On My Wedding Day

I made an excuse and left that suffocating room.

The moment the door shut, the laughter behind me cut off like a knife—leaving only the cold, hollow echo of the corridor.

Outside the club, midnight wind slammed into my face, sharp enough to sting.

I stood on the curb and waited for a car, my thoughts drifting back fifteen years.

When I was fifteen, my mother found out by accident that the girl my father had “taken in” was actually his illegitimate daughter.

The news shattered her in an instant.

She was pregnant then—she and the baby boy she carried died together on the operating table.

Before I could even process the collapse of my family, a woman named Betty moved in smoothly, as if it had always been her place—becoming Ann’s mother, my father’s wife, and tearing apart every scrap of stability I’d ever had with her bare hands.

Henry Jones showed up in my life during my darkest, most hopeless years.

He was the notorious playboy at school—rebellious, fearless, trouble written in his bones.

And yet…

When I hid in a corner and cried, he would awkwardly shove tissues into my hands.

When rumors and insults came at me, he would step in without hesitation and chase them away with the fiercest look on his face.

And in that uniquely impatient, stubborn way of his, he would snap at me:

“Rory Brown, what are you crying for? This weak? Lift your head!”

What surprised me most was that he really stayed.

He stayed, step by step, and dragged me out of the mud I’d been sinking in.

And what made me feel safe—almost unreal—was that he couldn’t be bothered to even glance at Ann Brown.

Ann had already learned how to act innocent and pitiful, how to win over nearly everyone in class. She would “accidentally” drop books when he passed, or stare at him with those doe eyes like she had a thousand unsaid words.

All she ever got back was Henry’s undisguised disgust… and one blunt word:

“Get away.”

In those gray years, that was one of the few things I ever “won” over Ann.

His favoritism was my only armor.

And it was only natural that we became lovers.

Not long after, Ann seemed to vanish from our world entirely.

Then my mother’s condition worsened.

Before she died, she gripped my hand and Henry’s hand tightly, eyes full of worry and reluctance.

“Henry, I’m leaving Rory with you. I hope you can marry her before she turns thirty, so she’ll have someone to rely on.”

Henry’s eyes were bloodshot. He clutched my hand and made the sincerest promise of his life:

“Ma’am, don’t worry. I swear—before Rory turns thirty, I’ll make her my only wife.”

After my mother passed, I treated that promise like my last lifeline.

I thought life had finally decided to show me mercy.

I thought everything would slowly get better.

Until half a year ago.

Ann came back.

That day, Henry and I went to a family gathering at the House estate. Ethan introduced Ann to us as his wife.

Ann walked up to Henry holding a glass of wine.

She “tripped” on a stool at just the right moment and slammed into him—spilling wine all over his clothes.

She wore an old, faded outfit, looking exhausted and pitiful. She apologized over and over.

But when she looked up and saw Henry, tears filled her eyes instantly.

Her lips trembled as if she had a thousand words to say… and yet she only whispered:

“Henry. Long time no see.”

Henry froze for a beat—then frowned, that familiar disgust returning.

“Why is it you? Can’t you watch where you’re walking?”

When we got home, he held me and complained about his bad luck, like she was just an annoying accident.

I didn’t know when they started tangling with each other again.

By the time I sensed something was wrong, Henry had made Ann his secretary—using “she’s my sister-in-law” as the reason.

I screamed, I fought, I lost control, forcing Henry to fire her.

And the way he looked at me slowly shifted—from explaining to blaming.

“Rory, being born an illegitimate child wasn’t Ann’s choice.”

“Be rational. Don’t take your hatred for your parents out on her.”

“She’s miserable right now. Ethan never gives her money—she has to earn her own.”

Every argument carved a deeper crack between us.

I watched him drift farther and farther away, powerless to stop it.

And Ann and Henry—working under the same roof—had endless time and space I could never touch.

The boy who once swore beside my mother’s hospital bed floated back into my mind, clear as if it were yesterday.

Now, there were only three days left until my thirtieth birthday.

The wind swept past, cold enough to sting me awake.

My car arrived.

I opened the door and sat inside.

No one is truly irreplaceable.

Henry Jones… I don’t want to wait for you anymore.