My Sister Stole My Wedding and Fiancé While I Was Away, But My Secret Changed Everything
The worst part of betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies.
I learned that on a rain-polished Tuesday, when I wheeled my suitcase across the apartment threshold and knew, before I even reached the bedroom, that the air was wrong. My wedding dress should’ve been hanging in a garment bag in the walk-in closet. Instead, the rod held nothing but space. And the sweet, cloying haze of my sister’s vanilla perfume clung to the air like a sticky lie.
“Christine,” I said into my phone, pacing grooves into the carpet. “Something’s wrong. The dress is gone. And Amelia’s been here—I can smell her.”
“Ellie,” she replied, voice too careful. “Sit down. There’s something you need to know.”
Christine used that tone for medical diagnoses and funerals. I sat on my unmade bed in my travel-wrinkled suit and braced my elbows on my knees, the phone a small hot slab against my face.
“Amelia and…” A breath. “Axel got married yesterday. In your dress.”
The words were an impact. A body blow. A brief, bright white in my vision. I gripped my phone until the bones in my hand complained.
“It’s all over social,” she said. “I tried calling—your flight was delayed, then—”
“My phone died,” I murmured. The room tilted. I set the phone beside me and opened Instagram with hands that didn’t feel like mine.
There they were, gleaming on my screen: Amelia in my gown—my satin, my neckline, my hem altered to brush my shoes—kissing my fiancé beneath an arch of white roses that looked suspiciously like the ones on my florist’s invoice. Captions sugary enough to rot a tooth.
when you know it’s meant to be 💍✨ sorry sis, sometimes love can’t wait
I actually laughed. A clean, sharp bark that startled me. Because while my sister and my fiancé had been playing house with my linens, they had no idea what I had been building on the other side of the city. No idea about the papers waiting in my inbox for one last signature. No idea that the company Axel had been fighting to keep afloat—the Harris Technologies he bragged about in tuxedoed galas and family dinners—now sat, quiet and unsuspecting, in a web I’d spun over nine months with Bruno, my mentor, and a stack of shell companies that looked like matryoshka dolls made out of Delaware LLCs.
My phone buzzed. Deal sealed. You now own controlling interest in Harris Technologies. Public announcement next week. Congratulations. —Bruno.
A doorbell jolted me. I opened the door to find Lea, one of Amelia’s friends, damp-frizzed from the rain, mascara in two worried commas.
“Ellie, I’m so sorry,” she said, twisting her tote strap. “I tried to stop her, I swear. Can I—could I come in?”
“Please.” I poured her tea with hands that had lightened. She talked, and I listened, filing each detail as if it were a line item in a spreadsheet: how Amelia had copied my apartment key; how she’d whispered infidelities I didn’t commit into Axel’s ear until they nested; how the surprise wedding had been timed to my business trip because “the timing just felt… fated.”
“They’re having a celebration dinner tonight at LeBlanc,” Lea finished, eyes apologizing for a thing she hadn’t done.
“Of course they are,” I said. “Thank you.”
After she left, I stood at the window and watched rain stitch the city together. My phone vibrated itself across the table: CALL ME. —Axel. Then, a gentler ping: Please don’t hate me. We need to talk. —Amelia.
Love and guilt came packaged neatly. I let both messages sit.
I opened my laptop. The acquisition documents were there: signatures scrolled in blue, blanks blinking where mine belonged. One click, and a century-old company would change hands. One click, and the Harris story would be punctuated differently.
I clicked.
Continued in the first c0mment ⬇️