They say revenge is a dish best served cold. I served mine on my wedding night, wearing nothing but a smile and the truth.
Everything about our wedding was perfect – the flowers, the food, the way Greg’s eyes shone with what I’d thought was love. Only I knew the secret simmering beneath my serene expression.
As Greg led me to our honeymoon suite, his hands shaking with anticipation, I let him believe this night would go as he imagined. He kissed my shoulder as he slid the straps of my dress down, whispering all the things he’d been waiting to do.
Then I turned around.
The color drained from his face so quickly I thought he might faint. There, stretching across my back, was his ex’s face and the words he’d whispered to her during their final betrayal: “One last taste of freedom.”
“Sarah thought I should know what kind of man I was marrying,” I said conversationally as Greg sank to his knees. “I thought you should never forget.”
His parents burst in moments later, drawn by Greg’s strangled cries. The way his mother’s hand flew to her mouth when she saw my tattoo told me everything – they knew their golden boy was tarnished forever.
Greg’s pleading turned desperate. “It was just cold feet! It didn’t mean anything!”
“Funny,” I mused, slipping into my robe. “It meant enough to risk our entire marriage for.”
As I walked out, his father’s voice followed me down the hall: “You’ve humiliated this family.” But the real humiliation was Greg’s – left kneeling on the floor of what should have been our honeymoon suite, finally facing the consequences of his choices.
Some wedding nights are unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. Mine was unforgettable because I chose to walk away with my dignity intact.
