Abandoned Bride's Sweet Revenge

The week after the wedding passed in a blur of pitying looks and hushed whispers. I remained in the penthouse Austin and I had shared, not out of hope, but because I couldn't bear to face the outside world. The newspapers had dubbed me "The Abandoned Bride of Manhattan," and the headlines grew more sensational with each passing day.

I sat on the edge of our bed—no, his bed now—trying to steady my breathing. The chest tightness had started as a dull ache an hour ago but was now becoming unbearable. My inhaler sat on the nightstand, but I knew it wouldn't be enough. This was a full-blown asthma attack.

With trembling fingers, I reached for my phone and dialed the concierge doctor service Austin had insisted we keep. "Anderson residence," I wheezed into the phone. "I need Dr. Peterson immediately."

The receptionist's voice was apologetic. "I'm sorry, Ms. Morgan, but we can't dispatch anyone to you today."

"What?" I struggled to breathe. "I'm having an asthma attack."

"I understand, but Mr. Anderson has permanently reassigned your priority slot to another patient."

The room began to spin. "What are you talking about?"

"Mr. Anderson redirected your medical priority to a Ms. Ross last month. She's scheduled for a treatment right now—something about a hangnail?"

A hangnail. While I was gasping for air.

"Can you... can you still send someone?" I pleaded.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Morgan. You'll need to call emergency services."

I hung up, panic rising in my chest. With shaking hands, I dialed 911, giving them the address as black spots danced before my eyes.

As I waited for help to arrive, a terrible clarity washed over me. Austin hadn't just humiliated me at our wedding—he was willing to let me suffer, even die, while he tended to Stella's minor scrapes.

---

Three days later, I was packing the last of my belongings into a suitcase. The doctor had warned me to take it easy, but I couldn't stay in this monument to my humiliation any longer.

As I reached for a box of books, my hand knocked against an iPad on the nightstand. It wasn't mine—Austin had forgotten to take it with him when he'd run off with Stella.

The screen lit up with notifications. Hundreds of them, all from Austin's cloud account.

I shouldn't look. But something drove me to tap the first message preview.

"Miss you already, my goddess. Can't wait to feel your fur against my skin tonight."

My finger hovered over the screen. This was wrong. This was private.

But so was my wedding. So was my health.

I opened the messaging app.

For hours, I sat there, scrolling through months of exchanges between Austin and Stella. My stomach churned as I read their words.

"You're my true muse," Austin had written to her, just three days before our wedding. "Giselle is just the boring trophy wife my father insists I have. You're everything I've ever wanted."

"The Safe Choice," he'd called me in another message. "The necessary evil for the inheritance."

While Stella was his "Obsession," his "Goddess," his "Reason for Living."

I read how he'd planned to keep me as his public wife while maintaining his "real relationship" with Stella. How he'd laughed about my naivety, my willingness to believe his lies.

The tears dried up somewhere around message number fifty. By message one hundred, something cold and hard had settled in my chest where pain had been.

---

The rain pounded against the windows as I finished packing. The forecast had called for clear skies, but nature had other plans.

A commotion from the street below caught my attention. I moved to the balcony, peering down through the downpour.

Austin stood in the rain, his expensive suit soaked through. Cameras flashed around him as he looked up at our—my—balcony.

"Giselle!" he shouted, his voice carrying despite the storm. "Please forgive me!"

Reporters circled him like vultures, capturing every moment of his "heartfelt" apology.

"I was cured!" he called out, water streaming down his face. "That was just a moment of weakness! I need you back!"

I watched him perform for the cameras, for his father, for the Anderson image. Not for me.

The doorman called up to announce his arrival in the lobby. I could let him up. Hear his excuses. Maybe even believe them.

But as I looked at his messages still open on the iPad beside me, I knew better.

I picked up the house phone. "Don't let him up," I told the doorman firmly.

Below, Austin's performance faltered as his phone buzzed with my message. For the first time since I'd known him, I'd denied him what he wanted.

And it felt like the first true breath I'd taken in years.