Locked Out of My Own Wedding - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Maybe it was the dressing room's AC blasting too hard, but the longer I stood there, the deeper the chill settled into my bones.
Alexander reached for my hand, but I jerked away.
I met his eyes, steady. "Bring the wedding dress back. I won't let her wear it."
His frown deepened. "Stop being dramatic, Amelia. It's just a ceremony. We can do another one whenever."
The irritation in his voice, the way his lips twisted—it stung.
"Fine," I said. "Let her have the dress. But if she wants a wedding, does the groom have to be you?"
Was she really just some fragile, dying girl making demands? Or had he already checked out of us and was just taking the easy way out?
The words hit a nerve. His expression darkened.
Alexander dropped my hand and turned toward the door, tossing his final shot over his shoulder.
"You've become exhausting. You never think about how this looks—always pushing until everyone's humiliated."
Me? I'm the one not considering his reputation? I'm the one making unreasonable demands?
The sharp click of the lock snapped me back to reality.
I grabbed my skirt and slammed my fist against the door. "I don't agree! This wedding wasn't just some ceremony to me—"
His voice cut through from the other side, impatient.
"Can't you show a little compassion? She's dying. What's the harm in letting her have this?"
She's dying.
Because of those two words, I'd spent years swallowing my pride, bending over backward—and now I was supposed to hand over my wedding. My husband.
But did I make her sick?
I gripped the doorknob, forcing my voice steady. "Alexander. Think very carefully. Don't regret this."
A pause. Then footsteps, fading away.
I slid down the door, the ridiculous skirt pooling around me, my chest hollow.
She'd really done it.
Sophia had ruined my wedding.
My phone buzzed violently on the vanity—my parents calling.
Before I could answer, the call dropped.
The dressing room was just behind the main hall, separated by a single door. The noise from the other side—gasps, murmurs, then applause led by the officiant—cut through me like a knife.
Sophia's account pinged with another video.
The camera panned to the big screen, where all our painstakingly shot pre-wedding photos—hours in the sun, aching backs, endless poses—had been AI-edited, my face replaced with hers.
That hurt worse than Alexander's words.
Hands shaking, I tapped the next video.
There she was, walking toward him under the spotlight.
And in the shadows behind her—my parents, frantic, searching for me, held back by security.
Tears finally spilled over, dripping onto my phone screen, blurring their faces.
I chose wrong. Why did they have to suffer this humiliation with me?
I didn't watch the rest.
As cheers erupted on the other side of the wall, my mind sharpened into clarity.
After a long, hard look in the mirror, I stripped off the ill-fitting dress, wiped away the makeup, and changed back into my own clothes.
One small mercy, at least.
I'd seen the truth before signing the papers.