The ceremony was picture-perfect until the officiant asked if anyone objected. I raised my hand. Ethan laughed nervously; the guests thought it was a joke. I walked to the sound booth, handed the DJ a USB, and turned to face the pews. “Before I say I do, I need everyone to hear what my groom has been saying for the last four months.” The speakers crackled. Ethan’s voice filled the chapel: I love you, Bailey, I only marry her for the trust fund, we run away Sunday, my parents will get over it. Bailey, standing three feet from me in lavender silk, went the color of paper. Ethan lunged for the aisle mic. I stepped back. “There’s more.” Screen drops from the arch — my father, a forensic accountant, had pulled the joint account statements. Forty-one thousand dollars siphoned into a shell LLC under Bailey’s cousin’s name. Down payment on a condo in Miami. In our names. My future in-laws stood up first. His mother whispered, oh my God, Ethan. His father walked out. I removed the ring, set it on the altar, and slid a manila folder toward him. “Annulment papers. Pre-signed. My lawyer’s outside. The venue, the flowers, the dinner — all charged to the credit card you opened in my name without asking. That’s fraud, by the way. Detective Ruiz is in pew nine.” Ruiz stood, badge visible. Bailey tried to run; my cousin Marisol blocked the door with a smile she’d been saving since kindergarten. I turned to my guests. “Reception’s still on. Open bar. He’s paying.” Two hundred people clapped. I walked down the aisle alone, veil trailing, to the song I’d chosen weeks ago — not a love song, a victory march. Outside, the sun hit my face for what felt like the first time in a year. My mother squeezed my hand. Ruiz read Ethan his rights behind me. And Bailey? Bailey was already trending.
