utmost satisfaction.

“I just did.”

I said, “Now, get the hell out of this house.”

I sold the apartment faster than expected, got the money in my account, and left in a week. I moved to a new city, got a cozy little apartment on my own terms, and started over. No freeloaders. No manipulative boyfriends. Just me, living life my way.

Patrick obviously went insane.

He called constantly, pleading to “work things out.” He said he “never meant to hurt me” and 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 buddy informed me Patrick had no savings, no backup plan, and—surprisingly—was still living with his mom.

And I?

In my new apartment, sipping wine on my balcony, I was happier than ever.

It was my first time not settling.