My Boyfriend Proposed Right After Seeing My Luxury Apartment—He Had No Idea It Was a Test

When Sloane finally lets her boyfriend see her luxurious penthouse, he proposes the next day. But when a sudden “disaster” strikes, his loyalty crumbles. What he doesn’t know? It’s all a test… and she’s been watching closely. This is a story about power, love, and the moment a woman chooses herself.

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.

A pensive woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

A pensive woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

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.

The interior of a dive bar | Source: Midjourney

The interior of a dive bar | Source: Midjourney

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.

A smiling man | Source: Midjourney

A smiling man | Source: Midjourney

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?

The interior of a fast food place | Source: Midjourney

The interior of a fast food place | Source: Midjourney

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.

A bowl of ramen | Source: Midjourney

A bowl of ramen | Source: Midjourney

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.

A smiling doorman | Source: Midjourney

A smiling doorman | Source: Midjourney

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.

An elevator in a foyer | Source: Midjourney

An elevator in a foyer | Source: Midjourney

“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.

A wine fridge in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney

A wine fridge in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney

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.

A chair in the living room of a penthouse | Source: Midjourney

A chair in the living room of a penthouse | Source: Midjourney

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.

A close up of a man | Source: Midjourney

A close up of a man | Source: Midjourney

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.

A ring box on a coffee table | Source: Midjourney

A ring box on a coffee table | Source: Midjourney

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.

A smiling woman standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney

A smiling woman standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney

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.”

A ring display at a jewelry store | Source: Midjourney

A ring display at a jewelry store | Source: Midjourney

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.

A romantic table setting | Source: Midjourney

A romantic table setting | Source: Midjourney

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.”

A woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

A woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

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.”

A close up of a burst pipe | Source: Midjourney

A close up of a burst pipe | Source: Midjourney

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.

A man talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney

A man talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney

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.”

A woman sitting on a couch wearing a fluffy sweater | Source: Midjourney

A woman sitting on a couch wearing a fluffy sweater | Source: Midjourney

“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.

A cellphone on a table | Source: Midjourney

A cellphone on a table | Source: Midjourney

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…”

A close up of a tired man in a grey hoodie | Source: Midjourney

A close up of a tired man in a grey hoodie | Source: Midjourney

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.

A glass of champagne on a table | Source: Midjourney

A glass of champagne on a table | Source: Midjourney

“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?”

A woman standing on a penthouse balcony | Source: Midjourney

A woman standing on a penthouse balcony | Source: Midjourney

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 view of the Eiffel tower | Source: Midjourney

A view of the Eiffel tower | Source: Midjourney

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.”

A tired man with his eyes closed | Source: Midjourney

A tired man with his eyes closed | Source: Midjourney

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.

A side profile of a woman standing on a balcony | Source: Midjourney

A side profile of a woman standing on a balcony | Source: Midjourney

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.”

Thai food takeout on a coffee table | Source: Midjourney

Thai food takeout on a coffee table | Source: Midjourney

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.”

A carton of noodles | Source: Midjourney

A carton of noodles | Source: Midjourney

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.”

A pensive woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

A pensive woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

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?

A glum woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

A glum woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

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.

A close up of a man | Source: Midjourney

A close up of a man | Source: Midjourney

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.

A glass of champagne | Source: Midjourney

A glass of champagne | Source: Midjourney

What would you have done?

I Accidentally Found a Hidden Nanny Cam in My Bathroom and Went Pale When I Learned Why My 11-Year-Old Son Put It There

Finding the hidden camera tucked under my bathtub was terrifying, and realizing my son had put it there was even worse. But his tearful explanation made me realize he was on a mission to reawaken a part of me I thought was lost forever.

The jigsaw puzzle on our kitchen table had stayed the same for weeks, and I was getting worried. My son, Drake, and I used to love them, but things were much different now.

A puzzle on a table | Source: Pexels

A puzzle on a table | Source: Pexels

These days, he would rush straight to his room after school and shut the door firmly behind him. That is… after coming home later than usual.

I stirred the pasta sauce and checked my phone again: 6:45 p.m. Two hours late, just like yesterday. Through the kitchen window, I watched our neighbors walking their dogs and laughing together.

Our house used to buzz with that kind of energy. Now it felt like Drake and I were living in separate worlds, connected only by quick hellos and leftover dinners. Did this happen to all pre-teens?

A woman concerned | Source: Pexels

A woman concerned | Source: Pexels

A few minutes later, the front door creaked open.

“Hey, Mom.” Drake’s voice floated through the hallway, followed by the thud of his backpack hitting the floor.

“Kitchen,” I called out happily. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

He poked his head around the corner. I saw his messy hair covered by a backward baseball cap. Something about his eyes made me feel like my boy was back, even for just a second.

Boy with a backwards baseball cap | Source: Pexels

Boy with a backwards baseball cap | Source: Pexels

But they soon darted to the floor when I looked at him. I knew something was going on, but I had no idea how to address it. My boy almost seemed older than his few years.

“Sorry I’m late. Chess club ran long.”

“Chess club?” I raised my eyebrows. “Yesterday it was math tutoring. And Tuesday was yearbook committee.”

“Oh yeah, I do all those now.” He shuffled his feet. “Can I eat in my room? Got tons of homework.”

Math book and notebook | Source: Pexels

Math book and notebook | Source: Pexels

I gripped the wooden spoon tighter, accidentally dripping tomato sauce onto the stovetop, and decided enough was enough. “Drake, what’s really going on?” I asked, turning and putting one hand on my hip.

“Nothing! I told you, just busy with school stuff,” he shrugged and moved further into the kitchen. Without meeting my gaze, he grabbed a plate, scooped up some pasta, and disappeared before I could press further.

Pasta dish | Source: Pexels

Pasta dish | Source: Pexels

I sighed and wondered to the heavens for the millionth time if I should intervene. Maybe I wouldn’t get an answer from up above, but I could try to find some of my own.

I checked the hallway, and his door was shut as usual, but he had left his backpack in the living room. It was my chance.

Inside, crumpled between textbooks, I found a piece of paper with an address scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting: “1247 Maple Street. Don’t be late. This is it.”

Backpack on the floor | Source: Unsplash

Backpack on the floor | Source: Unsplash

What was going on? I wondered, horrified.

***

That night, I found myself going through his old baby photos, spread across my bedroom floor like pieces of a life I barely recognized anymore.

There he was, two years old, grinning with spaghetti sauce all over his face. That happy little boy used to tell me everything. Now he barely looked at me.

Toddler covered in spaghetti sauce | Source: Midjourney

Toddler covered in spaghetti sauce | Source: Midjourney

The parent-teacher conference from last week played in my head.

“Drake seems… distracted lately,” Mrs. Peterson had said, sliding his failed math test across her desk. “He’s been falling asleep in class. When he’s awake, he’s always scribbling in his notebook, but it’s not notes from the lesson.”

How could he be getting a grade like that with math tutoring? Was it time to pull the plug on all other clubs?

A math test | Source: Pexels

A math test | Source: Pexels

Either way, I knew sleep wouldn’t come, so I decided to take a shower.

The bathroom was my sanctuary, the one place I could relax and belt out old songs without anyone hearing. Tonight’s selection was “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”

The steam rose around me as I hit the chorus, and I remembered how I used to dream of being on stage.

A woman washing her hair | Source: Pexels

A woman washing her hair | Source: Pexels

Where do we go now?” I sang, letting my voice soar like it used to at the coffee shop open mics when my future hopes were far grander than what reality allowed.

Sadly, those wishes were extinguished the moment, Tom, Drake’s father and my ex, left us for his new family in Seattle.

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past again. The present was much more important. I finished cleaning myself up and exited my shower. As I dried my hair, I felt the pull on my ear and heard a clink on my tiled floor.

A woman drying up | Source: Pexels

A woman drying up | Source: Pexels

My earring! I bent down to get it and saw the crystal’s shining light reflecting from just under the bathtub. Except… something else caught my eye.

There, hidden under the edge, was an old nanny cam I used when Drake was a baby. And it was ON. I immediately went pale. But I examined the angle. It would only be recording my feet. I didn’t get it.

Still, my hands shook as I took it and carefully wrapped myself in a towel to march straight to Drake’s room. The sound of his furious typing stopped when I pounded on the door.

A woman holding a small camera | Source: Pexels

A woman holding a small camera | Source: Pexels

“Just a minute!” he called out, and I heard drawers being opened and shut. What in the world?

“Drake, open this door right now!”

Finally, I heard footsteps and the door swung open.

He stood there in his oversized gaming headphones, and his own face turned white as soon as I held up the nanny cam.

A boy with headphones | Source: Pexels

A boy with headphones | Source: Pexels

“Drake, what is this? Why was this hidden in the bathroom?!” I asked, as my anger and bravado turned to extreme worry.

When he remained silent, I gulped and asked, “Have you been… recording me in the bathroom?”

His eyes widened at that. His expression was terrified. “Oh no… Mom, you weren’t supposed to find that. IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK. I can explain!”

“Then start explaining.” I pushed past him into his room and looked at his computer. The screen showed some kind of video editing software. Oh, no! What is he doing?

A laptop on a desk | Source: Pexels

A laptop on a desk | Source: Pexels

But before I could panic more, Drake spoke. “I…” He slumped onto his bed. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”

“Find out what? That my son is making videos of…” I couldn’t even say it.

“No! Mom, listen,” he pleaded as tears welled up in his eyes. “Remember when you used to sing at the coffee shop open mics? Before Dad left?”

The question caught me off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”

A woman looking confused | Source: Pexels

A woman looking confused | Source: Pexels

“You were so happy then. Now you only sing in the shower, when you think no one can hear you.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “But you’re still amazing, Mom. I wanted to show you that.”

He reached for his laptop and turned it toward me. His fingers pressed play, and suddenly, the screen showed me… well, a music video.

I saw a sunset over the city and streets filled with people chasing their dreams. But the main part was the soundtrack with my voice, clear and strong. It was playing “My Way.”

A sunset over New York | Source: Pexels

A sunset over New York | Source: Pexels

“I met an old man, Mr. Arthur. I’ve been going to his studio after school,” Drake continued. “He’s been teaching me video editing. I wanted to surprise you for your birthday, show you that you shouldn’t give up on your dreams just because…”

“Because your father left?” The words stuck in my throat.

“He owns all these old instruments, and he lets me practice drums while he teaches me about making videos.” Drake’s words tumbled out faster now. “I’ve been doing extra chores for neighbors to pay for studio time. Mr. Arthur says I have a good eye for it.”

A drum set | Source: Pexels

A drum set | Source: Pexels

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you worry about everything now.” His voice cracked. “Ever since Dad left, it’s like you stopped believing in good surprises. I thought if I could just finish the video, show you how amazing you still are…”

Tears welled and fell before I could stop them. All this time, I’d been so worried about what he was hiding. Never once did I consider he might be worried about me too.

A woman crying | Source: Pexels

A woman crying | Source: Pexels

“You could have just talked to me,” I said softly, wrapping my arms around him.

“Would you have listened?” He looked up at me, suddenly seeming older than 11. “You always say you’re fine, but I hear you crying sometimes. And you never sing anymore, except in the shower.”

I pulled him close, feeling his thin shoulders shake. “I’m sorry, baby. I guess we’ve both been keeping too many things inside.”

We stayed in silence for a few minutes before I remembered something. “Oh! Is Mr. Arthur’s studio on 1247 Maple Street?”

A music studio | Source: Midjourney

A music studio | Source: Midjourney

“Yes!” Drake said, but then frowned. “How did you know?”

“In the interest of honesty…” I began and confessed to rummaging through his backpack. Shockingly, we just laughed at each other.

***

The next day, we visited Mr. Arthur’s studio together. He turned out to be a gentle giant with calloused hands and kind eyes, surrounded by dusty guitars and vintage recording equipment.

Music equipment | Source: Pexels

Music equipment | Source: Pexels

“Your boy’s got talent,” he told me and showed me more of Drake’s videos. “And so do you.”

And now that the secrets were out, Drake and I finally finished the jigsaw puzzle together. I also sang outside the shower for the first time in years.

What’s more, next week, I’m singing at the coffee shop again. My son will be there, recording every moment. This time, I won’t be afraid of a little camera.

A woman singing a microphone | Source: Pexels

A woman singing a microphone | Source: Pexels

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.

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