For three years, I loved Ryan with everything I had. I thought we were headed toward forever—until he turned our anniversary dinner into the most humiliating night of my life. After a grueling workweek and a crushing promotion loss—thanks to sexist assumptions about my future as a “potential mom”—I clung to the idea that Ryan would propose on our third anniversary. He’d planned a fancy dinner, told me to dress up, and even hinted at a surprise. My heart was ready. But when dessert arrived, it wasn’t a ring. It was a cake that read, “Congrats on Your Promotion!”

The promotion I didn’t get. He laughed. Said it was to “manifest good vibes.” I saw it for what it was: a public joke at my expense. When I confronted him, he doubled down, calling me dramatic and saying I never had a real shot anyway. I walked out, devastated—but not broken. Three days later, I texted him: “Maybe I overreacted. Come over. I have a surprise.” He arrived smug, expecting forgiveness. What he got was a living room full of people, black and gold balloons, and a banner that read: “Congrats on Becoming Bald!” A cake sat on the table, eerily familiar: “Manifesting It Early!” His jaw dropped. My smile didn’t. “You thought my career heartbreak was funny,” I told him. “I just returned the favor.” He stormed out. Party over? Not quite. His friend Zach stayed behind. “Honestly? Best comeback I’ve ever seen. You deserve better.” Then he asked me out. I laughed—for real this time. Sometimes the last word comes with frosting.