I don’t usually play games—but when Ryan walked into my life, something felt off. Too perfect. Too timed. Like he’d rehearsed how to make me fall for him.

By month six, I invited him to my place. A penthouse with skyline views, soft marble, and silence money can buy.

A week later, he proposed.

I didn’t say yes out of love. I said yes to test him.

Next week, I called in tears: “I lost my job… the apartment’s ruined… I have nothing.”

His pause was all I needed.

“Maybe we should… slow down,” he said.

Then he ghosted.

Three days later, I FaceTimed him—back in my penthouse, silk pajamas, champagne in hand.

“There was no flood. No job loss. I just needed to see if you loved me or what I could give you.”

His face dropped.

“Oh,” I added, “I just got promoted. I’m moving to Paris.”

Click. Blocked.

That night, my best friend showed up with Thai food and zero judgment. “He thought he played you,” she said. “But you were always three steps ahead.”

I smiled. “Yeah… I guess I was.”