The Runaway Groom and His Eleventh-Time Bride

I saw the guests off one by one, smiling gently, keeping things steady.

Tom Spader's friends came over to console me.

"Come on, this isn't the first time. Try to be understanding."

"Yeah, Tom definitely cares about you. If he didn't, he wouldn't have made it official with you."

"That's right. Men stray a little, it's normal."

I nodded, quiet and composed. I didn't cry, didn't argue.

I just said calmly, "I understand. Please thank him for me. Thank him for giving me a title."

They paused for a second, then let out a collective sigh of relief.

"See? Liz is so gracious."

"Liz is mature. She's wife material, for sure."

I waved them off with a tired hand, and once they were gone, I leaned over the trash can and threw up.

Because Tom still hadn't shown up, relatives and friends were growing more and more impatient.

To calm them down, I pleased them with alcohol—three shots at every table.

There were fifty tables. That amounted to a total of one hundred and fifty shots.

The glasses were small, but the liquor was strong.

His parents had already left.

Before his sister walked out, she made sure to scold me.

"If you can't hold your liquor, why even try to show off? You can't even keep your husband. Who else is there to blame? Don't act like our family did you wrong."

I didn't argue. I just nodded. "It won't happen again."

My stomach burned like it was on fire. I kept forcing myself to gag, trying to bring up as much of the alcohol as I could.

My parents spoke with the hotel staff, trying to get part of the cost refunded, since the food hadn't been served yet.

They walked toward me under the staff's disapproving stares.

Not that I could blame them. This was the tenth time. Every single time, we had booked the same venue, and every time, the groom failed to show.

Each time, we managed to get a partial refund.

The hotel manager, who had always handled our events, had gotten married the same year as me. Her kid was almost five now.

She couldn't help sneering, "If the banquet keeps falling through, maybe don't plan the next one. All that work, and you wasted our whole day."

I nodded. "This will be the last time."

My parents reached me and helped me up, their faces lined with worry.

"Sweetheart, how are you feeling?" my mom asked, grief written all over her.

I waved a hand and forced out a breath. "I'm fine."

My dad, furious and disappointed, insisted on taking me to the hospital.

He sat beside my hospital bed, scolding me.

"This is the tenth time now. How long are you going to keep chasing after Tom? If you finally give up, I'll go find someone to beat the hell out of him. Just divorce him. If it comes to that, your mother and I will take care of you."

Lying there, I managed a bitter smile.

"I've given up. I'll file for divorce tomorrow. And as for beating him up… there's no need."

The doctor prescribed medication. Said I had alcohol poisoning.

Any later, and they would've had to pump my stomach.

He told me to take better care of myself. Not to drink like that again.

He was right. I had to start taking care of myself.

Since the start of the wedding banquet, Tom had only sent one message. Nothing after that.

Late that night, I called him to talk about the divorce.

But it was Laura who answered.

"Is this Liz? Tom's in the shower. Sorry… it's all because of me. He postponed the wedding again for my sake. Please don't misunderstand. I just couldn't live alone overseas, so I asked him to share a suite."

I waited for her to finish. Then replied with a simple, "Mm."

And added, "Please tell him to check the email I'll be sending over later."

Then I hung up.

At midnight, I drafted the divorce agreement and sent it to his inbox.