For three years, I'd shared a New York apartment with Ethan, my college boyfriend. To everyone who knew us, we were the perfect couple.
He was the kind of boyfriend who'd surprise me by clearing out my online shopping cart, who never forgot an important date, and who even planted a tiny herb garden with mint and basil for me on the balcony of our cramped Brooklyn apartment.
Six months ago, he moved us into a new apartment in Manhattan, proudly calling it the home we’d build our future in. As a designer, I was thrilled to pour my skills into the renovation.
I thought all that was missing was a proposal.
Until he took me to the Hamptons for his family's charity gala.
At the gala, an elegant stranger slipped her arm through his and asked sweetly, "Ethan, is this the roommate you're always telling me about?"
Ethan pressed a kiss to her temple, his smile radiating an adoration I’d never seen before. "Yes, it is. Thanks to her design skills, the new place turned out perfectly."
He turned to me, his voice low as he met my shocked gaze. "Chloe, don't give me that look. It's perfectly normal for a guy to have a girlfriend, isn't it? Don't you dare say a word."
"Then what am I?" I asked numbly.
He delivered the final, crushing blow without a moment's hesitation:
"You? You’re my roommate. The one who pays half the rent and warms my bed. It’s been a mutually beneficial arrangement for three years, hasn’t it?"
"I give you the attention you crave, you take care of my physical needs. Besides, living with me has saved you a fortune."
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1
I stumbled back, my heel catching the leg of a chair with a dull, painful thud.
"A mutually beneficial arrangement?"
Those words shattered the three-year-long delusion I’d mistaken for love.
On the twentieth of every month, I would dutifully Venmo him three thousand dollars for my share of the rent.
When we first moved into that Manhattan loft, Ethan had looked me straight in the eye and, with what I'd mistaken for sincerity, told me the rent for such a prime location was six thousand a month. Splitting it, he’d said, was only fair.
He'd even added, with a thoughtful look, "I know you've only just started out as a freelance designer, so if money's tight, you can owe me."
I had been so moved I’d nearly cried, convinced he was the most considerate man on earth.
To make sure I wasn't taking advantage of him, I always transferred my share of the rent on the first of every month, without fail.
But now, Isabella was clinging to his arm, asking with a beaming smile, "Ethan, did you really buy our new home?"
Ethan kissed her forehead. "Of course. I'd never let my wife live in a rented place."
In that instant, my blood ran ice-cold.
So, the apartment wasn't a rental at all.
It was his.
So, I'd been paying him three thousand dollars a month. To live in *his* property. To design a home for *him and his fiancée*. All while I was lost in the sweet illusion that we were building a life together.
Not only had I given him my professional design and sourcing skills for free, but I’d also paid him fucking rent and slept with him!
Nausea and rage surged through me, a furious roar in my ears.
"Ethan, look, Chloe looks so pale. Is she not feeling well?" Isabella's voice chimed in. She looked at me, her eyes filled with genuine concern.
Ethan finally spared me a glance, his brow furrowed with impatience. "Probably low blood sugar," he muttered. "She gets like this. A little high-maintenance."
With that, he wrapped an arm around Isabella and turned to leave.
Just then, the gala's emcee walked onto the stage with a microphone, and the lighting technician expertly cast a spotlight on him.
"Esteemed guests, we have a double celebration tonight!" the emcee's voice boomed with enthusiasm. "Not only have we raised funds for a worthy cause, but our handsome young entrepreneur, Mr. Ethan Cooper, also successfully proposed to the girl of his dreams just last week!"
At his words, the champagne flute slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor.
The socialites around us let out gasps and cheers, rushing to congratulate Ethan.
In the spotlight, he pulled Isabella closer, accepting their congratulations with a calm smile before pressing a kiss to her lips.
The emcee seized the moment, holding the microphone out to him. "Ethan, tell us all the details of the proposal! Was it incredibly romantic?"
Ethan cleared his throat, his gaze sweeping across the room before landing on my face with a hint of defiance.
He smiled and said, "It wasn't anything too special, actually. I took her to our new home, and I saw her standing in front of the custom bookshelf I had built. The sunset was shining on her. In that moment, I just knew I had to marry her."
That custom bookshelf... the design I had stayed up all night drafting...
My stomach churned violently. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I shoved my way through the crowd and fled toward the restrooms.
I hunched over the cold marble counter, dry-heaving while hot tears streamed down my face, blurring the reflection of the pale, idiotic girl in the mirror.
I don't remember how I got home.
I let myself in with my key, and the motion-sensor light in the entryway flickered on, illuminating the matching slippers we kept side-by-side—a ridiculous, glaring sight.
The Italian leather sofa we'd picked out together in the living room, the white roses I'd arranged on the dining table, and on the balcony, the mint and basil I had so carefully tended, now thriving... every single object was a silent mockery of my foolishness.
I didn't turn on the lights. I felt my way to the sofa, curled into a ball, and buried my face in my knees.
I don't know how much time passed before I heard the lock turn.
The living room lights flashed on, so bright they stung my eyes.
Ethan was home.
He was humming an off-key tune as he took off his Tom Ford suit jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. When he saw me, his expression was blank, devoid of the guilt or awkwardness I'd expected after the gala.
"Why are you sitting here in the dark? You scared me," he said, loosening his tie as he walked toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower first. I reek of alcohol."
I watched his back. How could he be so casual?
It was as if the three years we'd spent together, all those intimate days and nights, were nothing but a meaningless dream.
After his shower, Ethan strolled out with a towel slung low on his hips, water trickling down the hard planes of his abs.
He smelled of the Aesop body wash we always used.
He dried his hair as he walked straight toward my bedroom.
Then, as I watched, he pulled back the covers of my bed with practiced ease, preparing to lie down.
In that instant, the humiliation that had been simmering all night finally boiled over.
"What are you doing!" I rushed over and shoved him with all my strength.
Ethan stumbled, then turned back, his face a mask of shocked, uncomprehending innocence.
"What am I doing?" His brows furrowed tightly. "Chloe, what's with the attitude now?"
"Ethan, this is my bed," I said, my voice trembling as uncontrollably as my hands.
"I know it's your bed." His expression was one of pure entitlement as he took a step toward me. "So?"
"You're getting engaged!" I practically screamed.
He finally seemed to understand, but his expression only grew more contemptuous and impatient.
"My engagement isn't until next month," he said, reaching out to stroke my face like he used to. I flinched away in disgust.
His hand froze mid-air, and his face hardened. "That doesn't mean we have to stop sleeping together. You enjoy it just as much as I do, don't you?"
After a struggle, I finally shoved him out of my room.
That night, I lay awake until dawn.
Everything in the bedroom suffocated me.
The photo of us on the nightstand, the half of the closet he occupied, even the lingering scent of his body wash in the air.
As soon as the sun rose, I got out of bed and dragged a dusty suitcase from the deepest corner of the storage closet.
I had to get out. Now.
Without a shred of sentimentality, I mechanically stuffed my clothes, design books, and cosmetics into the suitcase.
The matching couple's outfits and mugs I once treasured were now tossed into a trash bag without a second thought.
The noise I made woke Ethan up.
He leaned against my bedroom doorframe, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and taking in the mess on the floor with a wide yawn.
"What's all this fuss about so early in the morning?" His tone was less a question than a complaint about being disturbed.
I ignored him, zipping up the full suitcase and grabbing a cardboard box to start clearing the bookshelf.
My silence finally seemed to get through to him.
He walked over to me, the sleepiness vanishing from his face.
"You're moving out?" He scoffed. "Chloe, can you stop being so childish?"
I stopped what I was doing and looked at him coldly. "I can't live here anymore."
He crossed his arms, launching into a lecture. "Have you even done the math? A one-bedroom this size in Manhattan will run you at least five grand a month. Add utilities, and what's left of that little freelance income of yours? You won't even be able to afford your daily Starbucks."
He paused, then leaned in close, his warm breath on my face. "Living here with me saves you at least twenty-five hundred a month, without downgrading your lifestyle."
Seeing my blank expression, he must have thought he needed to apply more pressure. He added, his voice low and self-satisfied, "And, it's convenient for me, too."
I trembled with anger, my nails digging deep into my palms.
Ethan, completely oblivious to my fury, thought my silence was a sign of wavering.
He casually picked up a piece of Agent Provocateur lace lingerie I had just folded—something I had bought specially for an anniversary.
He rubbed the silky lace between his fingers, then leaned down and pressed his lips to my ear, his voice a low, suggestive whisper meant only for me:
"Besides, you can't deny we're good together in bed, can you?"
"Are you sure you want to give that up?"
He lightly nibbled my earlobe, and I turned my head away in revulsion.
"Honestly," he chuckled, his voice taking on a sleazy edge, "Isabella is nowhere near as wild as you are."
He then squeezed my ass. "Chloe, be reasonable. I provide you with a comfortable place in Manhattan, and you satisfy some of my needs. It's a win-win, the most practical transaction between two adults. Don't make it so complicated, okay?"
