The night before the wedding, I received the dress my fiancé had sent—lavish, yet unmistakably the wrong size.
I ran my fingers over the fabric, then glanced at the email on my laptop—an invitation from a design academy offering me a teaching position. Keeping my voice steady, I sent him a voice message, saying we should call off the wedding.
Before long, my phone rang sharply. It was his secretary.
“Miss Rory, the wedding dress was my mistake. Please don’t blame Mr. Cameron—it’s all my fault.”
Through the receiver, I heard Bruce Cameron’s voice, soft and reassuring as he comforted her. I had never heard him speak to me in that tone before.
Then he left me with a single remark. “Don’t forget, without the resources and platform I gave you, you’re nothing in the design world.”
…
The night before our wedding ceremony, Bruce sent me a wedding dress—elegant in design but glaringly ill-fitted.
I brushed my hand over its fabric and looked again at the design academy’s email. My mind cleared. Calmly, I sent him a message: [Bruce, let’s get a divorce.]
Not long after, my phone rang.
I answered, and his secretary, Kathy Wheels, spoke hurriedly, “Miss Rory, the wedding dress was my oversight. Please don’t be angry, and don’t blame Mr. Cameron. It’s all my fault—please don’t leave him.”
I was about to hang up when I heard Bruce’s voice, gentle as he soothed her.
I had never heard him speak to me that way.
After ending the call, I closed my eyes. Bitterness welled up inside me.
When I reopened them, a new notification appeared on my phone.
It was a photo posted by Bruce.
In the image, he was adjusting a bridal veil on Kathy. The caption read: [This silly girl messed up again and sent her own wedding dress to the wrong person.]
