I was happily planning my dream wedding when an unexpected photo shattered everything. My colleague Claire sent me a picture of my fiancé, Mark, lounging at a spa with his ex, Amanda—while I thought he was visiting his mom. My reaction? Pure rage, but I didn’t scream. I planned.
When Mark came home, I casually showed him the photo. He panicked, stammering excuses. Instead of fighting, I suggested a hike. Mark, who hated physical activity, agreed—anything to win me back.
The next morning, I dragged him up the steepest mountain I could find. After eight grueling hours, he collapsed at the top, breathless. That’s when I dropped the bomb: “We’re over.” His shock was priceless.
I jogged down, leaving him stranded with no phone signal. By the time he stumbled home, I’d packed his things and left them on the porch. I’d changed the locks, too, with a warning about my “new pet Rottweiler.”
He begged for forgiveness, but I ignored him. Instead, I poured myself a glass of wine and started planning a solo trip to Europe. No more cheating fiancés for me.
