My wedding dress was the most expensive outfit I’d ever worn. But the message hidden beneath it? Priceless.
Greg thought he was marrying his perfect bride. What he didn’t know was that I’d become the perfect avenger. Through every toast, every dance, every loving glance, I carried my secret close.
When we finally escaped to our suite, Greg’s hands were everywhere, his excitement barely contained. “I’ve dreamed about this moment,” he breathed against my skin as he turned me to unzip my gown.
“Dream bigger,” I suggested, letting the dress fall.
His sharp intake of breath when he saw the tattoo was more satisfying than any wedding vow. His ex’s face stared back at him from my bare skin, accompanied by his own words from their illicit meeting: “One last night of freedom.”
“Sarah was kind enough to send me your texts,” I explained as Greg collapsed against the bed. “I thought you should wear your words as visibly as I have to.”
His parents’ arrival moments later turned the scene from satisfying to spectacular. The way his mother’s face crumpled when she saw the evidence, the way his father’s fists clenched – it was better than any wedding gift.
Greg’s tearful excuses – “It was just sex,” “I was scared,” “I’ll never see her again” – rang hollow in the face of his betrayal. When he reached for me, I simply stepped away.
“Don’t touch me,” I said quietly. “You lost that privilege when you touched her.”
As I walked out of what should have been our first home together, I realized something profound: the bride may wear white, but only the guilty wear shame. And Greg? He’d be wearing his for a long, long time.
