Payback at the Altar

Everything was playing out exactly as I remembered it—ten minutes before the wedding ceremony.

Liam Reynold's female bestie, Chloe Brooks, stumbled out of the dressing room and threw herself into the arms of Liam, who was already dressed in his groom's tuxedo.

Her once-elegant bridesmaid dress had been violently torn, exposing large patches of pale skin and a clear, dark hickey on her collarbone.

Clutching her neckline, she pointed a trembling finger at me, standing not far away.

"Emma... I always thought you were so nice to me because you saw me as your little sister. But why did you push me against the door in the second-floor lounge and rip my dress? I'm not a lesbian!"

Her words dropped like a stone into still water.

The banquet hall, which had been buzzing with wedding cheer just moments before, fell into dead silence. Everyone stared at me with looks of shock and disgust.

Lesbian? Sexual assault? Harassing a bridesmaid? Any one of those accusations would be enough to destroy a bride on her wedding day.

I stood there coldly, watching Chloe's tear-streaked face. I said nothing.

Liam quickly took off his suit jacket, wrapped it tightly around Chloe, and pulled her protectively into his arms.

Then he looked up at me. His expression wasn't angry. Instead, it was full of pained tolerance and helplessness.

"Emma," he said, "you've barely let me touch you during the three years we've been together. If you're confused about your sexuality or dealing with pre-wedding anxiety, you should have told me. I wouldn't blame you. We could have seen a therapist together.

"But Chloe is a very traditional girl. How could you force yourself on her like that? It scared her! So here's what you're going to do—apologize to Chloe, in front of everyone. And I'll pretend this never happened. The wedding will go on. Okay?"

Listen to him. So devoted. So forgiving. If I hadn't died once before, I might have applauded his noble restraint.

But every word he spoke—disguised as peacemaking and protection—was a knife to my back.

By mentioning that I wouldn't let him touch me, he practically confirmed the rumor that I wasn't straight. And by framing me as someone who loses control and uses force, he painted me as a dangerous lunatic.

Last time, in this very same hall, faced with this sudden, slanderous accusation, I lost my mind. I sobbed and swore I loved men. I hysterically insisted I'd never touched Chloe.

But the more frantic I became, the more Liam looked at me like I belonged in a mental institution.

In the end, he declared me mentally unstable, forcibly called off the wedding, and had me committed to a psychiatric hospital—all so he could take over the inheritance my grandfather had left me. He didn't even have to fight for it.

I spent three full years being tortured inside that place. When I finally managed to escape, I died in a car accident they had meticulously planned.

It wasn't until my last breath, watching the two of them embrace outside the wreckage, that I finally understood—the mark on Chloe's neck wasn't from me. It was a hickey Liam had left on her in the stairwell right before the ceremony, while they were sneaking around together.

I pulled myself back to the present.

I stood perfectly still, my gaze drifting past Chloe's trembling shoulders and landing on Liam's collar.