My Predator Cousin Made Out With Every Boyfriend at Family Weddings.

I agreed, giving him my number: “Friends can text.”

He saved it then looked at me seriously: “For what it’s worth, I think you handled tonight really well. You had every right to blow up at her, to make a scene, to tell everyone what she did, but you didn’t. You just made your point and walked away.”

I said: “My therapist would be proud.”

He replied: “Your therapist should be.”

He walked me to my car, gave me a quick hug that lasted a beat too long, then he got in his own car and drove away. I sat in my car for a long time, processing everything that had happened.

My phone buzzed with a text from my mother: “He seems wonderful, honey. I’m so happy for you.”

Then one from Emma: “Okay, that was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen. Tell me everything tomorrow.”

Then one from an unknown number. When I opened it, I saw it was from Amber: “I’m sorry for all of it. I know you don’t believe me, but I am. I’m going to get help. Real help.”

I stared at the message for a long time then I typed back: “Good luck.”

I didn’t say I forgave her. I didn’t say we could move forward. I just said “Good luck.”

Because the thing is, I didn’t bring Marcus to that wedding to forgive Amber. I brought him to stop feeling powerless, to take back some control over my own narrative.

And it worked. Three months later, I got a text from Marcus: “Amber Westbrook’s probation officially ended today. Are you free Friday night?”

I was free Friday night. We went to a small Italian restaurant downtown.

No family, no ulterior motives, no games—just dinner. And it was nice, really nice.

Marcus told me about a kid he was working with who was turning his life around. I told him about a logo design I was proud of.

We split a tiramisu and argued good-naturedly about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. When he walked me to my car, he kissed me.

It was gentle and sweet and absolutely nothing like the kiss I’d seen Amber give Tyler behind the wine cellar all those years ago. Marcus admitted: “I’ve wanted to do that since the wedding.”

I noted: “That was four months ago.”

He said: “I’m a patient man.”

We started officially dating after that. I introduced him to Kayla, who immediately approved.

We had dinner with my parents, and my mother whispered to me that she was so glad I’d found someone stable and mature. I didn’t tell them the whole truth about how we met.

Some secrets are better kept. Six months after Rachel’s wedding, I ran into Amber at a coffee shop.

It was awkward for about ten seconds, and then she said: “I’m in therapy now. Twice a week.”

I said: “That’s good.”

She said: “My therapist says I have a pattern of sabotaging people I’m jealous of.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t her usual perfect laugh; it sounded broken: “Apparently, I’ve been jealous of you since we were kids.”

I asked: “Of me? Why?”

She replied: “Because everyone actually likes you. They like Amber because she’s pretty and successful, but they like Megan because you’re kind and real. And I’ve always wanted that but didn’t know how to get it without tearing you down first.”

She looked at her coffee: “I know you probably don’t care, but I wanted you to know I’m working on it.”

I thought about all the pain she’d caused me, all the nights I’d cried over Tyler, over Chris, over David. All the times I doubted myself because of her.

I said, and I meant it: “I hope it helps.”

Not because I forgave her, not because we were suddenly going to be close, but because I didn’t need to carry anger around anymore. It was exhausting, and I was tired.

A year after the wedding, Marcus and I moved in together. We adopted a cat named Pancake who has terrible manners, and we love him anyway.

We host dinners for friends. We go to farmers markets on Sundays. We’re happy.

My family still doesn’t know Marcus is a probation officer, or that Amber was on probation, or the real reason I brought him to Rachel’s wedding. They think we met through work, which is technically true.

Emma knows; I told her the whole story one night over wine, and she laughed so hard she cried. She said admiringly: “You’re devious. I had no idea you had that in you.”

I replied: “Neither did I.”

She asked: “Are you going to tell mom and dad?”

I said: “Maybe someday, or maybe not. Does it matter?”

She replied: “I guess not.”

I told her: “The thing is, I didn’t bring Marcus to that wedding for a happy ending.” “I brought him for closure. For the satisfaction of watching Amber squirm for once. For the feeling of being in control instead of being the victim.”

But somewhere along the way, between the cocktail hour and the slow dances and the quiet conversation in the parking lot, something real happened. Something I wasn’t expecting.

I fell for the guy I’d bribed to be my fake date. And four months later, when there were no more ethical complications or conflicts of interest, he fell for me too.

Last month, Rachel came over for dinner. We were sitting on my balcony drinking wine while Marcus grilled vegetables inside.

Rachel said: “Can I ask you something? That night at my wedding when you showed up with Marcus… did you know Amber was on probation?”

I looked at her carefully: “Why do you ask?”

She replied: “Because I saw her face when she saw him. And I saw her face when she came back from talking to you in the hallway, and she looked terrified.”

Rachel swirled her wine: “And then I did some digging, because I’m nosy, and I found out Marcus works for the probation department. Rachel, I’m not judging you. Honestly, after what Amber did at my wedding with Tyler, she deserved it.”

Rachel smiled: “I just want to know if you actually planned it, or if it was a happy coincidence.”

I thought about lying, but Rachel had always been one of my favorite cousins, and I was tired of secrets. I admitted: “I planned it. All of it.”

She said: “That’s the most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard.”

We clinked our wine glasses together. I asked: “Are you going to tell anyone?”

She asked: “Are you kidding? This is too good. I’m taking this secret to my grave.”

She paused: “But seriously, Megan, I’m glad you finally stood up to her. And I’m glad you found Marcus. He’s good for you.”

I replied: “Yeah, he is.”

Marcus came out with a plate of grilled vegetables. He kissed the top of my head and sat down next to me, completely unaware that Rachel and I had just been discussing how we met.

He asked: “What are you two talking about?”

Rachel said, grinning at me: “Wedding stories.”

He replied: “Ah, the best kind.”

We ate dinner on the balcony as the sun set, talking and laughing, and I realized something. I’d spent so many years being hurt by Amber, being the victim in my own story, that I’d forgotten I could write a different ending.

I’d forgotten I could be the one in control. That wedding night, standing in the hallway with Amber, watching her cry and realizing she was finally scared of something I’d done, I’d felt powerful for the first time in years.