I don’t usually play games, especially with people.

But something about Ryan’s timing felt too polished, too sudden… like he’d skipped a few pages in our story and jumped to the part where I say “yes” with stars in my eyes.

Spoiler: I did say yes. Just not for the reason he thought.

We met eight months ago at a dive bar downtown, one of those dimly lit places where the cocktails are all whiskey-based and the bartenders wear suspenders like it’s a religion.

Ryan had an easy smile, a firm handshake, and eyes that lingered just long enough to be charming, not creepy. We talked about everything that night, late 20s burnout, startup dreams, childhood regrets.

He was smart. Charismatic. Ambitious in a restless, surface-level kind of way. And when he kissed me outside under a busted neon sign that blinked like it couldn’t decide what mood it was in, I thought that maybe this could be something.

And it was. For a while.

But here’s the thing about charm, it can start to sound like a script.

By our third month together, I noticed the patterns. We always went to his apartment. A cramped one-bedroom in a building that smelled faintly of incense and despair.

He called it “charming.” I called it “no hot water after 10.”

Ryan always paid for dinner but only if we ate somewhere cheap. He talked about “tired gold-diggers” and “materialistic women” like it was a rehearsed speech he knew well. I started realizing that he spent a lot of time talking about what he didn’t want in a partner and very little time asking me what I wanted.

What Ryan didn’t know?

Two years ago, I sold my AI-powered wellness startup to a tech giant for seven figures. I’d spent my early 20s living on instant ramen and building backend code between shifts at a co-writing space that smelled like ambition and burnt coffee.

The acquisition was clean, and I reinvested most of it. Between that, advisory roles, and a few early crypto plays I cashed out of just in time, I was more than fine. Now, I worked at another tech company, helping build them up and keep myself busy.

But I never dressed the part. I drove my old car because it had been my father’s and he had passed it down to me. I wore clothes that weren’t name brands but fit well on my body. And I hadn’t brought Ryan home because I needed to know who he was before he saw what I had.

By the sixth month, I invited him to my place.

“Finally, Sloane,” Ryan grinned as he stepped out of the car. “I was starting to think that you were hiding a secret family or something.”

The doorman, Joe, greeted me by name, smiling warmly.

“Sloane, welcome home,” he said, tipping his hat.

Ryan glanced at him, then back to me, eyebrows raised. I didn’t say anything. I just tapped the button for the private elevator and stepped inside. The doors slid shut with a whisper.

When they opened again, we were in my apartment. My sanctuary. Light poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline glittered like it had dressed up for the occasion. My living room was clean and quiet, the kind of quiet that came with double-insulated glass and peace that money can buy.

He didn’t step in at first. He just stood there, staring.

“This is… wow, Sloane,” he said finally. “You live here?!”

“Yeah,” I said, slipping off my heels and placing them on a mat I’d imported from Tokyo. “Not bad, right? Comfortable.”

He walked in slowly, like he was afraid to touch anything but couldn’t help himself. His fingertips dragged across the marble countertops. He opened the wine fridge, Sub-Zero, custom installed, and nodded to himself.

“Not too shabby,” he said.

Ryan continued to walk around, stopping at one of the abstract canvases hanging over the fireplace.

“How much is that one worth?” he asked.

I shrugged but I was watching him now. Closely.

He didn’t ask to sit down. He just kept moving. His eyes lingered on the custom couch, on the Eames chair in the corner, the fridge that synced with my sommelier app to suggest pairings based on what I had chilled.

He didn’t kiss me that night. He barely touched my arm or leg, something that he had done all the time. Instead, he just kept smiling that dazed, boyish smile… like he’d stumbled into a fairytale and didn’t want to wake up.

And one week later, he proposed.

Ryan and I hadn’t really talked about marriage. Not in the way you do when you’re building a future. No deep conversations about kids or biological clocks or timelines, no dreamy what-if scenarios over wine.

Just vague nods to “someday” and offhand comments about “building something together.”

It always felt like a placeholder, not a plan.

So when he showed up a week later, standing in my living room with a ring box in one hand and nervous energy leaking from every pore, I blinked.

Unaware. But also… not surprised.

Ryan launched into a speech. He went on about knowing when you’ve found the one. About how life’s too short to wait or waste time. Something about seizing the moment when the universe gives you a sign.

I smiled. I pretended to be surprised. I said yes. I even kissed him.

But something inside me stayed still.

Because what he didn’t know was that Jules, my best friend, had seen him the day after his jaw dropped when he saw my penthouse.

She’d called me from the mall.

“He’s at the jewelry counter,” she said, whispering. “Sloane, he’s literally pointing at rings like he’s late for something. He’s not even looking at them properly! Girl, are you sure about him? He’s going to propose soon. I can feel it from his energy.”

I didn’t know how to answer her. I cared for Ryan, sure. But did I love him?

Knowing what I knew, the proposal wasn’t romantic at all.

It was strategic. So yeah, I said yes. But not because I was in love. Because I needed to know if he was.

Did Ryan want a life with me? Or did he want a lifestyle that came with a marble kitchen and a fridge smarter than most people?

I needed to be sure.

So I smiled, slid the ring on, and started planning the trap.

One week later, I called him in tears.

“Ryan?” I sniffled, letting just enough panic bleed into my voice. “I got fired. They said it was restructuring but I don’t know… Everything’s just… falling apart.”

There was a pause. Just a beat too long.

“Oh… wow. That’s… unexpected,” he said slowly, like his brain was trying to pull the words out of sludge.

“I know,” I whispered. “And to make it worse… the apartment? My goodness! A pipe burst. There’s water damage everywhere. The wooden floors are ruined in the guest room. It’s unlivable.”

More silence. Thick, heavy silence. And then a throat clearing.

“Unlivable?” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what you think it means, Ryan. I’m staying with Jules for now. Just until I figure things out.”

This time, the silence stretched.

I sat cross-legged on my leather sofa, bone dry, of course, twisting my hair into a loose, anxious knot for effect. I imagined him on the other end, blinking stupidly, recalculating.

The ring.

The “forever” speech.

The skyline he’d mentally moved into.

“I… I didn’t expect this, Sloane,” he finally said, his voice having lost all its lustre. “Maybe we should… slow things down. Rebuild. You know, get stable before we move forward.”

“Right,” I murmured, just above a whisper, letting my breath hitch like I was trying not to cry. This was it… this was Ryan refusing to see me. This was Ryan blatantly showing me that he didn’t care.

“I get it,” I said.

The next morning, he texted me.

“I think we moved too fast. Let’s take some space, Sloane.”

No calls. No offers to help. He was just… gone.

I waited three days.

And then I called him. It was a video call this time because some truths deserve a front-row seat.

Ryan answered the phone, looking like he hadn’t shaved or slept well. His hoodie was wrinkled and his voice came out rough.

“Sloane, hey…”

I was standing on the balcony, wearing my silk pajamas, barefoot against the warm stone tiles. I had a chilled glass of champagne on the side table next to me, and I was ready to put my heartache on hold.

And to teach Ryan a lesson, of course.

I didn’t smile. I just tilted the phone slightly.

“You’re back home?” he asked, hope sparking his eyes.

“I’m home,” I said simply. “But it’s funny, isn’t it?”

“What is, Sloane?” he asked, sighing like he was just so tired.

“That you vanished faster than the so-called flood in my apartment. Well, everything is fine. There was nothing wrong with my apartment. I just wanted to know if you truly cared about me… but I guess not, huh?”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“I got promoted too, by the way,” I added. My voice was steady, but my heart was hammering.

This was it.

This was the moment I ended it with Ryan. All those months of us getting to know each other, spending time together… all of that was over.

“Anyway,” I continued. “The CEO offered me the European expansion. I’ll have Paris on my doorstep. Big win for me, Ryan.”

A flicker of shame crossed his face. Or maybe it was guilt. They often wear the same skin, don’t they?

“But thank you,” I continued, lifting the glass to my lips. “For showing me what ‘forever’ means to you. We clearly have different definitions of the word.”

“Sloane, wait… I…”

“No,” I said, my voice cracking on that word. I didn’t cover it. I let him hear the pain in my voice. “You don’t get to speak to me. Not now, not ever.”

He blinked.

“You had your chance, Ryan. You had me. Before the skyline, before the stories, before the rushed proposal… And you let go the second it didn’t look easy for you.”

I held his gaze, just long enough to make it sting.

Then I ended the call.

Blocked. Deleted. Gone.

Jules came over that night with Thai food and zero judgment.

She didn’t ask questions. She just kicked off her shoes, handed me a container of spring rolls, and flopped onto the couch like she’d lived there in another life.

“He really thought he played you,” she said, unwrapping her chopsticks. “Meanwhile, you were three steps ahead, glass in hand.”

I gave her a half-smile, eyes still pulled toward the skyline. It looked the same as it always had, endless and glowing, but somehow… brighter. Maybe it was just me, finally seeing clearly.

“It’s weird,” I murmured. “I’m not even heartbroken, maybe a little bit. But I am… disappointed. Like I wanted him to pass the test, Jules. I really did. I was rooting for Ryan.”

“Girl,” she said, mouth full of noodles. “He didn’t even bring an umbrella to the storm. You made one phone call and he bailed like you were on fire. That man was in it for the perks, not the person.”

I laughed, really laughed, but there was a lump in my throat anyway. Not for Ryan.

Rather for what I thought we could’ve been. For who I thought he might be.

“I think the worst part,” I said slowly. “Is knowing that he wouldn’t have survived the real storms. Like… if things actually got hard.”

Jules put her carton down and looked me dead in the eye.

“He’s not your storm shelter, babe,” she said. “He was just the weak roof you hadn’t tested yet.”

And somehow, that landed harder than anything else.

People love to say, “You’ll know it’s real when things get hard.”

So, I made things look hard.

And what did he do?

Ghosted me. Ran.

Because it was clear that Ryan wasn’t in love with me. He was in love with the idea of me, the lifestyle, the convenience, the curated illusion. But the second that cracked, even just a little, he folded.

Not everyone can handle the truth behind the shine.

But me? I’d rather be alone in a penthouse with my peace than hand over the keys to someone who only wanted the view.

Real love isn’t about who stays when the lights are on. It’s about who holds you through the flicker. Ryan left before the first rumble of thunder.

And now?

I still have the view. The job that promises to take me places and the fridge that talks.

And most importantly?

I have the lesson.

So here’s to champagne, closure, and never again confusing potential with promise.

What would you have done?

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