When I first met Michael, it wasn’t some cinematic love-at-first-sight moment. In fact, our first date almost fell apart before it even began. I showed up late, breathless, coffee stains on my blouse, one heel broken, fighting back tears of frustration. Michael sat across from me at the restaurant table, watching me stumble through an apology that barely made sense. I thought I had ruined everything.
We made it through dinner, but he didn’t call me for a week, and I assumed he had written me off as a disaster. Then fate stepped in. We ran into each other at a mutual friend’s party. I explained my chaotic state that night, admitting I was just an overly emotional person who tried too hard. To my surprise, he didn’t laugh. He told me he was the same, just better at hiding it. That night changed everything.
Six years later, we had become inseparable. He wasn’t just my boyfriend—he was my partner in every sense of the word. When movies made me cry, he cried with me. When life weighed me down, he shouldered the burden too. He wasn’t perfect, and neither was I, but together we felt unshakable.
After only three months of dating, we moved in together. For years, we shared a home, routines, inside jokes, and countless memories. Strangely, marriage wasn’t a priority. Life kept happening—work, family issues, the usual chaos—and the wedding talk kept getting pushed aside.
Then eight months ago, Michael surprised me with a proposal I never saw coming. He planned every detail so perfectly I couldn’t stop crying. The truth was, I didn’t need a ring to know I wanted forever with him, but the proposal made it real. We set a date, started planning, and for the first time, I let myself picture the walk down the aisle, the vows, the life we would continue to build.
Everything seemed perfect—except for one shadow over us: his brother, Jordan. From the very first meeting, Jordan had been a problem. Rude, arrogant, smug—he carried himself like the world owed him something. He was only three years older than Michael but lorded it over him constantly, reminding him of his “older brother status.”
When Michael first took me to meet his parents, Jordan was there, still living at home despite being well into adulthood. He acted polite at first, but the mask slipped quickly. When I excused myself to use the bathroom, he cornered me outside the door.
“Bored yet?” he asked, smirking.
I forced a smile, trying to remain polite. “No, I’m fine.”
“Come on, let’s go have some fun,” he pressed, stepping closer.
I took a step back. “No, really, I’m good.”
Jordan tilted his head, his grin widening. “My brother doesn’t deserve someone like you. You’d have a much better time with me.” Before I could react, he grabbed me around the waist, his hand sliding where it had no business being.
“Get off me!” I shouted, shoving him away. My heart hammered as I rushed back to the dining room, forcing a smile and telling Michael I didn’t feel well. We left, but in the car I broke down and told him the truth.
Michael’s hands clenched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He confronted Jordan later, but Jordan laughed it off, claiming he was “just testing me.” Michael didn’t push back hard, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that deep down, he was still intimidated by his brother.
Jordan’s behavior didn’t stop. He started sending inappropriate texts, even disgusting photos. I blocked his number, but I told Michael I didn’t want Jordan anywhere near our wedding. He agreed immediately.
But family complicates everything. A few weeks later, Michael came home looking defeated. His parents had given him an ultimatum: invite Jordan, or they wouldn’t attend. The betrayal hit me like a knife. I had been harassed, humiliated, and disrespected, yet none of that mattered to them. All they cared about was appearances and keeping Jordan included.
I wanted to fight back, but I saw the anguish in Michael’s face. Reluctantly, I agreed to invite Jordan, with one condition: his parents had to make sure he stayed away from me. Michael hugged me tightly, whispering how grateful he was.
The wedding day arrived, and for a while, it felt like everything I had dreamed of. My bridesmaids helped me into my dress, adjusting my veil as I stared at myself in the mirror. I was nervous but happy, ready to marry the man I loved. Then came a knock at the door.
Expecting one of my bridesmaids, I opened it. Instead, I was met with Jordan holding a bucket. Before I could react, he dumped its contents all over me. Cold, sticky liquid soaked my dress and hair. The sharp smell hit me instantly—paint. Bright green paint, dripping down the white fabric I had spent months choosing.
“This is for rejecting me, witch,” he sneered before slamming the door.
I collapsed into a chair, sobbing as my bridesmaids rushed in, horrified. They tried to blot the paint, but it was useless. One ran off to find another dress while the others pinned up my ruined hair under the veil, trying to salvage what they could.
Minutes dragged by. I could hear the murmurs from the church beyond the doors. Then one bridesmaid returned, out of breath, holding a backup dress. “Jordan told everyone you ran away,” she said. “Michael is panicking.”
The fury that surged through me was stronger than the heartbreak. Enough was enough. I ripped off my veil, letting my green-streaked hair fall loose, and stormed out of the bridal room. Guests gasped as I walked down the aisle, my ruined dress clinging to me, but I didn’t care.
“I didn’t run away!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the church.
Michael’s head snapped up. Relief flooded his face as he ran to me. “Danica?” He pulled me into his arms.
“Jordan did this,” I said, gesturing to the paint. “Then he told everyone I left.”
Michael turned, his voice booming. “Jordan! Care to explain?”
Jordan leaned back in his seat, smirking. “Relax, little brother. It was just a joke.”
“No one is laughing,” Michael snapped. His whole body shook with rage. “Get out.”
Jordan smirked wider. “I’m not leaving. I was invited.”
“Then I’ll throw you out myself,” Michael shot back. His parents immediately rose, trying to defend Jordan, but Michael turned to them with steel in his eyes. “If you support what he did, you can leave too.”
The silence was suffocating. Finally, his parents stood, grabbed Jordan by the arm, and walked out.
Michael turned back to me, his expression softening. He cupped my face, pressing his forehead against mine. “I was so scared,” he whispered.
Tears blurred my vision, but I smiled through them. “Thank you for standing up for me.”
“From now on,” he said, his voice steady, “always.”
