Dylan sent me a viral video of a groom tossing his wife into a pool during their photoshoot a few months before our wedding.
He laughed maniacally. He wiped his tears and said, “Can you imagine doing that at our wedding?”
I didn’t laugh.
I stared him down and said, “If you do that to me, I’ll go. I mean it.”
He laughed, hugged me, and kissed my forehead. I’d never. Don’t worry, Claire.”
He convinced me.
Our wedding was warm, beautiful, and personal—everything I wanted. Dylan’s hands trembled slightly as we swapped rings.
It smelled like flowers. Phillip, my father, held my hand strongly before escorting me down the aisle.
Six months went into creating a garment with white tulle, exquisite needlework, and pearl buttons that murmured.
The facility has a pool outside the garden patio.
The photographer recommended we take some calm shots near it during a break between the ceremony and reception.
Dylan placed his hand on my and murmured, “You trust me, right?”
I grinned. Of course. No surprises, remember?
We took a romantic dip photo with the groom leaning the bride back after he nodded. But he relinquished.
Deliberately.
I dove into the water, my dress billowing, makeup spreading, and the cold slapping me. \
I awoke coughing and wet to find Dylan grinning and high-fiving his companions. “That’s going viral!” he said.
No worries. No apologies. Just joy.
The heart shattered. Cleanly, not loud. A sudden realization struck me.
After I requested him not to, my protector humiliated me.
I heard a soothing voice.
Claire, come, darling.”
My dad. He strolled past the startled visitors, removed his jacket, and reached into the water.
I grabbed his hand immediately. Real trust comes up when it matters.
He carefully removed me, covered me in his jacket, and steadied my face.
He told Dylan, not with wrath but confidence, “She’s done. So are you.”
No shouting. The truth.
The reception was discreetly canceled. The venue workers cleaned tables in 20 minutes after my mom talked with them.
A colleague who looked like she wanted to weep received my drenched gown after I changed into warm clothing in the bridal room.
Parents of Dylan attempted to chat to me. Not far.
I didn’t weep that night in my childhood bedroom.
I gazed at our pre-written thank-you notes and wondered, How did we get here?
My phone buzzed.
Dylan wrote, “You seriously can’t take a joke? You’re fretful.”
I gazed at the screen and blocked his number without responding.
Dad asked me to attend something the following morning. “You deserve to hear it for yourself,” he replied.
Dylan was a junior in my father’s office for nearly a year.
My dad believed in my choice and gave him grace. Grace had boundaries.
Dylan got home at 10:00 a.m. He entered with a cocky grin and told my dad, “You can’t fire me. This is personal.”
“It is personal,” my dad said. Also professional. Your actions ruined this company’s trust.”
Dylan sneered. You’d end my career for a prank? We’re married. That gives me legal stake in—
“You’re not married,” my dad said.
The license was never submitted. Signing it after the honeymoon was Claire’s wish. Legally, nothing happened.”
Dylan faltered. You’re bluffing.”
Stepped forward. I contacted the clerk this morning. No licence. No processing. Nothing. I checked.”
Dad said, “You lost a wife. Lost your job. No money is yours. Dylan, you were correct. You decided. You chose cruelty.”
He opened the door. Dylan didn’t argue. He left speechless.
Later, our housekeeper Janelle cooked tomato soup and grilled cheese as I sat in the kitchen.
“If I were at the wedding,” she added, “I’d have pushed him into the pool.”
We laughed. I finally felt protected after that terrible incident.
After weeks, I picked up my dress from the cleaners. Clean, but not the same. The cloth was worn and rigid, like a memory fading.
I gave it. Let others make it lovely.
When people ask what hurt most—the dress, shame, betrayal—I always respond none of it.
Knowing I created a barrier stung the most. he broke it for fun.
I learnt love isn’t about extravagant gestures. Respect. Everything else is noise without it.
The firm prospered without him.
And I?
I moved into a peaceful, sunny flat. I resumed book editing.
I began accepting breakfasts, walks, and tiny joys.
If I get married again, there won’t be dip shots near a pool—just a guy who listens when I say, “Please don’t.”