The Wedding They'll Never Forget - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
You are reading The Wedding They'll Never Forget, Chapter 5: Chapter 5. Read more chapters of The Wedding They'll Never Forget.
On screen, I appeared—calm, composed, and brutally direct. My opening line cut through the silence: "You're probably wondering where I am. Let me clear that up."
Then, I laid it all bare. His secret texts, the incriminating photos, the hotel receipts—every careless slip-up he'd made, now playing for the world to see. The footage rolled, exposing their affair in agonizing detail. The room fell deathly quiet.
In that moment, his world imploded. Guests gasped. His family went ghostly pale. And as my final message flashed—"I hope it was worth it"—the weight of what just happened hit him like a freight train.
The video was set to auto-upload across social media and YouTube. I'd already blasted the link to every major news outlet.
Within minutes, it went nuclear. Some guests even filmed the chaos and posted it themselves.
The internet erupted:
[Wait—aren't these the BlaBlu owners?]
[No way. Their cakes are iconic. Please don't let this kill the business!]
[Typical trash man. Ruby dodged a missile.]
[They were #CoupleGoals. My faith in love is dead. T.T]
[Real or staged? Either way, damn.]
[Queen behavior. Expose him to the sun.]
Eviction was step seven—and I made sure it stuck. That house held years of memories, but I refused to let him keep squatting in what was supposed to be our future. His betrayal had already tainted every inch of it.
Weeks before the wedding, while he was too busy playing house with his mistress, I met with a lawyer. Quietly, I transferred the deed, scrubbed his name from the mortgage, and rewrote the lease. Paul never noticed—his blind trust was his undoing.
The night before our "big day," I erased him. Every shirt, every gadget, every trace of him got boxed and dumped on the porch like he'd been a glorified Airbnb guest. Drawers? Mine. Closets? Mine. I changed the locks and armed the new security system.
When Paul came "home" on our wedding day, the place was hollow. No me. No my things. Just his pathetic pile of boxes on the doorstep—proof he'd never really belonged there.
He fumbled with his key. It jammed. He hammered on the door. Nothing.
The only reply? The ear-splitting wail of the alarm. Soon, the neighborhood guards rolled up. They recognized him—but they also saw the boxes. My name was the only one on file now.
With awkward pity, they told him to call me. But he couldn't. They left him there, stranded, as his life crumbled in real time.
He camped on that porch for hours, willing me to show. But as night swallowed the house—dark, silent, empty—the truth finally sank in: I was gone.
Then, I laid it all bare. His secret texts, the incriminating photos, the hotel receipts—every careless slip-up he'd made, now playing for the world to see. The footage rolled, exposing their affair in agonizing detail. The room fell deathly quiet.
In that moment, his world imploded. Guests gasped. His family went ghostly pale. And as my final message flashed—"I hope it was worth it"—the weight of what just happened hit him like a freight train.
The video was set to auto-upload across social media and YouTube. I'd already blasted the link to every major news outlet.
Within minutes, it went nuclear. Some guests even filmed the chaos and posted it themselves.
The internet erupted:
[Wait—aren't these the BlaBlu owners?]
[No way. Their cakes are iconic. Please don't let this kill the business!]
[Typical trash man. Ruby dodged a missile.]
[They were #CoupleGoals. My faith in love is dead. T.T]
[Real or staged? Either way, damn.]
[Queen behavior. Expose him to the sun.]
Eviction was step seven—and I made sure it stuck. That house held years of memories, but I refused to let him keep squatting in what was supposed to be our future. His betrayal had already tainted every inch of it.
Weeks before the wedding, while he was too busy playing house with his mistress, I met with a lawyer. Quietly, I transferred the deed, scrubbed his name from the mortgage, and rewrote the lease. Paul never noticed—his blind trust was his undoing.
The night before our "big day," I erased him. Every shirt, every gadget, every trace of him got boxed and dumped on the porch like he'd been a glorified Airbnb guest. Drawers? Mine. Closets? Mine. I changed the locks and armed the new security system.
When Paul came "home" on our wedding day, the place was hollow. No me. No my things. Just his pathetic pile of boxes on the doorstep—proof he'd never really belonged there.
He fumbled with his key. It jammed. He hammered on the door. Nothing.
The only reply? The ear-splitting wail of the alarm. Soon, the neighborhood guards rolled up. They recognized him—but they also saw the boxes. My name was the only one on file now.
With awkward pity, they told him to call me. But he couldn't. They left him there, stranded, as his life crumbled in real time.
He camped on that porch for hours, willing me to show. But as night swallowed the house—dark, silent, empty—the truth finally sank in: I was gone.
End of The Wedding They'll Never Forget Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to The Wedding They'll Never Forget book page.