My sister Erica stole my fiancé, Stan, and flaunted her betrayal by inviting me to their wedding. Determined not to be a mere spectator, I planned to ruin her perfect day. The elegant venue buzzed with guests, but beneath the gold and ivory decor lay her treachery. A year prior, I found them in my bed, Erica smirking, “I won, Paige.” Devastated, I left town briefly, returning with a kitten and resolve.
At the reception, I slipped a flash drive into the projector. As guests sipped champagne, security footage played: Stan begging me not to leave, claiming Erica was a mistake, followed by clips of their illicit rendezvous in my home. Erica’s face paled; Stan froze. The final clip showed them laughing, mocking me. Gasps erupted; a champagne glass shattered.
Erica stammered, trying to dismiss it, but the truth glared onscreen. Then, Jack, my new partner disguised as a waiter, proposed to me in front of everyone. Erica shrieked, her day ruined. I accepted, taunting her: “You stole him; I stole the show.” Hand in hand with Jack, I left, vindicated. Later, in a diner, Jack revealed he’d planned the proposal to support me, proving I’d found true love and victory.
