The night before my wedding, I couldn’t sleep. Around 2 a.m., I went downstairs for aspirin—and heard whispers in the kitchen.
My mom’s voice.
And Zachary’s.
He wasn’t supposed to be there.
I froze on the stairs when I saw her on her knees, crying and begging him.
“I’ll give you $20,000,” she sobbed. “Just don’t marry her.”
My heart stopped.
When I confronted them, the truth shattered everything.
Two years ago, my mother had paid Zachary to date me.
She thought I was too lonely after my father left. She wanted me “settled.” The plan was for him to date me, propose, and give me the life she thought I needed.
It was supposed to be fake.
But Zachary claimed somewhere along the way, he fell in love for real.
As if that made it better.
Then came the final blow: my mom had recently discovered Zachary was the son of a powerful, corrupt businessman. She panicked and tried to buy him off to protect me.
Both of them had lied.
Both had manipulated my life.
And I was the only one who didn’t know.
So I said three words:
“The wedding is off.”
I packed a bag and left at 3 a.m.
The next day, there was no ceremony—just silence and chaos. Weeks later, Zachary sent proof of the original contract and said he was leaving town for good.
I burned the letter he mailed months later.
Not out of hate.
But because love should never begin with a contract.
That wedding didn’t ruin my life.
It saved it.
Because if I hadn’t gone downstairs that night…
I would’ve walked down the aisle into a lie.