Bad Wedding Photos, Fast Divorce

On the day of the wedding, my fiancé suddenly kissed me passionately during the wedding photoshoot, forcing a French kiss in front of everyone.

I struggled desperately, yet he kept pulling up my gown, letting everyone around enjoy the spectacle.

And the photographer turned out to be none other than Sophia Lee, the woman who once broke off her engagement to him because he had a paralyzed mother.

While Ryan Miller kissed me, the way he looked at Sophia was full of provocation.

It was the first time since we started dating that I lost my temper.

I shoved him away, ripped off my veil, and snapped:

“This wedding is over!”

The crowd began criticizing me, even Ryan frowned tightly:

“I was just showing affection.”

“I only accidentally tugged your strap—was it really that serious?”

My gaze hardened.

“Yes. It was.”

……

Ryan’s frown tightened, then loosened. Seeing that my anger wasn’t an act, he quickly compromised.

“Don’t be mad. Fine, we don’t have to take the wedding photos.”

He helped straighten my clothes, but then a sly smile flashed across his face.

He pointed to Sophia.

“The photos didn’t work out, but I did pay for the service.”

“Since it’s your fault that everyone’s mood is ruined, shouldn’t there be some kind of punishment?”

He called a friend to bring over a bottle of vodka.

“Down this, and I won’t report you to your company.”

To everyone’s shock, Sophia didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the bottle and gulped it down in one go.

Even Ryan hadn’t expected that. He quickly snatched the bottle from her hand and smashed it on the ground in anger.

“I told you to drink, and you really did? Have you forgotten you’re allergic to alcohol?”

His tone was harsh, but the concern hidden in his words made the people around exchange strange looks.

They all turned toward me, waiting for me to show some heartbreak.

As they wished, I clenched my teeth so hard it hurt.

Just days ago, I had gone through endless favors and connections to hire a top-tier photographer.

But right when the photographer was about to agree, Ryan told me he had already arranged one.

I rarely argued with him. The one time I refused, he ignored me coldly, so I had no choice but to give in.

I never expected the photographer he chose would turn out to be Sophia.

The first time I even heard Sophia’s name was from Mrs. Miller.

I had been caring for her for years. She had been paralyzed from an accident long ago and was incontinent.

On the night Ryan was finally moved by me and wanted to discuss marriage, I overheard Mrs. Miller talking in her sleep:

“If it weren’t for these useless legs, Sophia wouldn’t have left him because of me. My sweet son wouldn’t have been forced to settle for Emily Carter as a wife…”

Later, I finally met Ryan’s so-called first love, Sophia, at my bachelorette party.

The moment Sophia appeared, Ryan’s whole body tensed.

It was the first time he’d ever been so openly affectionate with me in public, but even that intimacy felt hollow, fragile, and fake.

That night, he even fed me cantaloupe by mouth in front of her.

With everyone cheering, my face turned pale.

“I’m allergic to cantaloupe.”

He remembered Sophia’s alcohol allergy but had never cared about mine.

Everything he did was just to make Sophia regret abandoning him.

But what he didn’t realize was—humiliation always fell only on me.