My Fiance Chose His Ex 18 Times

The deadbolt of Room 114 slid into place with a gritty click.

I shoved my gray hard-shell suitcase into the corner, the plastic wheels catching on the frayed, mustard-colored carpet.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out. The cracked screen illuminated the dark room.

Ben.

Where are you? It's pouring out. Stop acting like a child and come home.

Our future.

I thought about the twenty-four thousand dollars sitting in Olivia’s landlord’s bank account.

I didn't type a reply. I tapped the settings icon, swiped down to his contact name, hit the toggle, and muted him.

The screen went black. I tossed the phone onto the lumpy pillows.

Ten hours later, I stood in the doorway of a fourth-floor walk-up in the East End.

Theo Mercer unrolled a large blueprint across a makeshift plywood table. He wore a tailored navy suit that looked entirely out of place amidst the debris. Dust motes danced in the shafts of gray light filtering through the grime-caked windows.

"You're on time," he said, smoothing the edges of the paper.

"I said I'd be here at nine." I stepped over a pile of shattered floor tiles. "Is this a joke, Theo?"

He tapped the blueprint. "This place is a disaster, Hannah. The plumbing is from the seventies, the electrical wiring is a massive fire hazard, and that wall over there?" He pointed to a bloated, peeling partition near the entrance. "Water damage. Extensive."

I kicked a loose piece of baseboard. It splintered against my boot. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Because it costs thirty thousand dollars."

I stopped moving.

Theo rolled the blueprint up, slapping it against his palm. "Exactly what you told me you transferred out of your joint account last night."

"Thirty grand for a shell," I said, eyeing the exposed ceiling joists.

"Thirty grand for a clean slate. The seller is desperate to offload it. A divorce settlement gone wrong. You own it outright. No mortgage, no bank breathing down your neck, no fiancé controlling the purse strings."

"I don't have extra cash for renovations right now."

"You have a steady paycheck from the hospital," he countered. "You do the demo yourself. You buy materials piece by piece. You live in the mess until it's not a mess anymore."

"I can't live here. There's no heat."

"Buy a space heater." He tossed the rolled-up paper onto the plywood. "Or keep paying sixty bucks a night for a motel that smells like regret."

"I can't afford a space heater if I spend every dime I have on the closing costs," I shot back.

"Closing costs are covered. The seller is eating them just to get this off his hands today."

"There has to be a catch."

"The catch is you're standing in it," Theo said, gesturing to the ceiling. "It needs a new roof in the next five years. The windows leak. You'll be spending your weekends at the hardware store instead of brunch."

"I don't go to brunch."

"Good. You'll fit right in."

I walked past him, heading toward the back of the unit. The kitchen was barely a kitchen. Greasy, warped cabinets hung off rusted hinges. The linoleum floor peeled up at the corners, revealing dark, rotted wood underneath.

I ran my fingers along the edge of the stainless-steel sink. The metal was cold and rough, coated in years of grime.

I pictured a sledgehammer swinging into the drywall. I imagined tearing away the mold, ripping out the rot, and exposing the bare studs. Building something new. Something that belonged only to me. No shared accounts. No secret wire transfers.

"Can the wall between the kitchen and the living room come down?" I asked, testing the rusted faucet. It wouldn't budge.

Theo stepped up behind me. His leather shoes crunched softly against the debris.

He tossed a heavy metal object onto the counter. It clattered loudly against the sink.

A yellow measuring tape.

"It's non-load-bearing," Theo said, his voice dropping an octave. "You can smash it to dust."

I picked up the tape. The plastic casing felt heavy in my palm.

"I've never renovated anything," I admitted, turning to face him.

"You learn."

"I don't know how to lay tile. I don't know how to frame a wall."

Theo leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "The first step to controlling your own life is laying bricks from the ruins."

I gripped the tape measure tighter. Six years of saving for bay windows and a fenced yard, all erased by a single bank transfer. Now I was standing in a rotting box, holding a tool I barely knew how to use, talking to a man who despised my ex-fiancé.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked.

"I'm a real estate broker. I sell properties."

"You sell luxury condos, Theo. Not thirty-thousand-dollar dumpsters."

A sharp, humorless smile touched his lips. "Maybe I just like watching Ben lose."

My jaw tightened. "Keep Ben out of this. If I do this, it's for me. Not to get back at him."

"Then make a decision."

"You think I can't handle this?" I challenged, stepping closer to him.

"I think you've spent the last six years playing it safe," Theo said, not backing down. "You packed your little lunches and saved your little pennies and waited for a man to hand you the keys to your life."

I shoved his shoulder. "Shut up."

He didn't move. "Prove me wrong, Hannah."

I turned away from the kitchen and walked toward the far end of the apartment. A sliding glass door, clouded with dirt and hard water stains, led outside.

I grabbed the metal handle and shoved. The rusted tracks screeched in protest, but the door gave way.

The narrow concrete balcony overlooked the bustling street below. Yellow cabs weaved through the morning traffic. The cold wind slapped my face, sharp and biting, carrying the scent of exhaust and damp asphalt.

My phone vibrated against my hip.

I pulled it out. A text from Ben pushed through the muted notifications, flashing brightly against the gray morning light.

Are you done throwing this tantrum? I'm not apologizing again.

I stared at the black text. The arrogance. The absolute certainty that I would crawl back to that apartment, accept his excuses, and start saving pennies all over again while Olivia lived comfortably on my dime.

I didn't type a response. I didn't delete the message.

I simply swiped it away.

I pivoted on my heel, stepping back into the dusty living room. Theo was watching me, his dark eyes fixed on my face.

"I want this place," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet room.

Theo raised an eyebrow. "You sure? It's a gut job."

"I'm sure. But I need you to help me find a construction crew."

Theo reached into the inside pocket of his tailored jacket. He pulled out a silver pen and a folded stack of contracts, tossing them onto the plywood table.

"Sign the papers," Theo said, holding out the pen. "And I'll even paint the walls for you."