On the eve of my wedding, my best friend, Stella, told me she was getting me a huge wedding gift. To afford it, she was swamped with gigs, working herself to the bone. My fiancé, Ethan, was getting busier too. Our dates were constantly cut short by last-minute work emergencies. I didn't think much of it at first. Not until one late night, scrolling through my feed, I saw a clip Stella had posted of her gig at a downtown bar. The camera panned across the audience, and a silhouette of a man, head bent to light a cigarette, made my fingertips go cold. Ethan. He was wearing the limited-edition shirt I’d bought him, his face a sharp, painful silhouette in the hazy, colored lights. When I asked him about it, he just said, "I was entertaining clients. The meeting happened to be there." Stella, who was with us, chimed in with a laugh. "Yeah, Vivi, your man is a real rainmaker for the bar. He brings in a ton of business." They played off each other perfectly, their reasonable explanations deflecting all my doubts. I even started to question myself. Was it just pre-wedding jitters making me paranoid and jealous? Then, the day before the wedding, a local clip popped up on my feed. And the last shred of hope I was clinging to vanished. 1 In a dimly lit alley, a man had a woman pinned against the wall, kissing her deeply. He was tall and well-built in a sharp suit; she was all curves in a wine-red minidress. They looked like they were made for each other. The comments section exploded. "The chemistry is off the charts!" someone wrote. The top comment read: "This tension is clearer than my life plan!" A reply below it said: "You can just feel the history there, that push and pull between two people who know exactly what they're doing. They should cast them in the next big romance drama." You couldn't see their faces clearly in the video, but the glint of crushed diamonds on the man’s watch face was a knife in my eye. It was the watch I’d given Ethan for our fifth anniversary. And the woman he was kissing? Dangling from her purse was a little rabbit charm, one with a single red rose tucked behind its ear. A birthday gift I had hand-knitted for my best friend, Stella. In that single, soul-crushing moment, my twelve years of friendship with Stella and my eight years of love with Ethan turned to ash. Twelve years ago, I had run away from home with nothing but my ID. It was Stella who supported me through college, Stella who stood up for me when I was bullied. She’d used the same phone for three years but gave me the latest model she’d won without a second thought. She had even helped me get with Ethan in the first place. I would have done anything for Stella, just as she had for me. I would have emptied my own pockets to give her the world. If she and Ethan had just told me they had feelings for each other, I would have stepped aside. I would have let them be happy. But why did they have to play me for a fool? Was the thrill of a secret affair just too good to pass up? I wiped the tears from my face and pulled up Stella’s profile. When I was a broke, recent graduate, she was already a well-known singer on the local circuit. Every time she posted a video or an update, she’d tell me to like and comment, and she’d pin my comment to drive traffic to my page, helping me build my career as an illustrator. Once my commissions started rolling in, she stopped linking our profiles together. Her last post was from a bar event three days ago. The video was shaky, but aside from her on stage, the frame captured a man in a white shirt on the right, only his forearm visible. I didn't need to look closely to know. It was Ethan's arm. Three days ago, Ethan had told me a shipment at work had run into problems. He had to work late. How convenient. One minute he was "working," the next he was at her gig, staying out all night. September 11th. Ethan was "working late" again. But in the reflection of the TV in Stella's video, I could see his silhouette. They were in a hotel room, and in the heat of the moment, they were still wearing the matching watches we’d bought as a couple. September 1st. The bar owner opened a new branch out of town, and Stella went to perform for the opening week. Ethan went on a "business trip" for five days. He came back with a small bandage on his temple and scraped knuckles that hadn't quite healed. He said he’d seen a drunk harassing a girl and had gotten into a fight. Today, Ethan was "working late" again. I started to laugh through my tears, then cry through my laughter. The past and the present collided in my mind, a brutal, chaotic crash. I wanted to believe I was delusional, that I was inventing all of this, anything but face the truth. We were supposed to get married tomorrow. My wedding dress was hanging in the closet. The hair and makeup artists were scheduled to arrive in eight hours. The bouquet was sitting perfectly on my vanity. I had even practiced the bouquet toss eight hundred times, determined to make sure Stella would be the one to catch it. Everything was ruined. They say that after you shatter, you become colder, more rational than ever before. I opened my laptop and started drafting an email to cancel the wedding, but my eyes kept drifting to my phone. Should I call them? Demand an explanation? Listen to them spin more lies until they were cornered, then finally admit their sordid little secret, only to turn it all around and blame me? Just then, my phone screen lit up. A notification from our shared credit card. I tapped it open. A charge from a hotel. The suite they’d booked, at $11,888 a night, was the hotel's luxury romance suite. The only time Ethan and I had been there was the night he proposed. He really knew how to spare no expense. The thought of ending things with dignity flickered in my mind for a split second before being incinerated by a blaze of pure rage. I wasn't one to just let things go. They did this to me. And I was going to make them pay. 2 I deleted the email draft and walked into my studio. If they were so in love, then fine. I would give them my blessing. A stack of unused invitation jackets, nearly half the original order, sat in the corner. I found a template online, typed in the guest names, and printed out a thick new stack. It was far less work than the ones I had painstakingly designed and painted by hand. As I slipped the new inserts into the beautiful outer shells, a sharp pain twisted in my stomach. The names on the paper blurred. It was love at first sight for me with Ethan. He was on stage in a crisp white shirt and silver-rimmed glasses, giving the freshman welcome speech. His voice was calm and steady, and he had this cool, untouchable vibe that just made you want to be the one to break through it. The line of people trying to win him over stretched from the main hall to two miles off campus, from high school girls who’d known him before to seniors about to graduate. I was just another face in the crowd, completely unnoticeable. My art program was so demanding that I spent twice as much time as anyone else on coursework, leaving me no time to engineer a "chance encounter." I could only follow his life through campus forums. But you can't hide a crush from your best friend. The day after Stella found out, she cornered Ethan in an alley near campus as he was heading back from his tutoring job. With a lollipop sticking out of the corner of her mouth, she had this cocky, playful swagger. "My girl here wants to get to know you," she’d said. "Give her your number?" Ethan’s gaze landed on me, and he let out a resigned sigh. My hand was trembling as I scanned his code to add him. He held his phone out for me, then turned his arm towards Stella. "What about you?" Stella just shoved me forward slightly and sauntered away. "Don't have a phone." When did they exchange numbers? I sealed the last invitation, clutching my stomach as I curled over the desk, the pain intensifying. Every single moment Ethan and Stella had shared replayed in my mind. The way he’d tilt his head when she laughed, how he’d play along with her jokes, go shot for shot with her at the bar, and drive her home. And I, like a fool, thought it was just him being kind to my best friend for my sake. Once the pain subsided, I grabbed my wedding dress and took a cab to the hotel where the ceremony was supposed to take place. That wedding was my dream, the culmination of all my fantasies. I’d spent a year and a half designing every detail, overseeing every vendor, crafting a perfect moment. Ethan hated all that stuff, and I never asked him to get involved, only consulting him on the invitations and the wedding favors. Now, I was about to tear that dream down with my own two hands and face the ugly reality. I had all the photos of us taken down, leaving only our names at the entrance, stark and bare. I whispered his name, "Ethan," and felt the knot of rage in my chest begin to loosen. But as much as I hated Ethan, I hated Stella more. 3 The way Stella and I met was a total cliché. As a quiet, average student with parents who couldn't care less about me, I was practically invisible at school. People like me are easy targets for bullies. But I got lucky. The very first time I was cornered in an alley, Stella was there. She was two years older than me and had stopped school after vocational high. Her family was a pack of leeches, so she’d moved to the city and started working as a hostess at a shady bar, hustling drinks from sleazy customers. The day I met her, she’d just been kicked out by her manager to "cool off" after telling off a customer. She chased away the girls who were bullying me. She was so stunningly beautiful that I couldn't help but stare. A cigarette dangled from her lips. "Hey," she said, smoke curling around her face. "Go home. What are you gawking at?" I have asthma. The smoke was fine from a distance, but as soon as she got close, my chest seized up. I collapsed, struggling to breathe. I kept pointing frantically at my backpack, where my inhaler was. But Stella, bless her heart, was an idiot. She didn't understand and started performing some clumsy version of CPR that nearly broke my ribs. One emergency surgery later, my medical bills had wiped out Stella’s entire savings. My parents weren't around, and there was no cash at home. Luckily, Stella wasn’t expecting me to pay her back. She just muttered something about her bad luck and left the hospital. From that day on, I was determined to repay her. A few thousand dollars—I could earn it back over time. I started making a point to walk by that alley every single day, just hoping to see her. At first, it was hit or miss. Then, she started waiting for me. And soon after that, she’d always have a small cupcake or a piece of pastry for me. Just like that, Stella became my protector, and I became her loyal sidekick. No one at school ever dared to mess with me again. Stella was always watching her figure, so she never ate any of the treats. All the "protection money" I offered her seemed to end up in my own stomach. We were like that for a year. Then, my parents came home. 4 They demanded I cut ties with "the wrong crowd," or they’d pull me out of school and make me get a job. I refused. I packed a bag, and at seventeen years old, I ran away from home. I didn't have an umbrella and got caught in a downpour, ending up completely soaked. Stella called me an idiot, yelling at me for fighting with my parents. I just smiled like a fool and said, "Stella, you're the best person to me in the whole world." And it turned out, I was right. She quit smoking because the smell triggered my asthma, and she’d change her clothes before meeting me. She gave up spicy food because I couldn't eat it, sneaking out at 2 a.m. to get her fix at a barbecue stand. Little things like that, too many to count. She covered our rent, the utilities, our living expenses, and my tuition. I wanted to drop out and get a job to ease her burden, but she tore into me, unleashing a torrent of words so harsh I’d never heard her speak that way. And in her anger, she was putting herself down. "Vivian," she’d snarled, "do you want to end up like me? Having people point at you and call you a slut behind your back?" I didn't. "Don't worry," she’d said, her voice softening just a little. "I can take care of you." I remember her expression, the sound of her voice, so clearly. I had long since come to see her as the closest family I had. My stomach churned, and a wave of nausea washed over me. How did we end up here? I spent the entire night on the top floor of the hotel, just sitting. The first hint of light reflected off the polished floor. I pulled back the curtains and saw the sky was already bright. In the ballroom next to ours, the family of another couple was bustling around, checking the decorations, their faces beaming with joy as they prepared for their children's big day. I looked down at my own shadow. I was used to being abandoned, to being given up on. Being alone wasn’t so lonely after all. At nine o'clock, the wedding cars pulled up to the hotel entrance. The other bride, the one getting married on the same day as me, was surrounded by her loved ones, walking towards her future, towards happiness. I glanced in the direction the cars had come from and saw him, tucked away in a corner. Ethan. He was chain-smoking in the shadows, one cigarette after another, until another hand snatched the last one from his lips. Stella ground the cigarette out with her high heel. She slapped him across the face, her voice sharp and unforgiving. "Ethan, don't you dare make me lose respect for you." 5 Like a guilty child, Ethan grabbed her arm. "Don't go. I just want a little more time with you." They clung to each other, a desperate, intimate embrace, as if trying to fuse their bodies into one. It made me look like the villain who was tearing them apart. A laugh escaped my lips. I had been so considerate of his demanding job, cutting out most of the tedious wedding formalities. All he had to do was show up, say his vows, exchange rings, and let our friends and family witness our happiness. I never imagined he’d use that free time to whisper sweet nothings to another woman. I waited for them to slip inside the wedding hall. Then, without another moment of hesitation, I turned and went downstairs. Just as I’d instructed, a large trash bin was placed by the entrance where they had just been. Next to it was a box of new invitations. On every single one, the name "Vivian" had been replaced with "Stella." Knowing them, they were probably holed up backstage, whispering their tragic confessions to each other. There was no way they’d come back out. The thought brought a sliver of satisfaction. Vengeance really was the best therapy. The staff followed my orders, collecting the original invitations from the arriving guests, tossing them into the trash to be destroyed, and handing out the new ones from the box. A confused murmur rippled through the venue. Ethan’s face was a mask of thunder. He had no idea what was happening; he was just an unwilling star in a show he didn't want to be in. That’s fine. I was about to make it a day he would never forget. The time had come. The lights dimmed. I stood at the podium where the officiant should have been, dressed in my pure white wedding gown, and raised the microphone to my lips. As Ethan and Stella stared at me in horror, I began. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Welcome to the wedding of Ethan Blackwood and Stella Monroe." A spotlight hit Stella. She looked as if she’d been expecting it, a bitter smile gracing her lips. "Vivi..." Ethan snapped out of his shock and lunged for my microphone. "Vivian! This isn't funny! Stop it!" I pulled out a second microphone. My voice dripped with sarcasm. "Let's take a walk through their incredible love story and witness their beautiful romance." Stella grabbed my wrist, her eyes pleading. "Vivian! You—" The massive screen behind us lit up with the photo of them kissing in the alley, followed by the unedited video of their embrace just moments ago. Ethan froze. In a split second, his shock turned to rage. "That's photoshopped! You're lying!" I smirked. "Let us all wish them a lifetime of happiness together!" Ethan scrambled to do damage control. "Everyone, I am so sorry. My fiancée… she's been under a lot of creative pressure lately. She’s not… well." The grip on my wrist loosened. I pushed the microphone into Stella's hand and whispered, my voice for her ears only, "Stella. We're done." Not plastering this all over the internet and destroying everything she had was the last act of mercy I would ever show her. As for Ethan... I’d invited his managing director and his wife. If I played my cards right, his career was over. Stella’s expression was a storm of conflicting emotions. "Vivi, I'm so sorry." Then, her tightly clenched fist opened. A single piece of paper fluttered from her palm, drifting on the air and landing at the feet of a guest in the front row. She raised the microphone and looked directly at Ethan. "I'll tell you what that is," she announced, her voice ringing through the silent hall. "It's an invoice for an abortion!"
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