I met Brandon on a rainy Tuesday at the bookstore café where I worked part-time. He ordered a black coffee, asked about the novel I was reading, and we talked for hours. He listened like my words mattered.
When he found out I worked two jobs, he was impressed. Said he was a freelance app developer and offered hope that maybe I wouldn’t have to juggle so much for long.
We moved in together a year later. He suggested he cover rent and utilities since his income fluctuated, while I handled groceries and chores. “I’m saving for our house,” he said, and I believed him.
Three years passed like that. Then a letter came—Notice of Legal Action for Unpaid Rent: $8,437.63. My name was on the lease. Only mine. The payments had stopped six months ago. Brandon never told me.
When I confronted the property manager, she confirmed the lease was signed in my name—faked by Brandon. I stayed quiet, waited, and checked his phone. That’s when I found out about Kelsey. Their messages revealed everything: the lies, the stolen rent money, his plan to vanish.
With the landlord’s help, we changed the locks and hatched a little revenge. I cracked raw eggs into every pair of his prized sneakers.
When he returned and realized what happened, he panicked. Texts. Calls. Begging. I told him to pay what he owed, or the shoes were staying put.
Two days later, he paid in full. I had the apartment to myself again—finally free.
He texted, “You ruined everything.”
I replied, “No. I saved myself. That’s worth every broken egg.”
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