On Our Wedding, My Fiancé Mistakenly Pick My Bestfriend

To my surprise, Giselle didn’t get angry at my words. Instead, she slowly pulled a sharp, glinting hairpin from her pocket.

“I know you’re furious right now,” she said, her voice eerily calm, “but I’ve had enough of that smug, self-righteous look on your face. I’m prettier than you, I had better grades than you—and yet, I ended up with a piece of trash. But you? You’re just a worthless orphan. Why should someone like you get to have a man like Frederick?”

"You shouldn't live better than me!" she seethed.

Before I could react, she slashed her own wrist with the hairpin. Then she charged toward me, and with a swift motion, sliced my face.

She flung the hairpin down the stairs and clutched her bleeding wrist before running off.

My face burned with pain. I hurried to the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel to stop the bleeding.

Then her piercing scream rang out from below.

“Help! She tried to kill me! Frederick, help—Gracie is trying to kill me!”

Frederick had just stepped through the door when he saw Giselle running toward him, blood gushing from her wrist. His heart dropped.

Instinctively, he looked around for me.

He saw me descending the stairs with a towel pressed to my bleeding face, my presence heavy with silent fury.

He immediately called the family doctor, urging them to come as quickly as possible.

Meanwhile, he began treating Giselle’s wounds, all while glaring at me like I was a monster.

“Gracie, what the hell is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind? You really think you can get away with attempted murder?!”

Oddly, I felt calm. As I watched him hold Giselle in his arms, trembling and whimpering, a cold numbness spread through me.

“What if I told you Giselle attacked me first—and that she cut herself to frame me? Would you believe me?”

Frederick’s face darkened, and his brows furrowed deeply.

“Do you think I’d believe that? Gracie can’t even kill a bug. Why are you blaming her for your miscarriage? That’s pathetic!”

His words stung more than the cut on my face. A bitter laugh escaped me, tinged with the pain of betrayal.

“So whatever she says, you believe? I carried your child. I lost that child. And none of that matters to you because of a few fake tears and a self-inflicted cut?”

I wiped away my tears and slowly bent to pick up the discarded hairpin. Then, heartbroken and numb, I stepped toward Frederick.

“If you don't apologize to Giselle, get on your knees and beg her forgiveness, then forget the wedding. We’ll file for divorce,” he said coldly.

I scoffed and looked at him with dead eyes.

Then, in one swift motion while neither of them was watching, I slashed the back of Giselle’s hand with the hairpin.

“Aahhh—!”

Blood welled up instantly. Giselle screamed, shrinking into Frederick’s arms like a terrified child.

“There,” I said, my voice was like ice. “That’s what it looks like when I actually hurt her.”

Frederick looked stunned—but only for a second. Fury overtook his expression, and he kicked me hard in the stomach.

I had just been discharged after a miscarriage—how could I possibly withstand that?

I collapsed to the ground, clutching my abdomen, unable to even cry out. My face throbbed from the earlier cut, but I barely noticed.

Blood seeped onto the floor.

Only then did Frederick realize he might have gone too far. His face paled as panic flickered in his voice.

“Gracie... are you okay?”

Before he could do anything else, Giselle cried out again.

“Frederick, my hand! It hurts so much! What if I can never play tennis again?”

He hesitated for a second—just one—then scooped her up and rushed out the door.

“I called the family doctor. Hold on a bit longer.”

After saying that, he didn’t look back.

I stared after him, my body trembling, my skin drained of color. Tears streamed down my face as I clutched my abdomen in silence.

The doctor arrived shortly after. By then, I was nearly unconscious from the pain.

After being rushed to the hospital and undergoing a full examination, I received the diagnosis—my uterus had sustained significant trauma. A slightly harder impact could’ve caused internal bleeding—possibly even death.

The doctor gently recommended seeing a cosmetic specialist for my facial injury, warning that it might leave a permanent scar if untreated.

But I just shook my head.

“No, thank you,” I said in a flat voice.

He told me the wound might heal naturally, though scarring would depend on my skin’s recovery ability.

I returned to the suburban villa with the cut still raw on my face.

It was dark inside, except for a single room upstairs—the one that had once been my bridal suite. Now, it was their den of betrayal.

From the hallway, I heard the unmistakable sounds of moaning and laughter.

Drawn by something beyond reason, I climbed the stairs one step at a time.

At the door, I heard Giselle’s sultry voice.

“Why are you still going through with the wedding? Now that she knows everything, just break it off. Wouldn’t it be better to make me your bride?”

Through the narrow gap in the door, I saw them—their bodies tangled together.

Frederick’s voice was low and casual as he responded, “I have a reputation to maintain. Everyone already knows I’m marrying Gracie. If we divorce now, how would that look? It would ruin my company’s IPO. Just be patient, baby. Once everything stabilizes. I’ll dump her.”