The golden glow of candlelight reflected off crystal glasses as guests mingled, unaware of the storm about to break. Wynne had planned every detail of our wedding with military precision – the pastel floral arrangements, the hand-lettered place cards, the monogrammed cocktail napkins. What she hadn’t planned was getting caught.
Three days before our vows, my sister Suki showed me photos that shattered my world. There was Wynne, my meticulous, rule-following fiancée, locking lips with another man at a café where she thought no one who knew us would see. The images burned into my retinas as Suki’s words echoed: “She’s been playing you, Knox.”
Instead of canceling, I orchestrated something more fitting. When the bridal procession began, gasps rippled through the crowd. Wynne’s bridesmaids – her closest friends who’d seen the evidence – glided down the aisle not in blush pink as planned, but in funeral black. Their stony faces told the story before I did.
Wynne’s steps faltered when she saw them. Her trembling hands clutched mine at the altar as she whispered, “What’s happening?” I smiled coldly. “This isn’t our wedding, darling. It’s the funeral for your lies.” The color drained from her face as understanding dawned.
When she turned on her friends screaming betrayal, they stood firm. “The only traitor here is you,” her maid of honor declared. Watching Wynne flee through a sea of shocked guests in her ruined white dress, I finally exhaled. Some funerals are necessary – especially for relationships built on deceit.
