The Groom Asked Me to Transfer My Apartment to Him “as a Sign of Trust” Before the Wedding. When the Registrar Asked Me the Question, I Burst Out Laughing
“Listen, we need to talk about the apartment. Seriously.”
Artyom sat down across from me as if he were at a job interview. I immediately felt it — here we go again.
We had been living together for a year and a half. In my apartment. A two-room place my grandmother had left me six years earlier. I knew every seam on the ceiling, every tiny crack in the bathroom tiles. I had renovated everything myself. With my own money.
“I’m listening.”
“Well, we’re going to be husband and wife soon,” he said, smiling that same smile that used to make me melt. “And I think there shouldn’t be ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ in a family. Only ‘ours.’”
“I agree.”
“So,” he leaned forward slightly, “I was thinking… let’s transfer the apartment into my name. Before the wedding. It’ll be a sign of trust. And it’ll be a gift for you too — your tax burden will go down right away. Mom says it’s the right thing to do.”
“Mom says.”
His mother. My future mother-in-law. Svetlana Igorevna.
I looked at him and smiled. Inside, something rang so loudly I thought he might hear it.
“Artyom dear,” I said softly, “let me think about it until tomorrow. All right?”
He beamed. Kissed my temple. Pushed my tea closer to me.
And I sat there counting.
In my head.
To be honest, I hadn’t started counting that day.
Artyom had moved into my place in March 2025. He said, “Why pay rent when you already have your own apartment?” I agreed immediately. Because I loved him.
Fourteen months. That was how long he had lived with me.
And in those fourteen months, he had not paid a single ruble toward utilities. Not one. Once, I cautiously suggested, “Maybe we should split the bills?” He made the face of an offended child and said, “We’re a family. I don’t want to turn love into accounting.”
His salary was 180,000 rubles. He worked as a sales manager at a construction company — not bad for a thirty-three-year-old. He was saving money. Sometimes he even bragged, “I already have two million in my account. By the wedding, there’ll be enough for a car. It’ll be more convenient for you too, riding with me.”
My salary was 120,000.
And every month, I paid for the apartment, electricity, internet, building maintenance, and groceries.
He gave fifteen thousand a month for food. For the two of us. Out of his 180,000.
I had started calculating everything back in the autumn.
Eighteen thousand of my money went toward utilities, repairs, and internet. Another twenty-five thousand went toward food on top of his fifteen. Every month. For a year.
I calculated that he had lived with me almost for free, saving around fifty thousand a month. Six hundred thousand in a year.
And for my birthday, he gave me a bouquet worth three thousand. Not because he was stingy, of course. “I’d rather put the money into our future.”
Our future, as I had already begun to understand, meant his car. Because my interests did not seem to exist in that “future.”
But I kept quiet.
The wedding was in two months. I thought, well, people have different attitudes toward money. I’ll teach him. We’ll figure it out. After all, a year and a half together wasn’t nothing.
And then came: “Let’s transfer the apartment.”
I had been planning everything differently.
I was planning the wedding. The dress. The bouquet.
Not this.
That evening, he slept hugging a pillow. I lay awake staring at the ceiling. For six years, this apartment had been mine. At current prices, it was worth nine million — a renovated two-room apartment in a residential district.
Nine million he wanted to receive “as a sign of trust.”
I understood immediately.
This wasn’t an impulsive request.
It was a plan.
And the next day, I didn’t say no.
I said, “I need to think a little more.”
Because I needed time.
To make my own plan.
Four days later, Svetlana Igorevna called.
“Yulia dear,” she sang into the phone, “may I drop by? I want to discuss the wedding menu with your mother, and your place is so convenient for sitting and talking.”
My future mother-in-law.
I had seen her only four times before. She was always sweet like cough syrup and so intrusive that you wanted to lock yourself in the bathroom.
“Of course, Svetlana Igorevna. When?”
“Oh, in an hour.”
In an hour.
Not “when is convenient for you?” In an hour.
I already knew that style.
She arrived. Without my mother, of course — my mother didn’t even know her. She brought a cake. Sat down in my kitchen and began “looking around.”
“What a cozy little apartment you have. And the renovation is lovely. It must have been expensive?”
“Normal.”
“So how much is a two-room place in this area worth now? Eight million? Nine?”
I smiled.
“Svetlana Igorevna, let’s have tea.”
But she didn’t stop.
She walked around my apartment as if she were trying it on for size. She opened the hallway closet: “Oh, you have space here.” She looked out onto the balcony: “Didn’t you make a storage room?” She asked about the documents: “Everything is in order with the apartment papers, right? There’s a woman at Artyom’s bank who can help, if needed.”
“Artyom’s bank.”
As if it were his bank.
As if it were already his apartment.
I understood perfectly where she was heading.
I nodded. I smiled. I poured tea.
And inside, everything froze so hard it hurt in my chest.
She stayed for two hours.
And in those two hours, she returned to the apartment topic four times.
I counted.
Four times.
“Yulia dear, you have to understand. A man must feel like the head of the family. He needs property, otherwise he doesn’t feel like a man. It’s important to him. Artyom is sensitive.”
“I understand.”
“And besides,” she leaned toward me confidentially, “men have this particular trait. If they don’t feel trusted, they leave. I know my Artyom.”
I looked at her.
And understood immediately.
She wasn’t advising me.
She was instructing me.
“Svetlana Igorevna, did Artyom have someone before me?”
She flinched. Only slightly. Her eyes gleamed like a cat’s in the dark.
“There was a girl. Greedy. Thank God they broke up.”
“What did she want?”
“Nothing good. Let’s not talk about her.”
She finished her tea and got ready to leave. At the door, she turned back.
“Yulia dear, think carefully about what Artyom suggested. It’s the family thing to do. That’s how things are done in our family.”
“Our family.”
I wasn’t even part of it yet. But they already had rules for me.
I closed the door behind her and pressed my forehead against the frame.
I wanted to cry badly.
Artyom came home that evening. Kissed me. Asked how his mother had seemed to me.
“She’s nice,” I said. “Very nice.”
“There you go,” he hugged me. “See what kind of family we’ll have? By the way, have you thought about it?”
“I have, Artyom dear. Give me one more week, and I’ll decide.”
“Don’t drag it out,” his voice suddenly became harder. “It’ll look ugly. The application has been filed, the guests have been invited. And you keep saying, ‘my apartment, my apartment.’”
That was the first time he said “my apartment” with that intonation. With irritation. As if I were saying something shameful.
“Artyom, it really is mine.”
“Yulia, do you even hear yourself? That doesn’t sound like family at all.”
He turned away toward the television.
I went into the kitchen. Poured myself some wine.
And called Lena.
“Lena, I need to talk to you. Urgently.”
Lena had been my friend since our second year at university. A lawyer. The very person I had first told about my engagement.
“Yulia, I was actually going to call you,” her voice sounded strange. “Let’s meet tomorrow. The café on Leninsky.”
The next day, I arrived.
Lena was sitting there with two coffees and a folder.
A folder is never a good sign.
“I didn’t want to interfere,” she began. “But you’re my friend. And I promised myself I’d stay quiet only until I saw something strange.”
“Lena, what is it?”
She pulled out the folder.
Printouts. Screenshots of messages.
“Remember I told you about Olesya? Olesya Karpova, we worked together at my first firm. Well, she had a fiancé. Artyom. Artyom Sokolov.”
Something inside me dropped.
Sokolov was my Artyom’s surname.
“When?”
“Three years ago. They filed an application to get married. A month before the wedding, he asked her to transfer her apartment to him. A two-room place in Belyaevo. He said the same thing — trust, family, his mother blessed it. She refused. He caused a scandal. The wedding never happened. He moved out of her apartment a week later.”
Lena pushed one of the pages toward me.
“I accidentally saw his photo on your phone last week. I recognized him immediately. Then I started checking. Yulia, before Olesya there was another one. Victoria. She had a one-room apartment inherited from her grandfather. Same scheme. His mother came to ‘look around.’ Same conversation: transfer it to me, it’s about trust.”
I stared at the printouts.
I saw Artyom’s name.
I saw his mother’s name — Svetlana Igorevna.
And then one more.
A third woman.
“Lena, how many were there?”
“At least three that I found out about. Maybe more. Victoria, Olesya, and you.”
I picked up my coffee. Brought it to my lips. Put it back down.
My hands were shaking badly.
For three years, he had been looking for women with apartments. He would meet them. Move in with them. Live there for free for a year or a year and a half. Then, right before the wedding, he would ask them to transfer the property to him.
If they agreed, he got the apartment.
If they refused, he left — having saved money on rent for another year or two.
And his mother helped him.
“Mom says.”
“Mom blessed it.”
“Mom came to look around.”
“Yulia,” Lena touched my hand. “How are you?”
I smiled.
A strange smile.
Then I quickly pulled myself together.
“Lena, the registry office is in eleven days.”
“Yulia, cancel it. Right now. I’ll go with you.”
I was silent.
I looked out the window. People were walking down the street. Everyone had their own plans.
And I had a plan too.
Just not the one I’d had that morning.
“Lena,” I said. “He doesn’t suspect that I know anything, right? Sokolov?”
“He doesn’t.”
“And the apartment is fully in my name? No risks?”
“Yulia, what are you planning?”
“Lena, can you prepare a prenuptial agreement for me within a week? Separate property. The apartment stays mine. Everything I acquire stays mine too.”
“Of course. That’s half a day’s work.”
“Do it. And one more thing — I want you to come to the wedding. With a camera.”
“Yulia.”
“You’re my witness, Lena. Just be there. And record everything. Record it well.”
Lena looked at me very carefully.
Then nodded.
That evening, Artyom came home with flowers.
“Yulia, have you thought about it?”
“I have, Artyom dear,” I said gently. “Let’s do everything after the registry office. After the marriage is official. It’ll be more beautiful that way. Our first shared step as a married couple.”
He beamed. Hugged me. Kissed me.
“I always knew you were smart.”
I smiled into his shoulder.
And thought:
Eleven days.
I have eleven days.
The morning of the wedding was sunny.
My mother arrived at six in the morning, crying and fixing my veil.
“Yulia, are you happy?”
“Very, Mom.”
She knew nothing. I didn’t want to upset her beforehand. I only whispered one thing to her:
“Mom, whatever happens today, trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
She looked at me strangely.
Then nodded.
We arrived at the registry office at half past two.
Forty guests.
Twenty from his side, twenty from mine.
Svetlana Igorevna was wearing a raspberry-colored suit and gold earrings. Artyom wore a blue suit, a white shirt, and a dotted tie — I had chosen that tie for him myself.
Lena stood nearby. Her phone was in her hand. Camera ready.
“Ready?” she whispered.
“Ready.”
We entered the hall.
The registrar was a woman of about fifty, gray-haired, with kind eyes and a blue suit. She smiled at both of us.
Mendelssohn’s wedding march began to play.
I heard my mother sob behind me. I couldn’t see Svetlana Igorevna smiling, but I could feel it. Artyom held my hand firmly. Confidently. Like an owner.
The registrar began speaking.
About love.
About family.
About marriage being a union of two loving hearts, built on trust and mutual support.
“Trust.”
I felt the corner of my mouth twitch.
“Artyom Sergeevich Sokolov,” the registrar said solemnly, “do you agree to take Yulia Andreevna Morozova as your wife?”
“Yes, I do,” he answered, squeezing my hand.
The registrar turned to me.
Everyone looked at me.
Forty people.
My mother.
His mother.
Artyom.
“Yulia Andreevna Morozova, do you agree to take Artyom Sergeevich Sokolov as your husband?”
And then I laughed.
It wasn’t nervous giggling.
It was loud, sincere, uncontrollable laughter.
I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes. I laughed and couldn’t stop. The entire hall froze.
“Yulia?” the registrar said, confused. “Yulia, are you feeling unwell?”
I raised my hand — one second, one second — and kept laughing.
Then I exhaled, wiped my tears, and turned to the guests.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I just remembered something.”
Artyom turned pale. I saw his Adam’s apple bob rapidly.
“Yulia, what are you doing?” he hissed.
“Artyom dear,” I looked at him tenderly. “Remember what you told me about trust? That trust is the most important thing in a family, and that there should be no ‘mine’ and ‘yours’?”
“Yulia.”
“Well, I trusted you. And I found out everything. About Olesya. About Victoria. Even about your dear mother, who gives instructions. And about how you’ve spent three years living in other women’s apartments and asking them to transfer the property to you.”
Silence fell over the hall.
The kind of silence where you could hear the clock ticking on the wall.
Svetlana Igorevna jumped up. Her face turned bright red.
“This is slander! Lies!” she shouted so loudly that people flinched.
“Svetlana Igorevna,” I turned to her, “my friend has copies of the messages. And there are two women who are willing to confirm everything. So let’s not.”
Then I turned back to the registrar.
She was staring at me with wide eyes.
“My answer to your question is no. I do not agree.”
Then I added loudly enough for everyone to hear:
“And I just remembered his words. Trust. Family. There should be no ‘mine’ and ‘yours.’ Very good words, Artyom. I remembered them well. That’s why my apartment will remain mine. And you can collect your things this week. Tell your mother I’m not Olesya. I’ll even return the dress — it’s rented.”
I took off the ring.
Placed it on the registrar’s table.
“Sorry for the show. But he asked for it.”
And I walked toward the exit.
Artyom stayed where he was.
Silent.
He didn’t even try to say anything.
Svetlana Igorevna was shouting something, but I no longer listened.
My mother caught up with me by the door.
“Yulia.”
“Mom, I’ll tell you everything. Now. In the car.”
Two months have passed.
For the first week, Artyom kept writing.
At first: “Let’s talk, you misunderstood everything.”
Then: “You ruined my life. You’ll pay for this.”
Then came threats.
I quickly forwarded everything to my lawyer.
Artyom stopped writing.
Svetlana Igorevna called my mother. She screamed that I had disgraced her son in front of the whole city, that she would sue for moral damages.
My mother listened for five minutes and said:
“Svetlana Igorevna, there’s a video. Forty witnesses. And two more women. Go ahead and sue.”
Svetlana Igorevna stopped calling.
Olesya contacted me through Lena. She thanked me. She said she had blamed herself for three years, thinking she had done something wrong.
Victoria wrote to me too.
Now we’re all in one chat — the three brides of Sokolov.
We joke about it.
The apartment is mine.
There is no prenuptial agreement — it wasn’t needed.
There is no wedding.
There is no Artyom.
I sold the ring and gave the money to Lena — at least some payment for her work.
I returned the dress. I got only forty percent of the rental cost back, but that’s nothing.
The video from the registry office is saved in my cloud. I didn’t post it anywhere, no.
But sometimes I watch it again with my friends. We laugh so loudly the neighbors knock on the wall.
And every now and then, friends of friends write to me and ask:
“Is it true what you did at the registry office?”
And I answer:
“It’s true.”
Then I tell them everything.
Let people know.
I sleep peacefully now. For the first time in a year and a half.
And I have not regretted it once.
Did I go too far that day at the registry office, in front of forty guests, in front of his mother and mine?
Or did I do the right thing by not refusing quietly at home, but teaching him a lesson everyone would remember?
What would you have done — quietly said no and closed the door behind him, or put on that kind of show in front of all the guests?
