He said he needed money to help a friend get married. I said yes. Nine months pregnant, I stayed home—until my father called…

I walked forward slowly, each step deliberate. The whispers grew louder. The officiant stammered, unsure whether to continue.

I stopped halfway.

“Michael,” I said, loud and clear. “Is this the wedding my $10,000 paid for?”

The bride turned, confused.

Michael’s face lost all color. “Claire—”

“No,” I said. “Don’t speak. Just listen.”

I pulled something from my purse: printed documents.

“I’ve already filed for divorce. You’ll be served by tomorrow.”

The bride’s eyes widened.

I continued, “And since we’re still legally married, this ceremony? It’s invalid. A crime, actually.”

I handed the papers to a man standing nearby—her father, judging by the resemblance.

The bride backed away from Michael.

“Wait!” Michael begged. “It’s not what you think—”

“Oh, I think it is,” I said. “You used me. Lied to me. Left me alone in our final month while you played house with someone else.”

I turned to the guests. “Just so everyone knows, he has a child due next week. With me.”

Gasps turned into silence.

Michael tried to grab my arm. My dad stepped between us.

“Don’t,” he growled.