Greg had envisioned our wedding night going very differently. In his fantasy, I’d be the one on my knees. Instead, there he was, groveling on the carpet like the pathetic cheat he was.
The tattoo artist had warned me the temporary ink might sting a little, but seeing Greg’s reaction made every second of discomfort worth it. His ex’s face stared back at him from my shoulder blade, her smirking expression perfectly capturing the moment she’d shown me their messages.
“You… you planned this?” he whispered, his voice shaking.
“Every detail,” I confirmed, stepping carefully around him to retrieve my bag. “The dress, the venue, even the timing of when his parents would hear the shouting.”
His mother’s gasp when she saw the tattoo was almost as satisfying as the way his father immediately turned on him. “You did this the night before your wedding?” he thundered, grabbing Greg by the collar.
As I slipped out the door, I heard Greg’s broken voice call after me one last time. But some bridges aren’t meant to be rebuilt – especially when you’re the one who set them on fire. The tattoo would fade in a few weeks, but the memory of his betrayal? That would last forever.
