My Best Friend Stole My Wedding

I walked back into the apartment we were supposed to move into after our engagement next month, completely alone.

The living room was overflowing with wedding favors and invitation boxes, all hand-picked by my best friend, Zoey Collins, after my boyfriend, Cole Anderson, gave her full control over the aesthetic. This was supposed to be the biggest milestone of my life, yet her fingerprints were plastered over every single detail.

The invitations were scheduled to go out tomorrow.

Cole had complained that my handwriting looked too childish, too unrefined. He mentioned that Zoey had practiced modern calligraphy for years, so he handed the entire guest list over to her.

I hadn't pushed back at the time. I figured it didn't really matter whose handwriting was on the envelopes.

I stepped into the study, where a neat stack of invitation envelopes sat on the desk.

I pulled one out and took out the card.

Groom: Cole Anderson.

Underneath, the bride’s name stood out in bold ink: Zoey Collins.

The front door clicked open, and Cole walked in, carrying the faint, sterile scent of hospital disinfectant on his jacket.

"I was worried about your fever, so I pushed my meetings back to come home early," he said, hanging up his coat. "Why haven't you been answering my texts?"

Before he could finish his sentence, his eyes fell on the invitation in my hands.

His posture stiffened, but he quickly smooth-talked his way forward. "Zoey made a copy-paste error in the template when she was setting up the print layout. I was actually just about to tell you."

"We need to reprint them tomorrow," I said, my voice raspy and raw.

Cole frowned, resting his palm flat against the heavy stack of envelopes.

"Reprinting hundreds of custom cards will delay everything by at least a week," he said, his tone turning sweet and persuasive, "Look, we can just attach a cute photo sticker of us on the outside of the envelopes. Don't turn a tiny, fixable mistake into an awkward mess for everyone. Zoey already feels awful about it."

Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the desk.

He answered the video call, and Zoey’s face popped up on the screen. She was wearing an off-white cropped jacket.

I recognized it immediately.

Two nights ago, Cole came home late, casually mentioning he’d stopped by the mall after meeting a client and saw a jacket that looked cute. I assumed he bought it for me.

Now I knew who it actually belonged to.

"Kelsey, I’m so, so sorry," Zoey said, clutching her collar as her eyes welled with tears, "It was total carelessness on my part. I used an old template I made for a friend and completely forgot to swap the placeholder names."

Cole didn't contradict her story.

"To make it up to you, I'm covering the entire dessert bar for the party," she rushed to add, "I already ordered a huge batch of matcha pastries. I know Cole loves matcha, so the guests will definitely love it too."

I looked over at Cole.

He hated matcha.

The first time he tried a matcha latte, he choked down half a glass of water to clear the bitter aftertaste, complaining that it tasted like chewed-up grass.

Zoey was the one who loved matcha.

She put her own name on the bride's line, wore the jacket he bought, and chose her favorite menu. In a few more days, she’d probably decide who got to stand at the altar in my place, too.

When I didn't respond, Cole reached over and gently touched my hand. "She's just trying to help, Kelsey. Let's not reprint them, okay?"

I used to be so weak for that soft, pleading tone.

Three years ago, when he first brought me home to meet his mom, she made it very clear she didn't approve of me. That night, he held my hand outside her house, promising that no matter what anyone else thought, he would always reserve a spot for me at his side.

Later at dinner, his mother actually had the maid remove my chair from the dining table. Cole didn't say a word to her. He just grabbed an extra chair himself, and pulled it up right next to his.

I held onto the memory of that chair for three long years.

I looked at the stack of over a hundred incorrect invitations, then gave a soft nod.

Cole visibly relaxed. Just like he always did whenever an argument settled, he casually reached out and ruffled my hair.

I didn't pull away this time.

As soon as he walked out of the study, I slipped out to the balcony and dialed the venue manager for the engagement party.

Since the bride on the invitation wasn't me, there was no point in throwing the party anyway.

Halfway through packing my suitcase, a sharp, searing pain twisted in my stomach. I stumbled toward the half-open door of the study, ready to cry out for Cole's help, when his quiet, tender voice drifted through the gap.

"Take your medicine, okay? Don't whine about the bitter taste. I just door-dashed some fresh fruit to your apartment."

I swallowed the plea stuck in my throat, pulled on my coat by myself, and walked out to hail a taxi to the emergency room.