He Claimed to Support Me

The day my boyfriend told me he would support me, I quit my job. Within a year, he started coming home every night smelling of alcohol. Late one night, he was drunk again. "Do you have any idea how exhausting it is for me to make money out there every single day? One salary supporting two people. The rent, utilities, groceries—isn't it all coming out of my pocket?" "Look at you. You just sit at home enjoying life, completely shielded from the harsh reality outside!" I cut him off, my voice cold. "Then stop supporting me." He froze, his face turning bright red. "You said it, not me! Pack your trash and get the hell out of here!" I slammed the property deed right onto his face. "The only one who needs to get the hell out is you." I had bought this place as a surprise for him. Now, there was no need. The property deed smacked against his face with a sharp slap, sounding just like a physical blow. Ethan Miller didn’t even have time to dodge. He stood there, completely wasted. The manila envelope bounced off the bridge of his nose and slid onto the floor. It fell open, and there it was, in black and white—the sole owner’s name: Chloe Shen. His pupils dilated instantly, as if someone had choked him. I leaned against the dining table, my fingers trembling slightly. It wasn't out of fear. It was because I had held these words in for way too long. The day he told me he wanted to take care of me, I was genuinely touched. I honestly thought I had found the best man in the world. But the expiration date of his love was shorter than a carton of milk from the supermarket. In less than three months, he started showing his true colors. "Chloe, how much did you spend this month? Why are you out of money again?" "Can you try to be more budget-conscious? Do you think it’s easy for me to make money out there?" "My coworker’s wife still works, and she’s pregnant!" Every single word meant the same thing: Why haven't you gotten a job yet? I endured it. Because he had promised to support me, and I had believed him. But what he didn't know was that I kept track of every single penny. He transferred $500 to me every month, labeling it "rent." Meanwhile, I was quietly putting in nearly $2,000 of my own money every month just to keep us afloat. And he called that "supporting me." I picked up the deed and waved it in front of him. "See this clearly? This condo is in my name. I paid the $150,000 down payment, and I didn't ask you for a single dime. Your $500 a month wouldn't even cover half the rent in this neighborhood." "Ethan, the only person you are supporting is yourself, not me!" The shock sobered him up instantly. His anger turned into sheer bewilderment. "Where did you get that kind of money?" "My parents gave it to me." I let out a cold laugh. "Didn't you call my parents cheap? Didn't you tell your bros behind my back that my family was broke and I was just acting high and mighty?" Ethan’s face went entirely pale. I continued, stepping closer. "What's wrong? Is a $150,000 down payment not enough to shut your mouth? Or are you going to say I'm useless because I rely on my family?" His lips began to tremble. Looking at his pathetic expression, I said calmly: "Last month, when your mother visited, you told me not to wear my expensive winter coats. You said she couldn't stand seeing me waste money. So I wore my oldest, shabbiest jacket. And what did she do? She still looked down on me. She literally told me to my face: 'My Ethan has such a bright future. It’s really a pity he’s stuck with someone like you.'" I laughed out loud. "Her retirement pension is barely $300 a month, and your dad does odd jobs in your hometown. Where does your family get the nerve to look down on me?" Ethan’s eyes turned red. Not from guilt, but from utter humiliation and rage. "Chloe, that’s enough!" He suddenly screamed, loud enough for the entire building to hear. "You think you're so special just because you have some cash? Let me tell you, if I hadn't taken care of you this past year, you wouldn't have lived this comfortably!" "Taken care of me?" I repeated, almost laughing at the absurdity. "How exactly did you take care of me? Have you ever washed a single dish? Have you ever mopped the floor? You haven't even washed a single pair of your own dirty socks!" "That’s because you wouldn't let me!" he shot back defensively."I wouldn't let you?" I took another step forward. "Ethan, look me in the eye and tell me: when have you ever voluntarily done any chores? You come home from work, sit your ass down, and play video games until three in the morning. When I tell you to sleep early, you say you're stressed and need to unwind. You think you're the only one under pressure?" He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. "Do you know what time I wake up every day? Six. I make you breakfast, and you just eat and leave, leaving your dirty dishes in the sink.” “After I clean up, I start doing the laundry, vacuuming, buying groceries, and prepping dinner." "When you're not here for lunch, I eat leftovers. In the afternoon, I keep cleaning because you leave the place in a total mess.” “You ash your cigarettes in my plant pots, throw your dirty socks on the floor, and leave empty beer cans wherever you please." My voice started to crack. "I clean up after you until evening, waiting for you to come home for dinner. I reheat the food over and over again, only to throw it in the trash at midnight because you never show up." "Ethan, is this the 'comfortable life' you were talking about?" He lowered his head, not daring to look at me. His tears froze on his face. "Stop acting, Ethan. You're not crying because you're sorry. You're crying because I exposed you and you can't play the victim anymore." I turned around and threw the front door wide open. The cold draft from the hallway rushed in, messing up his hair. "I'll give you three days to pack up and get out." He stood there, frozen, as if nailed to the floor. Suddenly, he laughed. It was a cold, chilling laugh that made my skin crawl. "Chloe, you think you're so smart buying this condo? Let me tell you, even if the deed has your name on it, I put money into this place every month. That makes it marital property!" "We aren't married," I reminded him. His smirk stiffened. "And," I pulled out my phone and opened PayPal, showing him the transaction history. "Every single time you transferred that $500, you wrote 'rent' in the memo. Ethan, you wrote that yourself." His face completely collapsed. I had seen too many horror stories online, so I had been careful from the very beginning. When he first offered to support me, I asked him to send me monthly living expenses. He agreed, but every single transfer was meticulously labeled as "rent." I didn't think much of it back then, but later I realized he was just terrified that I would try to take his money if we broke up. How ironic. He was guarding against me, and I was guarding against him. We were like two shrewd merchants, calculating every penny in this relationship. The only difference was that he lost because of his greed, and I won because I kept a paper trail. "Get out," I said, my voice flat. Ethan clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. He glared at me for a solid ten seconds, his eyes shifting from anger to resentment, and finally to pure hatred. "You're going to regret this." He grabbed his coat from the couch and stormed out without looking back. The door slammed shut behind him with a deafening thud. I slid down against the wall, my entire body shaking. It wasn't fear. It was anger. I was shaking so hard, my eyes stinging, but I couldn't shed a single tear. It felt like my tears were blocked by a lump in my throat, swirling in my eyes but refusing to fall. In the living room, his dirty ashtray was still sitting on the coffee table, overflowing with cigarette butts. An unfinished beer can sat next to it. His white shirts were hanging on the balcony, and the shoe rack was stuffed with his sneakers. His traces were everywhere in this condo, like tiny thorns pricking my skin. Taking a deep breath, I stood up, walked into the bedroom, and slid open the closet. His clothes took up two-thirds of the space. My few old T-shirts were squeezed into a corner, wrinkled and looking like forgotten rags. I grabbed his clothes in handfuls and threw them onto the floor. Suits, shirts, jeans, socks—I shoved them all into heavy-duty trash bags. Four large trash bags were stuffed to the brim. I dragged them out to the hallway and piled them up right by the elevator. I would throw them down the chute first thing in the morning.Back in the bedroom, I picked up my phone and saw that he had posted on Instagram half an hour ago. "Some people... you treat them with nothing but love, and they turn around and bite you." The photo was a depressing shot of an empty dining table with a single used fork and plate. The comments were already rolling in. His bro, Kyle, asked: "Bro, what happened?" Ethan replied: "I fed a snake." Kyle replied instantly: "What the fuck? Your girl is that much of a bitch?" Ethan replied again: "Whatever. Just taking it as a lesson learned. Spent a year feeding a stray dog." I stared at the comments, my finger hovering over the screen. In the end, I didn't reply, nor did I explain. If he wanted to play the tragic hero, let him. The truth has a way of coming out eventually. But what I didn't expect was a phone call from my mom early the next morning. "Chloe, what's going on between you and Ethan?" My mom’s voice was filled with anxiety. "His mother just called me. She said you kicked him out! She said he worked himself to the bone to support you for a year, and you scammed him out of all his money!" I gripped my phone, stunned for a second. His mother called my mom? "Mom, don't listen to her lies," I said, keeping my voice as steady as possible. "I bought the condo myself. He only gave me $500 a month, which doesn't even cover rent. Him, supporting me? With what money?" There was a long silence on the other end. "What did you say?" My mom’s voice changed. "Didn't you say you were renting? When did you buy a condo?" I froze. I hadn't told my mom about buying the place. It wasn't that I wanted to keep it a secret; I just hadn't found the right time. My parents lived in another state. I didn't want them to worry about my finances, so I had lied and told them I was renting. Out of the $150,000 down payment, $100,000 was my own savings, and $50,000 was a secret gift from my dad, who had warned me not to let my mom know. And now, everything was a mess. "Mom, I'll explain everything later," I said, rubbing my temples. "Just ignore his mother for now. I'll handle Ethan myself." "Chloe, tell me the truth," my mom’s voice dropped, sounding incredibly fragile. "Have you been suffering out there all by yourself?" I opened my mouth to say no, but the words got stuck in my throat. My mom started tearing up. "I knew we shouldn't have let you move out of state with him. I knew that boy wasn't reliable, and his mother is a piece of work. You, all alone out there..." "Mom, I'm fine," I interrupted gently. "I'm really okay." After hanging up, I sat on the edge of the bed in a daze. Then my phone buzzed again. This time it was Kyle, his tone incredibly aggressive: "Can you be any more heartless? You know how much Ethan did for that home. He worked his ass off every day to make money, and you just dump him the moment you get a condo? Are you even human?!" I didn't reply. I just blocked his number. Then came Olivia, our mutual friend. She sent a barrage of voice messages on Snapchat: "Chloe, please calm down. Ethan can be a jerk sometimes, but he truly loves you. Look at how hard he worked this past year, staying late at the office and networking on weekends. Don't throw away a relationship over a petty fight..." I didn't bother listening to the rest. True love? He stayed late because he couldn't finish his work, and his "networking" was just drinking and playing video games with his bros. His "hard work" was nothing but a performance. I opened Instagram and saw that Ethan had updated his feed again. It was a close-up photo of the calluses on his hand. The caption read: "A year of hard work left calluses on my hands, and scars on my heart." The comments were nauseating: "Stay strong, brother." "You're better off without a gold-digger like her." "Let her rot. You deserve so much better."I actually laughed out loud. Those calluses were from gripping his gaming controller too hard, and now they were "proof" of his hard labor for our home. I threw my phone aside and went to wash my face. I had a lot of things to do today. The trash bags were still piled up by the elevator. I grabbed a few more pairs of his shoes and a suitcase, adding them to the pile. Then, I booked a deep-cleaning service for the afternoon to scrub the condo from top to bottom. The ash on the balcony, the beer cans in the living room, the greasy smell in the kitchen—I wanted it all gone. Finally, I contacted a local real estate agency to list the condo for rent. The agent, Noah Davies, looked to be around twenty-five. He wore black-rimmed glasses and spoke in a very gentle, polite tone. After inspecting the layout and decoration of the place, he asked, "How much are you looking to rent it for?" "$2,500," I said. He paused. "Chloe, $2,500 is a bit high for this area. Typically, $2,000 to $2,200 is more realistic." "I know." I handed him the keys. "Let's list it at $2,500 first. If no one takes it, we can talk." He didn't push further. He took the keys, giving me a lingering, hesitant look. I knew what he wanted to ask. But he simply said, "It’s a beautiful place, Chloe. I'm sure we'll find a tenant soon." I smiled at him and walked out. Near the exit of the community, I ran into Mrs. Gable, my neighbor from downstairs. She was carrying a bag of groceries. When she saw me, she waved warmly. "Chloe! I haven't seen you around lately. How have you been?" "Just resting at home," I said with a smile. "Where's your boyfriend? The tall, skinny one who's always smoking?" Mrs. Gable peeked behind me. "We broke up," I said simply. Mrs. Gable’s expression shifted. She looked like she wanted to offer some comforting words, but in the end, she just patted my hand. "Honestly, good for you. No rush to settle down." I didn't ask her why she said "good for you," but I had a pretty good idea. Ethan was the type of guy who acted completely different in public than he did in private. He threw things and screamed at me behind closed doors, but to the neighbors, he was always the polite, perfect gentleman. But no matter how good an actor you are, you always leave clues. The smell of smoke in the elevator, the cigarette butts in the hallway, the sound of doors slamming in the dead of night... Neighbors aren't stupid. I walked to the main street and hailed an Uber. When the driver asked for the destination, I gave him the address of my best friend, Harper. She should be home. I needed someone to talk to—or honestly, just someone to sit in silence with. Halfway there, my phone rang. It was Ethan. I hesitated for a couple of seconds before picking up. "Chloe," his voice was incredibly raspy, like he had been drinking and crying all night. "Are you really throwing me out?" I didn't say anything. "I was wrong, okay? I shouldn't have said those things, and I shouldn't have thrown a tantrum. Just let me come back. I'll change, I swear." His voice started cracking. "I have nowhere else to go. All my stuff is still at your place, I..." "Your stuff is in trash bags by the elevator. Go pick it up yourself."