My sister stole my fiancé before our wedding, so I gave her a gift she wont forget.

The Morning the World Imploded

Two nights later, I couldn’t sleep. “Wedding nerves,” I thought. Our big day was in 18 hours.

I’d already laid out my dress, a vintage-inspired A-line with hand-sewn pearls that my grandmother had worn in 1952. I’d confirmed the final headcount with the caterer, 147 guests, double-checked that the rings were safely tucked in Jake’s best man’s pocket, and made sure the photographer knew about the special shot of my parents’ wedding rings next to ours.

My phone was set with alarms every hour to remind me to drink water and eat something. At 5:00 a.m., I gave up on sleep and decided to surprise Jake with coffee at his apartment, our last morning as an unmarried couple.

I’d picked up his favorite dark roast from the 24-hour diner and grabbed fresh bagels. My key turned in his lock like it had hundreds of times before, the same lock I’d helped him install when he’d moved into the one-bedroom apartment above Mrs. Chen’s flower shop.

I found them in his bed. My sister. My fiancé.

The white silk lingerie I’d bought for our honeymoon, $300 worth of delicate lace from the boutique Maya had recommended, tangled around her ankles. The engagement ring I’d watched him save for, working double shifts for 8 months, gleaming on the nightstand next to empty champagne glasses and what looked like leftover takeout from Russos, the Italian place where we’d celebrated our 6-month anniversary.

Maya saw me first. Instead of shame or surprise, I saw triumph in her eyes.

She’d been waiting for this moment, planning for it.

“I was going to tell you,”

she said, sitting up slowly, not bothering to cover herself.

“Jake realized he chose the wrong sister.”

Jake scrambled for his boxers, stammering apologies about it just happening, about being confused, about still loving me somehow. His face was red with shame and panic, sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to find words that could possibly explain what I was seeing.

“Clare, this isn’t what it looks like,”

he said, the most cliché lie possible.

But Maya cut him off with a laugh that chilled my blood, the same laugh she’d used when she’d told our parents I’d broken mom’s antique vase when we were 12, the laugh that meant she’d won again.

“Stop pretending you’re sorry, Jake. We’ve been planning this for months. Tell her about the hotel room in Vegas when you went for that restaurant conference. Tell her about Christmas when you said my name in your sleep. Tell her about last week when you said you wished you’d met me first.”

A Masterclass in Betrayal

My knees almost buckled. The Vegas conference was in March, 7 months ago.

Christmas was at my parents’ house where Maya had stayed in the guest room next to ours. Last week, when Jake had been distant and claiming work stress.

“Tell her about the loan,”

Mia continued, her voice getting stronger, more confident.

“Tell her how you’re planning to use her savings to open a restaurant with me instead.”

The room spun. My $23,000.

The money I’d saved working 60-hour weeks as a nursing assistant, picking up extra shifts during holidays, skipping meals to put away every possible dollar. The money that was supposed to fund our dream restaurant, Patterson’s Place.

“Maya, stop,”

Jake said weakly.

But she was on a roll now.

“Tell her about the apartment we looked at last week, the one with the big kitchen and the garden view. Tell her how we’ve been planning to leave right after the wedding, take her money and start fresh in Portland.”

Portland. Jake had mentioned Portland recently, claiming a chef friend had offered him a job there.

I’d encouraged him to consider it, thinking it might be good for us to start fresh somewhere new. For months, while I’d been ordering flowers and scheduling cake tastings, sending save the dates and choosing centerpieces, confirming RSVPs and finalizing seating charts, they’d been planning my humiliation.

The late nights Jake claimed he was working at the restaurant, coming home smelling like perfume he said was from the female servers. The times Maya canceled our sisterly shopping trips because she had a date with someone she couldn’t tell me about yet.

The way they had both been so helpful with wedding planning, insisting on handling the photographer and videographer themselves because they had connections who could save us money.

“We picked Chelsea Morrison,”

Maya had said about the photographer.

“She’s incredible with candid shots, she’ll capture every moment.”

Now I understood why. I walked out without a word.

They were still calling my name as I descended the narrow stairs. Jake’s voice breaking as he begged me to listen, Maya’s sharp and demanding as she told him to let me go.

“Claire, please!”

Jake shouted from his window as I got in my car.

“Let me explain.”

I drove away slowly, watching him in my rearview mirror as he stood half naked in his window, probably realizing his life was about to implode.

Calculating the Reckoning

For the next 6 hours, I sat in my car at Sunset Beach, the place where Jake had proposed 13 months earlier. He’d planned an elaborate sunset picnic, complete with my favorite Thai food and a playlist of songs that meant something to our relationship.

When he’d gotten down on one knee, he’d talked about building a life together, about how I was his best friend and his future all wrapped into one person.

“I can’t imagine doing any of this without you,”

he’d said, his hands shaking as he opened the ring box.

“You make me better at everything.”

I should have been crying, calling my parents, canceling vendors. Instead, I felt something cold and calculating settle in my chest.

Maya had taken everything from me since we were children, and each time I’d forgiven her because family was supposed to forgive. But this time was different.

This wasn’t a borrowed sweater or a stolen boyfriend. This was my future, my money, my life she’d planned to destroy.

I drove home at 11:00 a.m. and found my parents in the kitchen frantically calling vendors to cancel the wedding. Mom was sobbing over a conversation with the florist about losing the deposit; Dad looked 10 years older, his hair disheveled as he argued with the caterer about their cancellation policy.

“Sweetheart,”

mom said when she saw me, her mascara streaked down her cheeks.

“Jake called. He explained about the confusion with Maya. He says it’s just cold feet, that these things happen to couples before big commitments. Maybe you two can work it out if you just talk through it.”

Even now they were taking his side. Maya was their precious baby who could do no wrong, and Jake was practically family after 4 years.

I was just the wounded party who needed to be more understanding.

“There’s no confusion,”

I said calmly, setting my purse on the counter.

“The wedding is still happening tomorrow, just not the way anyone expects.”

My parents exchanged worried glances. Dad cleared his throat.

“Honey, maybe you’re in shock. This is a lot to process. Why don’t you sit down and we can figure out how to move forward?”

“I’m not in shock,”

I said, pouring myself a glass of water with steady hands.

“I’m thinking clearly for the first time in months. And I said the wedding is still happening.”