Patrick always said we needed “more time” before moving in or getting engaged. But the moment I inherited my aunt’s fully paid-off apartment? He suddenly couldn’t wait. He showed up with flowers, wine, and a cheap ring. “Let’s build a future together,” he said. I forced a smile and said yes—with one condition: he could never enter the apartment before me.

For weeks, he played the perfect fiancé. Cooking, planning furniture, even calling me “queen.” But I knew he was waiting for the apartment to officially become mine. And once it did, I kept quiet. Until I came home early one day… and caught Patrick and his mom inside, measuring curtains.

“You broke my only rule,” I said coldly.

His mom declared, “It’s his home too!”

I laughed. “Oh, you thought we were really getting married?”

Patrick stammered. I laid it out: he didn’t love me—he loved the apartment. He snapped, saying I should be grateful someone like him gave me a chance.

So I pulled out a stack of papers and tossed them on the counter.

“I sold the apartment this morning. And you? You can go home to mommy.”