He said I do to her at our altar—then the projector clicked on behind

The first slide was a bank statement. Grant Whitlock, personal account, four wire transfers to Simone Ardell, each labeled honeymoon fund, totaling ninety-two thousand dollars. My money. The joint pre-wedding account Grant swore he had not touched. The second slide was a text thread. Simone: tell her tonight at the altar, make it hurt, her father will pay us to disappear. Grant: relax, the old man always pays. Slide three was a notarized letter from Whitlock Holdings’ board, dated two days ago, removing Grant as heir apparent pending an internal audit I had quietly requested as their new outside counsel. Yes, counsel. I passed the bar in April. Nobody told Grant because Grant never asked what I did between wedding fittings. Slide four was the prenup he made me sign, with the infidelity clause highlighted in red, triggered the moment he stood up there and named another woman. His mother stopped smiling. His father stood up. I set the bouquet on the altar, unclipped my veil, and walked to the microphone. Grant, I said, you were right about one thing, I cannot continue this marriage in good conscience either. Effective immediately, per section nine of the agreement your lawyers drafted, the Marsh trust reclaims the downtown tower, the lake house, and the seat on your family’s board. Simone, the honeymoon suite is prepaid, enjoy it, you earned every dollar. Then I turned to the guests. Dinner is still served. The open bar is on the Whitlocks. Please stay. Grant lunged for the projector cord. Security, hired by my father that morning, gently walked him out a side door. Simone tried to follow. My mother stepped in front of her and said, sweetheart, that exit is for family. I danced the first dance alone, in a wedding dress that was finally mine, to a song I picked myself, while three hundred people rose to their feet.