The irony wasn’t lost on me – Greg thought our wedding night would be about passion, but the only heat in that room came from the burning wreckage of his lies.
I’d spent months planning every detail of our wedding, but my masterpiece was the surprise waiting beneath my dress. As Greg peeled away the layers of lace and silk, his expression shifted from lust to pure terror in the space of a heartbeat.
The temporary tattoo was a work of art – his ex’s face rendered in perfect detail, accompanied by the damning words he’d whispered to her during their illicit rendezvous. The artist had outdone herself; it looked so real even I did a double-take in the mirror.
“Lilith, please,” Greg begged, tears streaming down his face. “It didn’t mean anything!”
“That’s the problem,” I said, stepping over him to retrieve my robe. “Our marriage didn’t mean anything to you before it even started.”
When his parents burst in, drawn by the commotion, the scene that greeted them was better than anything I could have scripted. His mother collapsed onto the bed in shock while his father looked at Greg like he was seeing him for the first time.
As I walked out, Greg’s desperate pleas echoed down the hallway. But revenge, I’d learned, is best served naked – literally. That tattoo was the last thing he’d ever see of me, and the memory would haunt him far longer than any marriage could have.
