“You’ve got some nerve showing up here. Trying to ruin the wedding, you homewrecker?”
More people joined in—slapping, kicking, screaming at me.
I fought back, but there were too many.
I was shoved to the ground.
They got braver, crueler.
Someone hit me. Someone tried to rip my clothes. Others livestreamed the whole thing, wanting the whole internet to “see what a mistress looks like.”
I covered my face, but they grabbed my hands and yanked them away.
They pinned my limbs down and hung a pair of heels around my neck. Then they spat in my face, mocking me, calling me bitch, slut and other names.
I sobbed, helpless and humiliated, as they used my pain for entertainment.
Until suddenly—someone shouted, “The groom’s here!”
They backed off and rushed to the door.
I scrambled to my feet, barely able to stand.
And there they were—Micah in a sharp suit, Lana in a wedding gown.
Micah saw me, disheveled and broken. He hesitated, then walked over.
Leaning in, he whispered, “I thought you left. This is not a real wedding. We’re just putting on a show… for the kid.”
My voice was cold. “Oh, I see. So the bruises on my face and the shattered antiques—those are all just props for your little show?”