I used to believe I was the one who had been wronged.

When Elena left me three years ago, she didn’t scream. She didn’t accuse. She didn’t beg.
She packed one suitcase, placed her wedding ring on the kitchen counter, and said only one sentence:

“I know about her.”

That was it.

No explanation. No confrontation.

I denied everything, of course. I told myself she was paranoid, insecure, dramatic. And when she didn’t fight for the marriage, I convinced myself that meant she never loved me enough.

A month later, I moved in with Camila—my coworker, my “harmless distraction,” the woman I swore was just a friend.

Life moved on.

Or so I thought.

Three years later, I heard Elena was getting married.

A mutual friend mentioned it casually.
“She’s marrying a guy who works at a small auto shop. Not much money. Kind of… ordinary.”

I smiled when I heard that.

In my mind, it confirmed everything I wanted to believe:
that Elena had downgraded,
that she’d been bitter and impulsive,
that she’d lost without me.

I decided to attend the wedding.

Not to congratulate her.

But to prove—to myself—that I’d won.

The venue was modest. Tasteful. Warm.

I arrived late, dressed sharply, Camila nowhere near me. Heads turned. Whispers followed. I felt powerful again.

Then I saw the groom.

Lucas.

Simple suit. Calm posture. Nothing flashy.

I almost relaxed.

Until the ceremony began.

When the officiant asked if anyone objected, no one stood.

But when it came time for vows, Lucas did something unexpected.

He turned—not to Elena—but to me.

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