His First Love Wanted My Balcony, So I Bought a Penthouse Instead

I was looking at the interior design blueprints for our future house with Ethan.

He insisted on installing a suspended swing chair on the south-facing balcony.

I reminded him, I have severe acrophobia. Even a tiny bit of suspension makes my head spin.

He casually flipped through the color palette. "Its romantic to sit there once in a while. You can get over it."

It wasn't until that night that the algorithm pushed Chloes secret Instagram account to me.

Five years ago, Ethan had left a comment under one of her posts:

"In our future home, I will definitely install your favorite swing chair on the balcony."

Staring at the screen, the dizziness in my head suddenly vanished.

The next day, I went to the sales gallery. Calmly, I crossed my name off the joint purchase contract.

The sales agent looked at me in shock.

I smiled. "This apartment isn't a good fit. I'm not buying it anymore."

Ethan had no idea that I had already paid in full for a luxury penthouse on the Southside.

The balcony there was filled only with roses, my absolute favorite.

"The manufacturer confirmed the swing chair will arrive next Wednesday. The steel cables are aviation-grade and can hold up to four hundred pounds. I tested it myself."

Ethan didnt even change his shoes when he walked in. He shoved his phone right in front of my face. The screen showed a 3D rendering of a white hanging basket chair.

I was washing dishes in the kitchen, the faucet running.

He held the phone closer. "We can add a woven rattan fence around the base. Didnt you say youre afraid of heights? With the fence, you won't feel suspended at all."

How thoughtful.

Because what a person with severe acrophobia needs most is a swing chair suspended two meters high, wrapped in a rattan fence.

"I won't sit on it."

"Here we go again." He laughed, wrapping his arm around my waist. "You can just watch me sit on it from the living room. Just treat it as decor. It looks nice."

Decor.

Three hours ago, I had just returned from the sales gallery. My name had been crossed out, stroke by stroke, from the purchase contract. The agents ballpoint pen had left a harsh blue ink smear.

And here he was, still picking out color swatches.

I turned off the faucet.

"Ethan, did you look at Chloes Instagram today?"

His hand on my lower back froze.

It wasn't guilt. It was the reflexive irritation of someone having a name brought up that he thought was long buried.

"What Instagram?"

"Her finsta. The post from five years ago."

He let go of me and leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Why were you snooping through her Instagram?"

"The algorithm recommended it."

"So, you spent the middle of the night digging through my ex-girlfriends private account, found a five-year-old comment, and now youre interrogating me?"

He opened the fridge, grabbed a can of beer, and popped the tab with a sharp crack.

"Sienna, youre twenty-six years old."

That sentence sounded uglier than any excuse he could have made.

He didnt say I was petty. He didnt say I was throwing a tantrum. He just reminded me of my age, implying that my behavior was too immature for twenty-six.

"That swing chair is Chloes favorite thing."

"Its also something I find aesthetically pleasing. Do those two things have to conflict?"

"You know damn well Im terrified of heights."

"Thats why I added the fence." He took a sip of beer and tapped the can against the counter. "Sienna, Im already compromising here. You cant keep pushing me."

Compromise.

Slapping a band-aid on something that shouldn't have been there in the first place is what he called a compromise.

"Lets break up."

The TV was playing a home renovation show. The designer was talking about maximizing balcony space.

Ethan took a bite of a watermelon slice, chewing slowly.

"Just because of a chair?"

"Because that chair was meant for Chloe."

"She casually mentioned she liked it years ago, and I thought the design was good, so I added it to the layout. Are you seriously taking this so out of proportion that you want to break up?"

He stood up, towering over me.

"You put down three hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the down payment. You're just going to throw that away?"

"Yes. I dont want it anymore."

"Sienna." His voice dropped, a dangerous undercurrent rising. "Take those words back right now, and Ill pretend I didnt hear them. If you keep pushing this, it wont be about the chair anymore."

It wasn't about the chair.

It was about me.

It was always about me.

My phone rang. It was Harper.

The moment I picked up, she exploded.

"Sienna, did you see that Instagram post? I took a screenshot"

"I saw it. Help me book a moving company for tomorrow. I dont have much. One trip will do."

I hung up.

Ethans expression finally shifted.

"Why are you moving?"

"To pack my things."

"Moving where?"

I didn't answer.

The key in my bag pressed hard against my knuckles. A 1,500-square-foot luxury penthouse, paid in full. The cold metal felt like an anchor of pure relief.

He stared at me for five seconds, then smirked.

"Fine. Go ahead and throw your tantrum. Let me know when youve had enough."

He turned, walked into the bedroom, and slammed the door shut.

I leaned against the counter, hearing him turn on his iPad almost immediately. The sound of a video leaked through the gap under the door.

He didn't care at all.

A few minutes later, his voice drifted out from behind the door.

"Don't forget to go to the leasing office this weekend to sign the final renovation approval. Both of us need to be there. Don't forget."

"My project is at a critical phase right now, and I don't have the energy to deal with your mood swings. Think about it yourself."

The next morning, Ethan set his black suitcase by the door. His shirt was buttoned all the way to the top. He looked like he was leaving for a business trip, not a cold war.

"There are leftovers in the fridge. Just microwave them."

His tone even carried a hint of forced tenderness.

Leaving me a way out, waiting for me to back down.

Every fight we had followed this exact routine: he would freeze me out for a few days, I would panic, I would apologize first, and he would graciously forgive me.

For two years, it had been as smooth as a programmed script.

"When will you be back?" I asked.

"Whenever you come to your senses."

The door clicked shut. The sound of his dress shoes on the stairs grew more confident with every step.

I stood by the window and watched his black sedan pull out of the parking garage and disappear around the corner.

I pulled out my phone and called the property management of my new place.

"Hi, this is Sienna. Im in Penthouse 2301, Building B on the Southside. Ill be over this afternoon to pick up the spare key and activate my key fob."

Twenty minutes later, Harper showed up at my door with two cups of coffee.

"The movers will be here at nine-thirty. Do you have a lot of stuff?"

"Not really. Just clothes, a few boxes of books, and a suitcase. He bought all the big furniture."

She scanned the living room, her eyes landing on the pair of men's slippers by the shoe rack.

"Sienna, youve been with Ethan for two years. The things in this apartment that actually belong to you can be counted on one hand?"

I knelt down to drag a box out from the bottom of the closet.

"He said he wanted a unified aesthetic for the apartment. He told me not to clutter it."

"Wheres your floor lamp? The one I saw last time?"

"He thought it was ugly and made me return it."

"And that art print?"

"He said it didn't match the living room's color palette."

"Where is your cat?"

Harpers voice suddenly dropped.

"The white cat you had for three years?"

I didn't answer.

She stood up straight and stared at me.

"When he forced you to give your cat away, why didnt you break up with him then?"

"He said having a cat would affect our future pregnancy. I thought he made sense back then."

"And now?"

I packed my books into the cardboard box, one by one.

"Now I realize that a home that couldn't even tolerate my cat was never my home to begin with."

By ten-thirty, everything was packed.

Seven boxes in total, plus one suitcase.

Two years of my life fit into less than half of a moving truck.

The mover looked at the beautifully furnished apartment, then at my tiny pile of luggage. He didn't ask a single question.

As we drove out of the gate, my phone buzzed. Ethan had sent a voice note.

I tapped play.

"The cafeteria food at the office is terrible today. Eat out for lunch. And don't forget to pay this month's HOA fees."

His breathing was steady, and I could hear people laughing and talking in the background.

Then, a soft female voice floated in from nearby: "Ethan..."

It was gentle, sweet, with a playful lilt at the end.

The voice lingered in my mind for less than a second, but that was enough.

Harper leaned in.

"Who was that?"

"I'm not sure."

"Replay it."

"Forget it."

I put my phone away and cleared the chat.

My new place on the Southside had just been completed late last year, fully furnished by the developer. I had paid an extra two hundred thousand to get the top floor, with a clear view of the entire river on the left.

The building manager who took me up mentioned that there were only two units on this floor. My neighbor was an architect who was still in the middle of remodeling.

I turned the key, and the door opened.

The living room was empty and spacious, flooded with sunlight from the south-facing French windows.

On the balcony stood an iron flower rack left by the previous owner, covered in a thin layer of rust.

I walked out to the balcony and looked down.

Twenty-third floor. The wind was strong.

But my head didn't spin at all.

My phone lit up. A text from Ethan.

"Come back when you've thought it through. Don't make me wait too long."

I dragged his chat to the very bottom of my archive list. I didn't delete him, and I didn't block him. I just let him sink.

Harper leaned against the doorframe, watching me.

"He doesn't know you bought this place, does he?"

"No."

"So what does he think he's doing right now?"

I hung my keys on the hook by the door.

"He thinks he's punishing me."

"Sienna! You're here? Ethan is in a meeting inside. Do you want me to call him out for you?"

Ethans coworker, Justin, came out of the breakroom holding an iced Americano. When he saw me signing the visitor log at the front desk, he greeted me with a warm smile.

I held up a ziplock bag containing the key fob to the shared apartment.

"No need. Just leave this at the front desk."

He leaned in to take a closer lookthe blue key fob was glaringly obvious inside the clear plastic bag.

His smile froze for a fraction of a second.

"Sienna, you guys aren't playing around, are you?"

"Just hand it to him for me, please."

"No, no, no." He grabbed my arm. "Ethans been living at the office the past couple of days, looking like he's ready to sue someone. Since you're already here, come on in and sit."

Before I could refuse, he pulled me toward the end of the hallway.

"The conference room is on the left. Sit down, and Ill grab you a cup of water."

The door was slightly ajar.

There wasn't just one voice inside.

Several men were laughing, mixed with a soft, feminine chucklesweet, with a hint of flirtation.

"Ethan, I emailed you the design drafts. The client specifically requested this style, and it happens to be your expertise."

It was Chloe.

Through the crack in the door, I saw her.

The girl with the ponytail from the five-year-old Instagram profile picture had fully grown up. She wore an off-the-shoulder dress, her wavy hair draped over one shoulder, sitting diagonally across from Ethan, holding a custom mug.

She looked entirely at ease, as if she were having afternoon tea in her own living room.

Justins voice piped up from behind me. "Ethan, has Sienna cooled down yet? Its been four days."

Ethans voice was flat, like he was reading a tedious weekly report.

"I don't know."

"Aren't you going to call her? Shes home alone," another male voice said.

"If she wants to throw a fit, let her. If I give in this time, how am I supposed to keep her in line in the future?"

Keep her in line.

He used that phrase.

Like training a disobedient pet.

That was probably how he "kept in line" the cat he forced me to give away.

Chloes voice chimed in right on cue, low and dripping with mock apology.

"Its all my fault. If I hadn't casually mentioned back then that I liked swing chairs, Ethan wouldn't have... Sienna must have misunderstood. Should I reach out and explain it to her?"

She called me Sienna. But her tone carried a patronizing weight.

She was actually two years older than me.

"No need." Ethan sounded slightly annoyed. "If you explain it, itll only make things worse.

Thats just how she issmart with big things, but clueless about the small details. Just leave her alone for a few days, and shell crawl back on her own."

Leave her alone. Shell crawl back.

Like a stray pet that would naturally find its way home once it got hungry enough.

The door was pushed open.

Justin walked in with a paper cup, and when he saw me still standing in the hallway, a look of pure embarrassment flashed across his face.

Ethans gaze cut through the doorway and locked onto mine.

He stood up and walked to the door.

Not to welcome me. But to block me.

He didn't want me to step into that room.

Or rather, he didn't want Chloe and me in the same space.

"What are you doing here?"

"Returning the key fob."

I handed him the plastic bag.

He looked down at it but didn't reach out to take it.

"Had enough of your tantrum?"

"Keep the key fob. The utilities for the apartment have already been transferred under your name."

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

From behind him, Chloes voice drifted out, perfectly pitched.

"Ethan, don't forget to reply to my email."

He didn't turn around, just gave a brief wave of his hand. It was an incredibly casual, intimate gesture.

The kind reserved only for people you knew inside out.

"Sienna, where are you staying right now?"

"None of your business."

"What do you mean 'none of my business'? The contract still has your name on it"

"Not anymore."

He froze, but only for a second.

He probably thought I was just talking out of anger.

"Fine. Go home first. Well talk after I finish this project."

He finally took the key fob.

Holding the corner of the plastic bag with two fingers, as if holding something entirely trivial.

I turned and walked toward the elevator.

Before the doors closed, laughter erupted from the conference room again.

Chloe was saying something in her soft, sweet voice.

The elevator reached the lobby.

My phone buzzed. A three-second voice note from Ethan.

"Come back this weekend. The apartment needs cleaning."

"Sienna, babe, sorry to bother you. Its Chloe."

The friend request popped up at nine in the evening.

I had just finished planting the last rose bush into the soil of my balcony rack.

Her profile picture was a blurry, backlit photo. The request message was just that one line.

I stared at it for three seconds before tapping accept.

The reply came almost instantly. It was like she had been waiting.

"Sienna, I am so incredibly sorry. The whole swing chair thing is entirely my fault. I shouldn't have said those things to Ethan in the past and caused a misunderstanding between you two."

Her punctuation was perfect, every sentence ending with a neat period. It read as formal as a corporate email.

"You know how Ethan ishe has a typical guy's brain. He just thought it looked nice and used it; he didn't think much of it. He really didn't mean anything else by it, I can promise you that."

Three messages in a row, sent in one breath.

I didn't reply.

She waited thirty seconds before sending another.

"Please don't be mad at him, okay? Men are like thatthey don't know how to express themselves, but he really cares about you deep down. He barely slept at the office these past few nights."

Leaning against my balcony flower rack, the cool wind from the twenty-third floor swept over me, carrying the scent of damp soil.

I typed out a single line and sent it.

"You call me 'babe,' but you're two years older than me."

The typing indicator on her end disappeared for three seconds.

When she typed again, her tone was even softer.

"Sorry, slip of the tongue. Sienna, Im only saying this because I don't want you and Ethan to have friction because of me."

"Whether Ethan and I have friction has absolutely nothing to do with you."

"I know you must feel hurt. Any girl would feel hurt seeing that old Instagram comment. But that was truly five years ago."

Five years ago.

He had left a total of forty-seven comments under her Instagram posts.

"That new lipstick looks great on you."

"Don't forget to eat when you work late, or I'll get mad."

"In our future home, I will definitely install your favorite swing chair on the balcony."

Forty-seven comments.

Yet in the two years he was with me, he hadn't left a single comment on my page.

"Chloe, did you text me to apologize for him, or to clean up his mess?"

Read, but no reply.

Five minutes later, she sent a voice note.

I didn't play it.

At the exact same time, Ethans call came through.

I picked up.

"Did you add Chloe?"

His voice was freezing, laced with suppressed rage.

"She added me."

"What did you say to her?"

"None of your business."

"Sienna." He took a deep breath. "I asked her to reach out and explain things to you. Don't take your anger out on her."

He asked her to explain things to me.

He had his ex-girlfriend explain to his current girlfriend that he wasn't secretly yearning for her.

"Do you honestly think that makes any sense?"

"If you won't listen to me, you have to listen to someone else, right?"

"So in your mind, Im always the one who needs to be managed and convinced."

"You're already being unreasonable"

"Fine," I interrupted. "Then let Chloe keep trying to convince me. Lets see how far she gets."

I hung up.

He called back immediately. I declined. Third time, fourth time.

By the fifth time, I turned off my phone.

The wind on the balcony stopped, and the clouds hung incredibly low.

The leaves of the rose bushes drooped slightly, but their roots were firmly planted.

I turned my phone back on.

A message from Harper popped up: "Should I bring red wine or champagne to the housewarming party tomorrow?"

"Red wine."

Another text followed: "Are we posting pictures on Instagram?"

I thought about it for a second and replied, "Whatever you want."

She immediately sent a voice note, her voice bursting with sheer delight.

"Oh, Im not holding back then. Sienna, that south-facing balcony of yours with the rose racks is going to keep him staring at his Instagram feed for three straight days."