I spent three years loving Ryan, convinced our anniversary would be the night he finally proposed.

He made dinner reservations downtown and told me to dress up for a “special surprise.”

I wore the emerald dress he loved, had my nails done, and felt sure this was it.

But instead of a ring, dessert came with a plate that read: “Congrats on Your Promotion!”

Only… I hadn’t gotten the promotion. I’d been passed over—for a guy I mentored—thanks to rumors

I was “probably about to get married and pregnant.” Ryan knew how much that hurt.

Yet there he was, grinning. “It’s just to manifest it,” he said. “Positive vibes, babe.”

Humiliated, I left. Days later, I hosted a party and invited his friends too. When Ryan arrived,

he saw black and gold balloons and a banner: “Congrats on Going Bald!” The cake? “Manifesting It Early!”

His jaw dropped. “You think this is funny?”
I smiled. “Didn’t you?”

He stormed out. But one friend, Zach, stayed. “That was brilliant,” he said. “You always deserved better.” He asked me out.

“Only if you don’t fake-celebrate my career.”
He grinned. “Deal.”

What I thought was a proposal night turned out to be my freedom.