She was the centerpiece of a painting no one would forget. Dorothy said nothing. Didn’t clap.
Didn’t smile. Just sat in silence, her white dress now indistinguishable from the sea of lookalikes around her. After the ceremony, she left quietly before cake was served.
Alan gave Emily a quick hug on the way out. “It was a beautiful ceremony,” he whispered, as if he’d just witnessed a quiet rebellion. At the reception, everyone danced harder, laughed louder, and celebrated more freely than I’d ever seen at a wedding.
It felt like we’d all taken part in something bigger than a joke—it was justice. A tribute to joy reclaimed. Later, I found Emily by the bar, still glowing.
“You did it,” I said. “You won.”
She sipped her champagne. “I didn’t want to win.
I just didn’t want to lose on my own wedding day.”
Linda clinked glasses with her. “To the bride,” she toasted. “Who knew when to wear red—and when to raise hell.”
Sometimes, the best revenge isn’t cruelty.
It’s unity. It’s joy. It’s making sure the spotlight falls exactly where it belongs—and refusing to let anyone else steal it.
