The Scammer Groom Met His Match When I Was Reborn

I was going to make him taste it—the bitter flavor of being framed, ruined, stripped of everything.

Every ounce of pain and humiliation he'd heaped on me and my parents in my last life? I'd repay it a hundredfold. A thousandfold.

I pulled out my phone and recorded Brent with the club girl, capturing every damning second of their passionate display.

Then I opened my chat with Claude Whitney and sent him the video, along with a single message:

"The Crown Bar. I need him unable to attend the wedding tomorrow."

His reply came instantly:

"For real? Don't you dare go soft on me—I've been itching to mess this guy up!"

I sent him a thank-you sticker.

In my previous life, Brent had destroyed everything I loved. My family, shattered. Me, dead in a mental asylum.

Claude was the one who collected our bodies. Who gave us proper burials.

Later, when he tried to get justice for us, Brent framed him too. Eight years in prison.

I'd always known how Claude felt about me. But I'd been blinded by Brent's false love, and I'd thrown away someone who was real.

Less than half an hour later, Claude and his crew had Brent surrounded.

Someone shouted—loud enough for the whole street to hear:

"The hell? You think you can touch a girl I've got my eye on? Boys, teach this bastard a lesson!"

Brent's face went white. He shoved the girl aside and tried to run, but Claude's guys dragged him into an alley with no cameras.

Then came the sounds—Brent's pathetic struggles, his agonized howls as fists connected with flesh.

When the timing felt right, I rushed over to play my part: the devoted fiancée saving her man.

Claude knew I was getting married. He'd kept his distance out of respect.

And I'd never once mentioned him to Brent. Not a word about my childhood friend.

"Stop! Stop hitting him!"

I screamed as I ran, throwing myself between Brent and the fists.

Claude spotted me and let out a low whistle, playing along perfectly. His voice dripped with mock amusement:

"Well, well. Didn't realize this loser had so many side pieces. Lucky bastard."

I glared at him, voice sharp with feigned outrage:

"Watch your mouth! He's my fiancé—we're getting married tomorrow!"

"Sweetheart, hate to break it to you, but he was just with that club girl, doing—"

Claude dragged out the words, pretending he was about to expose everything.

"Shut up! We love each other. I won't let you poison us with your lies!"

I pulled out my phone and made a show of dialing the police.

The call was fake, of course.

Claude cursed theatrically, then signaled his crew to scatter.

Brent lay crumpled on the ground. His face had swollen into something unrecognizable, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His leg bent at an angle that made my stomach turn—in the best possible way.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. His whole body trembled with pain.

A twisted satisfaction flickered through me.

But my expression? Pure concern.

"Brent, are you okay? Talk to me! I'm taking you to the hospital right now!"

After surgery, Brent lay immobile in the hospital bed.

He grabbed my hand, voice thick with gratitude. "Thank you for believing in me."

I pulled my hand free—slowly, so he wouldn't notice the revulsion—and kept my tone gentle:

"Silly. Who else would I believe? Those heartless thugs?"

I let out a carefully crafted sigh, letting disappointment cloud my features.

"It's just... with your leg like this, we'll have to postpone the wedding..."

Brent's expression darkened.

Not because he mourned our delayed union. No—he was furious that he couldn't swindle my money in time for the holidays.

I laughed inside, cold and sharp. But outwardly, I remained the picture of devotion:

"Don't worry. I'll make sure every single one of those men ends up behind bars. They'll pay for what they did to you."

The moment I left, I sent Claude a red envelope—sixty-six hundred dollars.

"Treat the boys to something nice."