Labeled a Bad Boyfriend, so I Walked

Paul's POV

Dante Randall looked up from his scorecard, waiting for me to make an excuse or perhaps snap.

Seeing me tense up, my girlfriend, Emily Spencer, jumped in to explain, "I just wanted to see if you'd blow your top over nothing."

Her voice was soft, almost sounding hurt.

I stared at her, lost for words. She hated being controlled more than anyone. Yet here she was, putting our six-year relationship in Dante's hands, letting a scorecard decide our future instead of making up her mind.

The music finally stopped, but the booze kept flowing. Someone laughed, asking Dante where the afterparty was.

Then the doorbell rang again.

It was the property manager, looking even more annoyed than before. "Mr. Paul Bender, if you don't quiet down right now, we're calling the cops."

"I'm handling it," I said with a nod.

I turned around and pulled my phone out of my pocket. "Drop your address if you've been drinking. I'm calling designated drivers."

The room went dead silent until someone let out a bitter laugh. "Seriously? You're already kicking us out?"

Dante leaned back on the couch and drawled, "See that, Em? He clearly doesn't give a damn about your friends."

When Emily looked at me, her eyes were filled with growing disappointment. "Do you really have to make everyone think my boyfriend is an asshole?"

Our neighbors downstairs couldn't sleep, and drunk people were passed out against the balcony rail, yet all she cared about was what Dante thought.

I didn't bother arguing. I just turned around and started seeing the drunk guests out.

When someone threw up in the hallway, I went back inside for paper towels and trash bags.

Dante shrugged. "Let's call it a night. I'll send a maid over tomorrow to clean this place up."

Following his gaze, I looked around the apartment.

A half-broken skewer was shoved into the master bedroom's mattress, grease soaking right through the sheets. The living room rug was ruined with red wine and vomit. The newly installed cabinets were scraped up by bottles, and the walls were covered in greasy handprints.

What used to be a bright, pristine home now looked like an abandoned dump.

Dante rubbed his temples as if the alcohol was finally hitting him.

Emily immediately rushed over to hold him up. "I'll take you home."

Without another word, she snagged my car keys from the entryway table and helped him out the door.

Once they were gone, our supposed home finally went quiet.

I stood there frozen for a long time before grabbing some gloves from the kitchen and getting to work.

By daybreak, the hallway was stacked with trash bags.

My fingers were pale and pruned from the harsh chemicals, yet the stains on the rug had barely faded.

The grease stains only smeared further when wiped, leaving white streaks on the fresh paint. I would have to repaint the walls.

The new mattress in the master bedroom was completely ruined.

Around noon, the front door clicked open.

I looked up to see Emily standing in the doorway holding breakfast.

She frowned the moment she saw me. "I woke up and realized you weren't back. I knew you'd still be here."

She glanced over the mountain of trash bags, then down at my pruned hands.

After a brief pause, she pulled out her phone. "I need to check with Dante. I need to ask him if your obsession with cleanliness is a form of control."