I played along with my boyfriend Patrick’s desire to delay marriage until I inherited a three-bedroom apartment. Before we moved in together, Patrick would often say we needed more time—time before marriage, time before committing. But the moment I inherited the apartment, he was ready to move things forward. I realized then that I had never been his first choice.
I watched my friends fall in love and build lives with people who truly loved them. Even though I didn’t own a cat, I was the one always taking photos of couples and joking about becoming a crazy cat lady. 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 small things—his lack of effort, the fact he lived with his mom, and his reluctance to talk about moving in together or marriage. He’d say, “We don’t know each other well enough yet.”
I swallowed my hurt and told myself that love was about patience. But then something happened.
Last month, my aunt passed away. It was sudden, and she left me her three-bedroom apartment—paid in full. It was life-changing. No more rent, no more stressing about rising costs. A home that was mine.
I shared the news with Patrick, and that night, he showed up at my door with flowers (his first ever), a bottle of wine (cheap, but still), and a ring.
“Babe,” he said, flashing that grin, “I couldn’t wait any longer. Will you marry me?”
I stared, shocked. Just two weeks ago, he’d said rings were too expensive. But now? Now he was ready?
I forced a smile and said, “Yes, I’ll marry you!”
Patrick slipped the ring onto my finger like he’d won the lottery. He pulled me into a tight hug. “You won’t regret this, babe,” he murmured.
I almost laughed, but instead, I pulled back and held up a finger. “I have one condition.”
His face tensed. “But…?”
“You will never enter the apartment before me. Ever. No exceptions.”
His brow furrowed. “Uh… what?”
“It’s just a personal thing. If we’re getting married, you should respect it.”
He hesitated but eventually agreed. “Yeah, babe. Sure. Whatever you want.”
For weeks, Patrick was the perfect fiancé. He cooked dinner for the first time—boiling pasta and dumping sauce over it. He started talking about our future in the apartment. “Babe, I saw this gaming chair on sale. Would look sick in our office.”
I wasn’t buying it. I knew he was waiting for the apartment to officially be mine.
And sure enough, the day came. The apartment was in my name, but I didn’t tell Patrick right away. One day, I came home early from work and walked into the apartment to find Patrick and his mother—measuring the living room.
His mother, who had barely acknowledged me before, was now suggesting where to put sheer curtains.
Patrick froze, “Oh! Babe! You’re home early!”
I set my bag down and crossed my arms. “I see you broke the one rule I gave you.”
His face fell. “Babe, I—”
Before he could speak, his mother interrupted. “Now that Patrick is your fiancé, it’s his home too!”
I laughed in their faces. “Oh, you thought we were actually getting married? That’s cute.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. “W-What? Babe, of course—”
“No,” I interrupted, “I knew why you proposed. You didn’t want me—you wanted the apartment.”
His mother gasped. “How dare you accuse my son—”
“No, how dare you two plan to move into my apartment while I was at work!”
Patrick started sweating. “Babe, please, I just—”
I cut him off. “Let’s talk about what’s really going on here. You weren’t ready to propose for two years. But the second I inherit an apartment, you’re suddenly down on one knee?”
Patrick blinked rapidly. “That’s not—I just realized how much I love you, babe!”
I laughed. “Oh really? So when exactly did you ‘realize’ that? Before or after you and your mommy started planning where her furniture would go?”
His mother stepped forward, her nose high. “Young lady, you’re being ungrateful. My son is giving you his last name!”
I tilted my head. “Funny, because I’m the one with the apartment. And your son doesn’t even pay his own rent.”
Then, Patrick snapped. “FINE! You want to know the truth?” He threw his hands up. “You’re not the kind of woman men fight for! You should be thankful someone like me gave you a chance!”
I took a deep breath. “Maybe I won’t do any better.”
His face lit up, thinking I was backing down. But I reached into my bag and pulled out a stack of papers.
“Good thing I won’t have to find out,” I said, tossing the papers on the counter. “Because I sold the apartment.”
Patrick’s jaw dropped. “You WHAT?!”
I grinned. “I signed the paperwork this morning. The money’s already in my account.”
Patrick staggered back, and his mother grabbed his arm in panic.
“You’re lying,” Patrick whispered.
“Call the realtor,” I said, “Ask.”
The apartment sold faster than I expected. Within a week, I moved to a new city, got a cozy apartment on my terms, and started fresh. No freeloaders, no manipulative boyfriends—just me.
Patrick called nonstop, begging to “work things out.” I blocked him. His mom left a 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 was still living with his mom.
Me? I was sipping wine on my balcony in my new apartment, happier than ever.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t settling.
This version is more concise while keeping the core of the story intact! Does this work for what you had in mind?
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