I truly thought Valentine’s Day would be the turning point for us.
I convinced myself that if I organized something lavish enough — romantic enough, unforgettable enough — it would remind my boyfriend why we fell in love. Relationships have rough patches, I told myself. Sometimes all they need is a spark to bring them back to life.
So I reserved a luxury hotel downtown — the kind people save for years to experience. Marble floors gleamed under golden chandeliers. Velvet lounge chairs filled the lobby. A rooftop pool overlooked the glowing skyline. The staff greeted guests by name with effortless charm.
The total for the weekend? Just over $3,000.
Bryce and I had agreed to split it evenly. No hesitation. No argument.
“Just put it on your card for now,” he had said casually, barely looking up from his phone. “I’ll transfer my half right after. You know I’ve got you.”
I wanted to believe him. Maybe I needed to.
Looking back, that should’ve been my first red flag.
For months, our relationship had felt one-sided. I was the one planning dates, starting conversations, checking in. His texts had become short and delayed. When we were together, he was glued to his phone — liking photos, laughing at messages he never showed me, commenting on other women’s posts.
I told myself I was overthinking. That social media didn’t mean anything. That he was just stressed.
But it still hurt.
Friday evening arrived, and we pulled up to the hotel just as the sun dipped behind the skyline. The valet welcomed us warmly, carrying our bags inside. The lobby smelled faintly of jasmine and expensive candles. Soft music floated through the air. For a brief moment, hope flickered inside me.
Our room was stunning — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights, a massive bed dressed in crisp white sheets, rose petals scattered across the comforter. A chilled bottle of champagne sat beside two crystal glasses.
I turned to Bryce, smiling. “It’s beautiful, right?”
He barely glanced up. “Yeah. Sure.”
The excitement drained instantly.
“Hey,” I said gently. “Can you put your phone down for a bit? We just got here.”
He sighed as though I’d asked for something unreasonable, then set it down. “There. Happy?”
“Thrilled,” I answered, masking disappointment with a smile.
Dinner downstairs was elegant and quiet — maybe too quiet. I ordered salmon. He ordered steak and whiskey. Conversation felt forced, fragile.
“So, how’s work?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
He shrugged.
After a pause, I gathered the courage. “You’ve seemed distant lately. Is everything okay?”
He leaned back and sighed. “Can we not do this right now? I just want to eat.”
And in that moment, sitting across from him in a room I had paid thousands to create, I realized something painful: no amount of luxury can fix a connection that’s already fading.
The rest of the night only confirmed it — and by the end of the weekend, he hadn’t sent his half of the money. Instead, he sent a text saying he “needed space.”
He disappeared. From the relationship. From responsibility. From the bill.
But what I learned was worth far more than $3,000.
Love can’t be bought. Effort can’t be one-sided. And when someone shows you who they are — believe them the first time.
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