Patrick and I had been together for two years, and every time I brought up the idea of moving in together or, heaven forbid, getting engaged, his response was always the same:

“We don’t know each other well enough yet.”

It didn’t matter that we had spent countless weekends at each other’s places, gone on vacations together, and shared secrets that only couples in love do. According to him, we were still in the getting to know each other phase.

Fine. I waited. I was patient.

Then my aunt passed away last month. It was a devastating loss, but amidst my grief, I received unexpected news—she had left me her three-bedroom apartment in her will. A beautiful place in a good part of town.

I told Patrick about it.

And that very night, as if struck by divine revelation, he magically knew me well enough.

He showed up at my door, all smiles and enthusiasm, holding a little velvet box in his hands. The same man who had hesitated, who had stalled for two years, was suddenly kneeling before me, asking me to be his wife.

My stomach twisted. The realization hit me like a freight train. It wasn’t me he wanted—it was the apartment.

But instead of calling him out right then and there? I played along.

I gasped, clutched my chest like a woman overwhelmed by love, and forced the biggest, happiest smile I could muster.

“Yes! I’ll marry you!”

His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

But before he could slip the ring onto my finger, I held up a single finger, halting him in his tracks.

“On ONE condition.”

His smile faltered for just a second before he recovered. “Anything, babe!” he grinned.

I took a deep breath and dropped the bomb.

“From now on, you will ALWAYS follow one rule of mine.”

His forehead creased. “What rule?”

I leaned in closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“No legal marriage until we’ve lived together for at least a year. Full year. No exceptions.”

His face paled for a fraction of a second before he forced a chuckle. “Oh, uh, okay. I mean, we were gonna move in together anyway, right?”

I beamed. “Exactly!”

And just like that, my trap was set.

At first, everything was wonderful. Patrick wasted no time packing his things and moving in, suddenly acting like the most devoted fiancé in the world. He’d bring me breakfast in bed, call me pet names more often, and shower me with attention like never before.

But the longer we lived together, the more his true colors started to show.

At first, it was small things. The way he conveniently forgot his wallet when we went out. The way he never contributed to household expenses despite insisting on ordering takeout five nights a week. The way he’d make comments about the apartment—our apartment—as if it was his.

Then, it escalated.

One evening, I overheard him on the phone.

“Yeah, man, I’ll get it in my name soon. Once we’re married, it’s basically mine too. No rush—just playing the long game.”

I froze in place.

Patrick wasn’t just a leech. He was waiting for me to marry him so he could claim what was mine.

That night, I decided to end it. But not before teaching him a lesson.

A week later, I sat him down with the most serious look on my face.

“Patrick, we need to talk.”

He straightened up. “Uh, okay. What’s up?”

I sighed dramatically. “I’ve been thinking… about our future.”

His eyes sparkled with barely concealed greed. “Yeah?”

I nodded solemnly. “I don’t think we should wait the full year.”

His whole body perked up. “You don’t?”

I shook my head. “No. I think we should just move forward with marriage right away.”

His grin stretched ear to ear. “Babe, that’s amazing!”

“But,” I interjected, holding up a hand, “there’s one tiny detail.”

“Anything, babe,” he said quickly.

“I’ve decided I want a prenup.”

Silence.

His smile stiffened. “A… what?”

“A prenuptial agreement,” I repeated sweetly. “Just a simple one to keep things fair, you know? The apartment stays in my name no matter what. And any assets I had before the marriage remain solely mine. You’d do the same for your stuff, of course.”

His expression darkened like a storm cloud. “But babe, that’s not really necessary, is it?”

I tilted my head. “Oh? Why not?”

“Marriage is about trust! A prenup is like… planning for failure. We don’t need that, right?”

I stared at him. “You mean you don’t need that. Because if you really loved me, it wouldn’t matter.”

Patrick squirmed. “It’s just… I don’t know, it feels like you don’t trust me.”

I let the silence stretch between us before finally standing up.

“Funny,” I said, crossing my arms. “Because I don’t.”

His face drained of all color.

And then, for the first time, I saw him—the real Patrick. Not the sweet guy who had proposed out of nowhere. Not the charming boyfriend who had suddenly decided I was ‘the one’ after I inherited property.

Just a man who had been hoping to use me.

“Get out,” I said, my voice steady.

“Babe, c’mon, let’s—”

“Get. Out.”

I watched as his mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He knew. He knew there was no way to talk himself out of this.

Finally, he grabbed his things and left.

And just like that, the weight I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying lifted off my shoulders.

Looking back, I’m grateful for what happened. Patrick showed me exactly who he was before I made the mistake of legally tying myself to him.

The lesson? When someone hesitates to commit, but suddenly finds their devotion when money or property is involved—trust your gut.

Because love? Real love? Doesn’t come with conditions.

If you liked this story, share it with someone who needs to hear it. And let me know—have you ever caught someone with ulterior motives? 👇