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 build lives with partners who adored them. Meanwhile, I was always the third wheel, 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 like the most interesting person in the room. When he smiled at me, I fell 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, told myself love was about patience, and hoped commitment would come.
But then something happened.
And everything changed.
Last month, my aunt passed away. It was sudden and 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 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.
His brows furrowed. “Uh… what?” He let out a small, nervous chuckle. “Why?”
“It’s just a personal thing,” I said calmly. “If we’re gonna be married, you should respect it.”
Patrick hesitated but, thinking he had 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 for me (if you count boiling pasta and dumping jar sauce as cooking). 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. But I wasn’t buying it.
And sure enough? That day came.
The apartment was finally in my name. I didn’t tell Patrick. Then one day, I left work early and walked into my home to find…
Patrick. Inside. With his mother. Measuring the living room.
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 turned, caught mid-measurement. “Oh! Babe! You’re home early!”
I set my bag down very deliberately, 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 sniffed and waved a dismissive hand.
“Well, dear, now that Patrick is your fiancé, it’s his home too!”
And that’s when I laughed. Right in their faces.
“Oh, you thought we were actually getting married?” I asked. “That’s cute.”
Patrick’s eyes widened in horror. “W-What? Babe, of course—”
“No, no, no,” I interrupted, holding up a hand. “I knew why you proposed. You never wanted me—you wanted the apartment.”
I pulled out a neat stack of papers and dropped them on the counter. “Good thing I won’t have to find out. Because, as of this morning, I sold the apartment.”
Patrick turned pale. “You WHAT?!”
“You heard me. The money’s already in my account.”
His mother grabbed his arm in sheer panic. “Mom, what do we do?!”
I grabbed my purse and walked to the door. Before leaving, I turned back. “Now, get the hell out of my house.”
The apartment sold fast. Within a week, I moved to a new city, got my own cozy apartment, and started fresh.
Patrick? Still living with his mom.
And me?
I was sipping wine on my balcony, happier than I’d ever been.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t settling.
