The officiant—Brock, Garrett’s supposed "best man"—kept intentionally botching my name with every line. He was using the little pet name Garrett had for his college sweetheart. “My bad, man,” Brock slurred into the microphone, not looking sorry at all. “Your last act was just too memorable. I seriously thought today was going to be her walking down the aisle with you… But hey, the new Mrs. is great too, I guess.” Garrett didn’t even look annoyed. Instead, a wave of sickening nostalgia washed over his face. I lifted the edge of my six-figure veil and smiled, a cold, hard thing. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “The Mrs. will make sure you get an unforgettable gift—an exclusive feature on the front page of the city paper's ‘Worst Wedding Nightmares’ section.” 1. The spotlights were uncomfortably hot on my face. I stood at the center of The St. Regis Ballroom, holding a bouquet of rare, six-figure Ecuadorian roses and wearing a custom haute couture gown that took eight hundred atelier hours to stitch. Brock, Garrett’s so-called ‘iron brother,’ was red-faced and yelling into the mic—drunk or just thrilled by his own audacity. He leaned in conspiratorially toward Garrett, his voice booming through the top-tier sound system into the ears of every single guest. “Garrett, do you take Sloane Maxwell to be your lawfully wedded wife? For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health…” The air congealed in that instant. He hadn’t said Jocelyn. He had said Sloane. My practiced, polite smile faltered. The background hum of chatter cut off as if a giant pair of scissors had snipped the sound, only to be immediately replaced by the roaring tide of speculation. I knew this wasn’t a slip of the tongue. I turned my head to look at Garrett. If he frowned right now, if he grabbed the mic and offered even the slightest correction, I could dismiss this as an incredibly crude joke—one I’d make Brock pay dearly for later. But Garrett did nothing of the sort. Instead of correcting the man, he looked utterly spellbound by the name. His gaze drifted past me, past the cascading champagne tower, and zeroed in on the sixth table near the back. That’s where his college friends were seated. Garrett’s lips curved into a soft, uncontrollable smile, and his eyes held a tenderness and a hint of regret I had never once seen directed at me. It was as if that other name was the key that unlocked his true soul, and I was merely a prop standing by to foot the bill. “The name is wrong.” I took the microphone from Brock’s hand. My voice was icy. I needed to salvage my dignity, no matter how much I was internally bleeding. 2. Brock jumped back as if scalded, hitting his thigh with a loud, theatrical “Whoops!” “My bad, my bad! Tongue-tied, folks!” Brock waved his hands toward the crowd, a greasy, unrepentant grin plastered on his face. “Mrs., you know how it is. Garrett and Jocelyn were the campus Golden Couple back in the day. We’re all just used to it.” He turned back to me, his tone shifting from joking to something truly vicious. “Listen, Mrs., don’t be too sensitive. Yeah, you might not have the same spark as her, but you’re the main event now, you’re the real deal. You have to be the bigger person. Don’t make the rest of us laugh.” A burst of drunken laughter erupted from Garrett’s fraternity brothers. My knuckles were white against the cold metal of the microphone. This was Garrett’s friend, celebrating a wedding I paid for. He was eating nine-hundred-dollar-a-plate food and publicly humiliating me by saying I was less than Garrett’s perfect, tragic first love. 3. “Brock, enough.” Garrett finally spoke. But his tone held no reprimand, only a kind of weary, almost affectionate indulgence, like a father scolding a mischievous child. “Alright, alright, no more messin’ around,” Brock snapped his fingers and yelled toward the back. “Cue the video! Time to look at the groom’s beautiful youth!” By the official schedule, this was when the romantic documentary of my and Garrett’s engagement trip to Paris and Tuscany should have played. I had hired a professional team and spent two weeks on the shoot and edit. The massive LED screen flickered. The image that appeared wasn't the Eiffel Tower or a Venetian gondola. It was a series of grainy, decade-old photos. They were all of Garrett and a girl: holding hands on a quad, sharing a booth in a cafeteria, sleeping side-by-side in the library. The majestic strains of the classical wedding march were abruptly replaced by some sad, overplayed indie folk song. Across the screen, four large words flashed: A REQUIEM FOR LOST YOUTH. The entire ballroom erupted in a collective gasp. I stood beneath the giant screen, the last photo showing Garrett in a college sweatshirt, pinning the girl against a tree and kissing her passionately. The girl, with her delicate profile and innocent eyes, was Jocelyn. In that instant, this million-dollar wedding transformed into a grotesque farce. 4. I looked at Garrett. His eyes were red. He was gazing up at the screen, his Adam's apple bobbing, completely lost in a haze of self-pitying tragedy. “Garrett,” I called out. He didn’t hear me. He was looking out at the crowd. I followed his gaze. At the sixth table, a woman was standing up. She wore a pure-white, delicate lace dress, a style that was disturbingly similar to my own gown. Wearing a dress that looked like a wedding dress to someone else’s ceremony is the ultimate, universally understood act of provocation. But now, she covered her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears, the perfect picture of an innocent woman both deeply wounded and overwhelmed with emotion. It was Jocelyn. “That is enough!” A roar came from the main table. My father, shaking with rage, slammed his wine glass onto the floor. The shattering of crystal was shocking and loud. My mother went pale, clinging to the table edge to keep from falling. Their daughter, whom they had cherished, was being trod upon like trash on her most important day. “Family, please, settle down!” Garrett’s parents immediately rushed forward, grabbing my father’s arms. Garrett’s father forced a smile, but his words were chilling. “It’s just the kids’ idea of a joke! Kids these days are always stirring things up for a little fun! If us parents get angry now, we’ll just embarrass the kids. Don’t make a spectacle for the rest of the guests!” An idea? Broadcasting photos of the groom making out with his ex-girlfriend at his current wife’s wedding—that was an idea? My father struggled to get to the stage, but Garrett’s beefy relatives held him in a death grip. 5. Brock, seeing the chaos, became even more energized. He loved having control of the room. He bellowed into the microphone: “Looks like everyone is moved! Our youth may be gone, but the friendship is still here. Since the two main characters are in the room, I propose—” He deliberately stretched out the silence, his eyes darting between Jocelyn and me, before landing on Garrett. “Why don’t we have Jocelyn come up? The three of you can share a toast to closure. It’ll symbolize the turning of a page, and you can all still be great friends! What do you say?” “Yeah!” “Get up here!” “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The crowd of his friends began to chant, punctuated by wolf whistles. I stared at Brock in disbelief, then back at Garrett. This wasn’t just an insult; it was peeling the skin off my face and stomping on it. “Garrett, I dare you.” I stared into his eyes, the words squeezed out through my teeth. Garrett finally looked at me. His eyes held no guilt, only a flicker of deep irritation. “Sloane, stop being so dramatic, okay?” He lowered his voice so only I could hear. “Brock is just trying to lighten the mood. Look, Jocelyn is crying. She’s a girl, she’s embarrassed in front of everyone. I’ll just go get her, we’ll take a quick sip, and we move on. Be the bigger person.” The bigger person? I’m supposed to be the bigger person as my fiancé, at the wedding I paid seven figures for, goes to hold his ex-girlfriend’s hand? Before I could speak, Garrett had already turned his back on me. He walked away, leaving me alone on the stage, taking step after step toward the woman in the white dress. 6. The crowd's roar of approval reached a crescendo. Garrett reached Jocelyn and offered his hand with a gesture he clearly thought was chivalrous. Jocelyn shook her head, her face a mask of sorrowful beauty, but her body was already leaning into him. Garrett, half-reluctant and half-eager, took her hand and led her up the crimson aisle like a knight escorting his princess. At the other end of that aisle, there was me. I stood there like an expensive, superfluous backdrop, utterly alone on the stage. Brock leaned in beside me, flipping the mic switch off. He whispered, his voice cold and oily: “Sloane, don’t think your money makes you special. Some women are just blessed—they do nothing and get a man’s heart. You? You bought the ring, the house, the car. And what did you get? Real love isn't on a price tag.” 7. Garrett and Jocelyn arrived at the center of the stage. Standing side-by-side, her white lace dress and his white tuxedo complemented each other perfectly, as if they were the true, intended stars of the day. I, in my heavy, crimson reception dress, felt like an outsider who had wandered onto the wrong set, a garish backdrop to their perfect, beautiful moment. Brock, smiling ingratiatingly, held the mic out to Jocelyn. She took it, tears streaming down her face, looked at me with a pitiful glance, and then gazed lovingly at Garrett. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have come today… I never wanted anything, just for Garrett to be happy. As long as the Mrs. can make room for that little piece of my heart he keeps for me, I’m content.” The room sighed in collective sympathy, seemingly touched by this ‘great love.’ I watched the scene and, overwhelmed by anger, I finally laughed. In that moment, the last sliver of hope I had for Garrett crumbled, replaced by a clarity colder than any ice. I took a few sharp steps forward and snatched the mic right out of Brock’s hand. He was so stunned, the emptiness in his hand seemed to shock him physically. “Sound technician, cut the music.” My voice, amplified by the mic, was terrifyingly calm, without a single tremor. 8. The sad indie folk song stopped dead. “Lighting director, put all the spot-lights on the three of us.” The blinding, harsh light pierced the dark. Garrett and Jocelyn instinctively raised their hands to shield their eyes, looking suddenly panicked and disheveled. I didn’t cry, I didn’t yell. I simply pulled my phone from my clutch and connected it to the projector. The massive screen behind me flickered. The disgusting “Requiem for Lost Youth” disappeared, replaced by a dense, intimidating Excel spreadsheet. “Since we have everyone here, let’s settle some accounts.”
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