Locked Out of My Own Wedding

On what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, Alexander's ex-girlfriend decided to drop a bombshell—she was terminally ill.

Her dying wish? To wear a wedding dress one last time.

And my fiancé, the man who'd promised me forever, locked me in the dressing room so he could play groom to her makeshift bride.

His voice cut through the door, dripping with frustration: "Have a heart, Amelia. She's dying. Is it really too much to let her have this?"

Later, when the guy next door—who'd been secretly in love with me for years—climbed onto the rooftop and proposed as an alternative, Alexander had the nerve to look at me with bloodshot eyes and whisper, "You'd really throw away seven years for him?"

I shoved his hand away. "What's the alternative? Let him die? It's just paperwork. Don't be so heartless."

One hour until "I do."

I stared at my phone screen, at the photo Alexander's ex had sent me. There she was, drowning in my wedding dress, plastered against my fiancé's side like some tragic rom-com heroine.

The caption? ["He says I look better in this than you ever could."]

Followed by: ["Want your wedding to happen? Beg me."]

I snapped my phone shut and turned to the makeup artist. "Let me guess—the 'wrong size' was no accident?"

This wasn't just any bridal shop. I'd paid top dollar, sat through endless consultations, triple-checked every detail to make sure today would be flawless.

Now the makeup artist couldn't even meet my eyes.

I remembered how Alexander had barely glanced up from his laptop during my dress fittings. But for her? Suddenly he's Mr. Enthusiastic, playing dress-up like they're the ones getting married.

My knuckles whitened around my phone. "Get Alexander in here. Now."

The assistant scurried off as I studied my reflection—the corset digging into my ribs, the fabric straining where it shouldn't. Maybe some things just weren't meant to fit.

The officiant arrived first, shifting his weight like a kid caught cheating. "Miss Amelia... you won't be needed at the ceremony."

I barked out a laugh. "Let me get this straight—I'm uninvited from my own wedding?"

Then Alexander walked in.

His crisp white suit was the one I'd chosen, but the bowtie? Not mine.

He cleared his throat under my stare. "Sophia's surgery is next week. The doctors... they don't think she'll make it. This is her last wish."