My Fiancé Rented Our Penthouse to His Intern for $10 a Month

Six months. That's how long I've been away on business. Six months, and my fiancé moves into our brand-new penthouse. Alone. Every month he Venmos me ten bucks. Writes rent for the wife in the memo. Cute, right? I thought so too. Then his Instagram stories start getting weird. Candlelit dinners. Two wine glasses. Two sets of chopsticks. My best friend screenshots it and texts me a laughing emoji. "Girl. Someone's about to steal your man." I laugh. Then I book the red-eye. It's his birthday tomorrow. I'll surprise him. Perfect wife move. I get to our door. Punch in the code. Wrong. Try again. Wrong. I'm pulling out my phone to call Ryan when the door swings open. A girl. Young. Twenty-two, maybe. Apron. Spatula. She looks me up and down. Smiles. "Aww, sweetie. I think you've got the wrong door. This is my place." I freeze. My brain lags. My mouth works on autopilot. "Oh — sorry. Must've hit the wrong floor." "No worries, hon. Just watch where you're going next time, okay? Don't wanna bother people." She shuts the door in my face. I look up. 1015. That's my place. My name on the deed. My taste. My six months of yelling at the contractor. There is no wrong floor. I call Ryan. "Ry? Did you change the code? Why is there a woman in our apartment?" Static. Then — ding. The elevator opens behind me. Ryan steps out. Both arms full. Shopping bags. Wine. Flowers. A tiny box with a bow. He sees me. His face drops. "Chloe — babe, signal's bad in here. Let me call you back." He hangs up. Just hangs up. The door flies open again. Apron Girl throws herself at him. "Ry! What took you so long? I heard your voice from inside — ran right over to let you in. Aren't I good to you?" She's hanging off his arm. Big eyes. Baby voice. I haven't eaten all day. My stomach is a fist. I look him dead in the eye. "Ryan… *sweetie*. You'd better have a damn good explanation."

"Oh my *God*, Chloe, I'm so sorry! I totally didn't recognize you!" Autumn presses her palms together. Praying hands. Big wet eyes. Full performance. Ryan dumps the bags in the kitchen. Won't look at me. "Chloe. Babe. I didn't know you were coming home early. I was gonna tell you. This is Autumn. Intern at my firm." He clears his throat. "You know how it is. Interns barely make rent. She's from out of state. Couldn't afford food and a place. Slept at her desk a couple nights. I felt bad. So I let her crash here. Just temporary." Just temporary. Right. Autumn's already setting up a hot pot on my counter. She sticks her tongue out at me. Cutesy. Playful. "He's telling the truth, I swear! Ry saved my butt. Chloe, hon, don't be mad at him, okay?" She tilts her head. "Actually — I was gonna throw him a little birthday dinner tonight. To say thanks. I can't really cook, so I just did hot pot. Easy, right?" Beams at me. "But now you're here! Even better! The three of us can eat together!" She can't cook. So who's been feeding him for six months? She's throwing my fiancé a birthday dinner. In my kitchen. Wearing my apron. Like she's the wife. Six years. Six years with this man. He chased me for three of them in college. Flowers. Love notes. Waited outside my dorm in the rain like a lost puppy. I finally said yes. Thought — okay. This one's real. We got engaged. Picked a date. Sent the save-the-dates. My parents bought us this penthouse. Fully paid. Move-in ready. And now? Now there's a twenty-two-year-old setting up hot pot in my kitchen. My stomach twists. Three months till the wedding. And he pulls *this*.

"Chloe, hon, we only have the guest dishes left — you don't mind, right?" Autumn sets out two bowls. Matching bowls. Matching chopsticks. Little matching heart-print sauce dishes. A couple's set. Then she skips off to the kitchen to "help Ry." They're laughing. Bumping hips. She flicks water at him. He splashes her back. Full couple energy. And me? I'm sitting on my own couch. In my own apartment. Like a guest nobody invited. My stomach burns. The pot bubbles. I can't eat. "Ryan." My voice cuts through their giggling. "You said you rented the place to her. Where's the lease?" Ryan frowns. "Chloe. Come on. It's a favor. I don't write up a contract for a favor." "Okay. And the rent?" "She Venmos me. I'll forward it to you if you want." He shrugs. Casual. "Honestly? Autumn's basically been house-sitting. Keeping the place clean. Watering the plants. If anything, we should be paying *her*." I laugh. Out loud. Because no. No no no. Autumn twists a strand of hair around her finger. "Oh! Should I just Venmo Chloe from now on?" Little pout. "Ry's been so sweet — he only charges me ten bucks a month. I actually still owe him for this month. Chloe, hon, lemme get your Venmo?" She holds up her phone. QR code ready. Eyes on mine. That look isn't shy. That's a dare. "*Ten dollars?*" I'm on my feet. Ryan flinches. "Ryan. This place is three thousand square feet. Downtown. Ten minutes from your office. Market rent is eight thousand a month." I'm shaking. "And you charged her *ten bucks*? You're not renting her the apartment, Ryan. You're renting *her*." His face goes purple. "Chloe Sinclair." Low voice. Mean voice. "It's my *birthday*. You flew back to pick a fight with me?" He slams his glass down. "Autumn and I are *clean*. She works under me. I helped her out. That's it." He points at me. "You know what? You've got a filthy heart. Sick people see filth in everything."

He throws it back on me. Like I'm the sick one. I laugh. Cold. "Ryan. Is this even a place you can rent out? It's our *wedding home*. We're not married yet, and you're already subletting it? What — you don't wanna get married anymore?" His face goes white. Voice drops. "That's not — Chloe, come on. It's a small thing. When we get married, I'll have Autumn move out. Done." A small thing. A *small thing*. Meow. I look down. A tabby cat. Rubbing against Autumn's leg. Autumn scoops it up like it's her baby. "Hiii, Biscuit. Hi, baby." Then she turns those watery eyes on Ryan. "Ry… Biscuit's a rescue. We found him together, remember? He finally has a home. Me and Biscuit are so used to it here. When you get married… does that mean we don't have a home anymore?" One sad girl. One sad cat. Both about to be kicked out on the street. Ryan's knuckles go white. He actually turns to me. "Chloe. Kicking them out like this… it feels kind of harsh, doesn't it? What if we… just push the wedding back a little? Till Autumn's internship ends. Till she saves up. Can rent her own place nearby. Then we do the wedding." I stare at him. I don't even recognize this man. For an *intern*. He rented our wedding home for ten bucks a month. And now? Now he wants to push our wedding so a girl and a stray cat can keep their *home*. And then it hits me. Three months ago. I was pulling an all-nighter. Nine p.m. Missed him so bad. Called him. Water running. He said he was in the shower. But I heard it. A cat. Meowing. I asked, "Since when do you have a cat?" He said I was hearing things. Hung up fast. Three months ago. Three. Months. Ago. So Biscuit was already here. She was already here. In our shower. In our bed. I think I'm gonna be sick. He told me he was allergic to pet hair. I wanted a dog for years. He said no — allergies. Allergies. Right. He wasn't allergic to pet hair. He was allergic to my dog. I look at him now and I want to throw up.