The week before a wedding is usually meant to be a blur of joy, final touches, and nervous excitement. For me, it became a nightmare—and it all began in my kitchen.
I had spent months carefully planning every detail of my wedding to Simon. We had met two years earlier at the café where I worked while finishing university. He was charming, ambitious, and attentive in all the ways I thought mattered. When he proposed the previous winter, I felt like I had won a prize I never even knew I was competing for. I threw myself into the preparations, determined to create a day that felt perfect.
The invitations were my pride. Creamy cardstock with elegant gold foiling, each name hand-calligraphed. They weren’t cheap, but I had saved for them, dreaming since childhood of the moment people would open those envelopes and imagine my wedding coming to life. Two hundred invitations sat stacked neatly, ready to be mailed—until one morning, when I walked into my kitchen and found them shredded into confetti, scattered across the counter like a cruel joke.
I froze. My mug slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor, but I barely noticed. My chest tightened as one question echoed in my head: who could do something so heartless?
Then I saw her. My younger sister, Ivy, stood in the doorway, scissors in her hand, her face pale but determined.
“Ivy, what the hell have you done?” I shouted, my voice trembling with rage.
She flinched but didn’t step back. Instead, she straightened her shoulders as though she had been preparing for this very moment. “Clara,” she said softly but firmly, “I’m sorry about the invitations. But you can’t marry Simon.”
At first, I thought it was her being overprotective again. Ivy had never liked any of my boyfriends. She always claimed no one was good enough for me. Maybe she and Simon had clashed, and this was just her dramatic way of making a point.
“You don’t get to decide that!” I snapped, kneeling to gather the ruined scraps. “Do you have any idea how much these cost? How many hours—”
“That’s not the point!” she interrupted, her voice cracking. “You can’t marry Simon because…” She hesitated, then blurted out the words that knocked the air from my lungs. “He’s sleeping with Dad’s girlfriend.”
The world seemed to tilt. “That’s not funny, Ivy. Don’t make this worse.”
Her face was deadly serious. “I’m not joking. It’s Celeste.”
Celeste. My father’s glamorous girlfriend of three years. The woman who had always looked at Ivy and me with disdain, as though we were obstacles she had to tolerate for the sake of Dad’s money and company.
My heart pounded. “What are you talking about?”
Ivy’s hands shook as she pulled out her phone. “Two weeks ago, I went to Dad’s house to borrow his van. I saw them through the patio door. I knew you wouldn’t believe me, so…” Her voice wavered. “I filmed it.”
She pressed play, and my entire world came crashing down.
On the screen, there was Simon—my fiancé—sitting on Dad’s porch, in the chair I had helped build last summer. Celeste leaned over him, kissing him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then Simon’s voice, unmistakable: “You’re sure I’ll get the lake house after the will’s sorted?”
Celeste giggled. “Of course. You’ll be family by then.”
Simon smirked. “Once Clara and I are married, we’re set. That lake house is worth at least half a million.”
My legs buckled. I gripped the counter to stay upright. Ivy stopped the video, her own eyes brimming with tears. “I confronted Celeste,” she whispered. “She said you’d thank her later—for showing you what marriage is really about. Then she laughed at you.”
A scream clawed at my throat, but no sound came out. My heart shattered, but beneath the pain was something stronger—anger. I refused to let Simon and Celeste make me into a fool.
“Send me the video,” I told Ivy. “I have a plan.”
For the next three days, I played my part perfectly. I texted Simon sweet messages, asked about the honeymoon, even called Celeste to discuss flowers and seating arrangements. She was smug and superior, certain she was outsmarting me. Meanwhile, Ivy and I gathered more evidence: screenshots of flirtatious texts, a voicemail Simon left on Dad’s machine, whispering promises of “just a few more days.”
Finally, the wedding day arrived. The venue glowed with roses and fairy lights, exactly as I had dreamed. My father walked me down the aisle, proud and unaware. Simon stood at the altar in his tuxedo, smiling confidently. Celeste sat in the front row, in a dress dangerously close to white.
The officiant began the ceremony. But before he could continue, I raised my hand. “Before we go on, I want to share something special,” I announced, my voice steady. “A glimpse into what marriage truly means.”
I gave Ivy the signal. The lights dimmed, and the screen behind the altar flickered on.
The first image appeared: Simon and Celeste kissing. Gasps echoed through the crowd. The second: Simon’s voice recording, bragging about the lake house. The third: screenshots of their intimate messages.
The guests turned, staring at Simon in horror. My father’s face went white. Celeste bolted, and Dad chased after her, fury in his voice.
Simon stood frozen, his face pale as chalk. I turned to him, my voice clear. “This wedding is over.”
The officiant quietly packed his things and slipped away. The guests erupted into applause, some hugging me, some whispering that I’d been saved. Simon tried to protest, but his words drowned in the roar of voices.
Six months later, Simon had left town. Dad had ended things with Celeste for good. And Ivy remained by my side, stronger than ever. Once, I thought she had destroyed my invitations out of spite. Now, I knew the truth: she had saved me from the greatest betrayal of my life.
One day, I’ll marry someone truly worthy of me. And when that day comes, Ivy will stand proudly as my maid of honor.
Because she didn’t ruin my wedding. She saved my future.