Blurb：
On her wedding day, Raine Collins lies hospitalized while fiancé Weston Davies photoshops her out of engagement pics, replacing her face with Sadie Bowman's. Viral social media humiliation becomes physical assault by Weston's family, leaving Raine broken.
When Sadie invades Raine's home wearing her silk robe and shames her with "helpful" intimacy posts, Raine makes a cold decision: accept her parents' arranged marriage deal. But as Weston weaponizes their "Three Strikes" promise and Sadie stages petty dominance games, Raine's June 18th wedding looms - with a mystery groom promising ruthless payback.
This explosive story of betrayal, revenge marriages, and social media warfare asks: When love becomes public mockery, how far would you go to reclaim your dignity?
Content：
§01On what should have been my wedding day, I was in a hospital bed, staring at my phone.
The antiseptic smell of the room felt like a cruel joke, a sterile counterpoint to the mess my life had become.
My fiancé, Weston Davies, hadn’t called.
Not once.
For five years, a missed call from him was a five-alarm fire.
Now, there was only silence, louder than any alarm.
Instead of calling, he’d posted on Instagram.
An engagement photo, perfectly framed, professionally lit.
Except, it wasn't my face next to his.
He’d expertly Photoshopped my head out of the picture, the one we took in that sun-drenched meadow, replacing it with hers—Sadie Bowman, the one that got away, the ghost who had haunted every corner of our relationship.
His caption read: "Ten years of waiting. Today, the echo finally answered."
A hot surge of anger, sharp and acidic, clawed up my throat.
It wasn't just anger.
It was the hollow, sickening thud of finality.
I remembered him taking that photo, how he’d tucked a wildflower behind my ear and whispered, "You're my forever, Raine."
Apparently, "forever" had an expiration date.
I called him, my hands shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone.
He answered on the third ring, his voice careless, background chatter filtering through.
"What's wrong? Everyone can tell it's Photoshopped. Just a joke between friends, isn't that normal?"
A joke.
It wasn't a joke when his friends and family, people I had hosted for Thanksgiving, showed up for our wedding.
Every single one of them, guided by that Instagram post, bypassed me and went straight to congratulate Sadie.
When I grabbed Weston's arm, my voice cracking as I begged him to tell them the truth, to acknowledge me, he pulled away as if my touch were venom.
Then he turned, a perfect smile plastered on his face, offered his arm to Sadie, and left me standing alone at what was supposed to be my altar.
They thought I was a crazy ex, a pathetic footnote crashing the main event.
The "joke" ended with Weston's uncle shoving me "out of the way," sending me tumbling down a short flight of stairs.
It ended with the searing pain of cracked ribs and a trip to the emergency room in an ambulance, my white dress stained with dirt and humiliation.
Lying there, listening to the rhythmic beep of the monitor keeping time with my shattered heart, something inside me finally went cold and silent.
The part that had loved him, the part that had excused a thousand tiny betrayals, died.
I scrolled to my mother's number, a contact I hadn't touched in five agonizing years.
"Mom," I said, my voice a hoarse whisper.
"About that marriage arrangement… I'll do it."
§02
During my three-day stay in the hospital, Weston didn't call.
Not a single text.
Not a single missed call.
It was a void, a confirmation of my new, terrifying reality.
Instead, it was Sadie who posted again.
A new picture on her Instagram story, clearly taken in our apartment.
It was Weston, a towel slung low on his hips, steam rising from his bare shoulders, gently blow-drying her hair.
The look on his face—tender, adoring, as if he were handling a priceless, fragile treasure—was a punch to the gut.
It was the same look he used to give me, back when he still saw me, back before Sadie's shadow fell over us again.
Years ago, seeing that would have sent me into a spiral.
I would have called him, my voice choked with tears, screaming, demanding to know why he couldn't respect our boundaries, asking if Sadie didn't have her own two hands.
I would have begged him to remember I was his fiancée, to lie to me, to tell me he still loved me.
Now, I just stared at the picture, a detached numbness washing over me.
I even liked the post.
A second later, my phone buzzed.
It was Weston.
"Honey, don't misunderstand," he started, the practiced, weary apology already rolling off his tongue.
"Sadie's hand got hurt at the wedding, a minor accident. She couldn't manage the dryer. I was just helping her."
Hurt at the wedding?
A bitter, silent laugh escaped me.
Because Weston had plastered their fake engagement photo everywhere, his friends all assumed Sadie was the bride.
When I, the actual bride, had asked for a simple clarification, for him to just acknowledge who I was, he had announced to the crowd, his voice booming with false authority, "The bride is Sadie Bowman. This one? She's just a crazy groupie who won't let go."
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The End