Roses, a sweet gift, charming conversation — he was checking all the boxes. So the next morning, when he texted me, I expected something cute, maybe flirty, maybe a “Had a great time.” Instead, my stomach dropped the moment I opened the message.

My best friend, Mia, meant well when she offered to set me up, but her matchmaking skills were untested at best, reckless at worst.

“He’s super nice, Kelly! Total gentleman. You’ll love him,” Mia had insisted the night before while I rummaged through my closet, already anxious about the blind date.

“You’ve never set me up before,” I reminded her. “What makes you think you suddenly know my type?”

“Because I know you better than anyone,” she said confidently. “Plus, Chris vouches for him. They’ve been friends forever.”

So I agreed. And honestly, the first impression didn’t disappoint. Daniel arrived right on time, clean-shaven, well-dressed, confident without leaning into cocky. He handed me a single red rose — cliché, sure, but sweet in a “he’s trying” sort of way.

We went to a cozy Italian bistro, and conversation flowed easily. He asked thoughtful questions, remembered details, even laughed at my dumb jokes. No fireworks, but a warm, steady spark — the kind that makes you think, Maybe this could become something.

When the check came, I instinctively reached for my purse, but he gently set a hand on mine.

“No, no — I’ve got this,” he said with a soft smile. “You deserve to be treated right.”

It felt refreshing. Old-school. The night ended with a polite hug, a kiss on the cheek, and a hopeful “Let’s talk soon.”

The next morning, half-awake, I opened his message with a small smile already forming.

Instead, I read:
“Hey Kelly, last night was great. I paid $126 for dinner, just FYI. You can Venmo me when you get the chance. My handle is @danielprime.”

I blinked. Then laughed, assuming it was sarcasm. I even sent a laughing emoji.

His next reply erased any doubt — and any goodwill.

“No, seriously. I like to go Dutch on first dates — it’s only fair. Didn’t want to make it awkward at dinner, but I assumed you’d pick up on that.”

Pick up on what, exactly?
The man insisted on paying. Stopped me with physical touch. Delivered a whole speech about how I should be treated. Now he wanted reimbursement?

I stared at the phone, stunned, then forwarded the screenshot to Mia with one word:
“Gentleman?”

She responded with three:
“Oh. My. God.”

That evening, he tried again:
“Not cool to ghost me. A simple payment or reply would’ve been mature.”

But I didn’t owe him money. I didn’t owe him emotional labor. What I owed — to myself — was peace.

That’s when it clicked:
Manners without consistency aren’t manners. They’re manipulation — a performance with an invoice attached.

So I blocked him, deleted the chat, poured myself a glass of wine, and toasted to dodging a very expensive bullet.