My future brother-in-law was always a problem—rude, arrogant, and always pushing boundaries.
But on my wedding day, he crossed a line we could never forgive.
He humiliated me in front of everyone, turning my perfect day into a nightmare. That was the last straw, and my fiancé finally had enough.
When Michael and I first started dating, everything felt like a fairy tale. Not the perfect kind, but the kind with unexpected twists.
Yes, I cried on our first date because I was late.
I rushed into the restaurant, breathless and embarrassed.
My eyes welled up as I tried to explain—traffic, spilled coffee, a broken shoe. Michael sat there, silent, clearly unsure of what to do.
We made it through dinner, but he didn’t call me for a week. I assumed I had scared him off.
Then we ran into each other at a mutual friend’s party.
I explained myself, saying I was just an emotional person. To my surprise, he understood and admitted he was the same.
That party was six years ago, and we had been inseparable ever since. I was no longer crying alone over movies where animals died—Michael cried with me.
He was my soulmate, and I knew he felt the same.
Our relationship moved quickly. After just three months, we moved in together, and that’s how we lived for six years.
But somehow, we never got around to planning a wedding. There was always something—either I had a crisis, or Michael did—so we kept postponing it.
Then, eight months ago, Michael proposed.
He planned everything so well that I didn’t suspect a thing, making the moment even more special. Not that I needed a proposal to know I wanted to spend my life with him.
But, like with any couple, there was one problem. His family.
More specifically—his brother, Jordan.
Jordan was awful. Rude, arrogant, and full of himself. He thought he was better than everyone, including Michael.
He was only three years older but never missed a chance to remind Michael that he was the older brother.
I still remember our first meeting.
Michael took me to meet his parents, and since Jordan still lived with them—yes, even as an adult—he was there too. So much for being as “amazing” as he thought he was.
At first, everything seemed fine. We had a polite conversation.
But when I stepped away to use the bathroom, Jordan was waiting by the door.
“Bored yet?” Jordan asked, his voice low and smug.
I stiffened. “No, I’m fine,” I replied, keeping my tone polite but firm.
He chuckled. “Come on, let’s go have some fun,” he suggested, stepping closer.
I took a small step back.
“No, really, I’m good,” I said cautiously. A strange feeling crept up my spine.
Jordan tilted his head. “Oh, come on.
My brother doesn’t deserve someone like you.
You’d have a much better time with me,” he said. His voice was smooth, but his eyes held something cold.
Before I could react, he grabbed me by the waist. His hand slid lower, pressing against my backside.
“Get off me!” I shouted, shoving him away.
My heart pounded as I rushed back to the dining room, my breath shaky.
Michael looked up as I approached. I placed a hand on my stomach, forcing a weak smile. “I don’t feel great.
Can we leave?”
Michael stood immediately. “Of course.”
His parents looked concerned. “It was so nice to meet you, Danica,” they said as we hugged goodbye.
Once we were in the car, Michael glanced at me.
“Are you okay? Did you eat something bad?”
I took a deep breath. “Jordan hit on me,” I said.
Michael’s hands tightened on the wheel.
“What? That jerk!” His jaw clenched. “I’m going to talk to him.”
Michael did talk to Jordan, but Jordan laughed it off.
He claimed he was just “testing me” as Michael’s older brother, as if that excused his behavior. I didn’t believe him for a second, but Michael didn’t push back.
Sometimes, I wondered if he was afraid of Jordan. Growing up, Jordan had bullied and teased him constantly.
He always found ways to make Michael feel small, like he was less than him.
Their relationship had never been close, but Michael still tried to keep the peace.
But when Jordan wouldn’t stop, even Michael had to admit it wasn’t a joke anymore.
Then the messages started. Inappropriate texts. Unwanted pictures.
Disgusting words. I blocked his number.
When I told Michael I didn’t want Jordan at our wedding, he agreed right away.
One evening, Michael came home looking drained. He sighed and dropped onto the couch beside me, his shoulders heavy with tension.
“What happened?” I asked, noticing the way his shoulders slumped.
He rubbed his face and let out a long breath.
“I talked to my parents. They said if Jordan isn’t invited to the wedding, they won’t come either.” His voice was quiet, heavy with frustration.
I felt a sharp sting in my chest. “That’s not fair!” I said, my hands tightening into fists.
“I know,” Michael murmured, staring at the floor.
“The way he treats me is reason enough for me not to want him there.
He harassed me, sent disgusting messages. Why does that not matter to them?” My voice wavered.
Michael didn’t answer. He just sat there, looking lost.
I exhaled, the weight of the situation pressing down on me.
“Fine. We’ll invite Jordan,” I said, my voice tight.
Michael lifted his head. “Are you sure?”
“Not that we have much of a choice.
But your parents need to make sure I don’t have to see him,” I said firmly.
Michael wrapped his arms around me. “You’re the best,” he whispered.
The wedding day finally arrived. My heart was so full I thought it might burst.
I had dreamed about this moment for years, and now it was finally here.
I was marrying the man I loved more than anything, and nothing could ruin my day. Not stress, not nerves, not even Jordan.
Or so I thought.
I was in the bridal room at the church, standing in front of the mirror as my bridesmaids helped me with the final touches.
The dress was perfect. Everything was perfect.
Then, there was a knock at the door.
Smiling, I turned to open it. My breath caught when I saw Jordan standing there.
“What are you—” Before I could finish, he lifted a bucket and, in one swift motion, dumped its contents over me. Cold, sticky liquid drenched my dress, my skin, my hair.
“This is for rejecting me, witch,” he sneered.
I gasped.
The smell of paint hit me first. Bright green dripped from my arms. My beautiful white gown was ruined.
“Are you insane?!” I screamed, my voice shaking.
Jordan only laughed, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, then slammed the door in my face.
My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the chair, sobbing.
My bridesmaids rushed in, their faces horrified.
“Oh my God,” one of them whispered.
“We need water,” another said, grabbing a towel.
They scrubbed at my dress, but the paint had already soaked in. There was no saving it.
Stacy grabbed my shoulders. “Stay here.
I’ll find a white dress—anything.” She ran out before I could answer.
I wiped my face, but more tears came. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
I couldn’t stop crying. I had spent months picking out my wedding dress, searching for the perfect one, imagining how I would look walking down the aisle.
Now, I’d have to wear something I had never even seen before.
My hair was completely green, streaks of paint clinging to the strands. My bridesmaids worked quickly, pinning it up and covering it with my veil.
“It’ll be okay,” one of them whispered.
“We’ll wash it after the ceremony,” another promised.
The ceremony was already supposed to have started, but Stacy was still missing.
The minutes dragged on, each one heavier than the last. My bridesmaids paced, checking the time, whispering in worried tones.
Finally, the door burst open.
Stacy came running into the room, breathless, her face flushed. In her hands, she held a surprisingly beautiful dress.
“Jordan told everyone you ran away. Michael is freaking out,” she blurted.
I froze.
My stomach twisted.
“HE DID WHAT?!” I screamed, my voice echoing off the walls.
Stacy nodded. “People are whispering. Michael looks like he’s about to pass out.”
I clenched my fists.
My chest burned with anger. “That’s it. I’ve had enough.”
I reached up, ripped off my veil, and let my green-streaked hair fall loose.
Gasps filled the room. My bridesmaids stared, wide-eyed.
Without another word, I stormed out. My dress stuck to my skin, the paint dry in some places, still dripping in others.
As I stepped into the church, heads turned.
People whispered. My heart pounded, but I pushed forward.
Michael stood at the altar, his hands clenched, his face pale. He looked devastated.
“I didn’t run away!” I shouted.
My voice cut through the murmurs.
Michael’s head snapped up. “Danica?” He rushed down the aisle and pulled me into his arms.
Tears stung my eyes, but I forced them back. “Jordan poured green paint on me,” I said, stepping back and gesturing to my ruined dress.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page. Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
