Próbował publicznie zawstydzić swoją byłą żonę, która spodziewała się dziecka, na swoim ślubie — ale nie miał pojęcia, kim się stanie… – Page 5

But the moment I walked into that venue, I knew invisibility was impossible.

The place was packed.

Derek had invited everyone we’d ever known—former friends, business associates, society people who’d always looked down on me.

It wasn’t a wedding.

It was a performance.

The kind where I was brought in for a single scene: the one where I got destroyed.

As soon as I stepped through the entrance, whispers started like a swarm.

I could feel eyes on me.

I could hear the barely concealed comments.

“Can you believe she actually came?”

“How pathetic.”

“She can’t let go.”

I kept my head high.

I kept my face calm.

And inside my purse, my phone recorded everything.

Amber’s bridesmaids—women I’d once considered friends—blocked my path at one point, laughing like they were sharing a private joke.

One of them, wearing a lavender dress and too much perfume, looked me up and down.

“Surprised you can still fit through the door,” she said.

The old me would have crumpled.

But I didn’t give her the satisfaction.

I stepped around her, gentle but firm.

“Excuse me,” I said.

My voice didn’t shake.

The ceremony was torture.

I sat in the very back, trying to disappear into the chair.

The venue smelled like roses and expensive candles.

The aisle was lined with white flowers so perfect they looked fake.

Derek stood at the altar in an expensive tuxedo, looking handsome and successful and completely untroubled.

I watched him smile at guests like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t told me he’d take my baby.

Like he hadn’t built a story about me being unstable.

Amber walked down the aisle in my dream wedding dress.

The one I’d shown her from a magazine years ago.

I remembered sitting on my bed, flipping pages, laughing with her.

“This one,” I’d said. “This is perfect.”

She’d remembered.

She’d chosen it deliberately.

During the vows, when Derek promised to love and honor Amber, my baby kicked hard as if protesting.

I pressed my hand against my belly, tears burning behind my eyes.

Amber looked directly at me during her vows.

And smirked.

She wanted me to see.

They both did.

The reception was even worse.

The ballroom was magnificent—ice sculptures, champagne fountains, a live band that played love songs like they were mocking me.

I found a corner table and sat alone, drinking water, watching.

I kept my posture straight.

I kept my purse close.

I kept my breathing slow.

Derek’s business partners congratulated him, slapped him on the back.

I heard one say, “Smart man. Definitely upgraded.”

Amber’s mother hugged her daughter and said loudly enough for nearby tables to hear, “You finally got everything you deserved, sweetheart.”

It took everything in me not to stand up and scream.

But I stayed.

Something told me I needed to see this through.

Then Derek took the microphone.

He started with jokes, thanking everyone for coming, talking about new beginnings.

People laughed.

Glasses clinked.

And then his tone shifted.

He looked directly at me.

“You know,” he said, his voice carrying through the room, “some people just can’t let go of the past.”

The laughter died.

“Some people crash weddings they weren’t meant to attend.”

The room went quiet.

Everyone turned.

All eyes on me.

My face burned.

Amber joined him at the microphone, fake tears glistening in her eyes.

“She’s been harassing us for months,” she said, her voice trembling convincingly. “We tried to be kind, but she won’t leave us alone.”

It was so smooth.

So rehearsed.

I started to stand, my chair scraping softly.

“I was invited—” I began.

But security guards were already moving toward my table.

Derek had planned this.

He’d invited me specifically so he could rewrite the narrative in front of everyone.

I wasn’t the abandoned pregnant wife.

I was the crazy ex.

The unstable woman.

The cautionary tale.

Derek walked over, his face flushed from alcohol and triumph.

He grabbed my arm roughly.

“Time to leave, Paisley,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear.

I pulled my arm away.

“I was invited,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I have the invitation.”

He laughed.

A cruel sound that made my skin crawl.

“Who’s going to believe you?”

And then—before my brain could catch up to what his hands were doing—he grabbed the neckline of my dress.

With one violent yank, he ripped it.

The fabric tore with a sound that seemed impossibly loud.

Buttons scattered across the marble floor like tiny white coins.

For one horrible second, time slowed.

I stood there exposed.

My stomach dropped.

My heart hammered.

I tried desperately to cover my pregnant belly with my arms.

The room erupted.

Some people gasped.

Others laughed.

Phones came out everywhere—screens glowing, cameras pointed at me from every angle.

Amber was filming too.

She was laughing so hard she was crying.

“This is perfect!” she shouted.

Derek turned to his friends, spreading his hands in mock confusion.

“See?” he said. “I told you she was crazy. She came here just to cause drama.”

Tears streamed down my face.

This was it.

This was the moment they’d wanted.

They’d orchestrated my complete public destruction.

They’d create viral content showing me as unstable.

They’d use it later to paint me as unfit.

I’d walked straight into their trap.

And then the music stopped.

Not faded.

Stopped.

The sudden silence felt like someone had cut the air.

A voice boomed through the speakers—so loud, so commanding, every conversation died instantly.

“Everyone stay exactly where you are.”

I looked up through my tears.

And I saw Nathan.

My brother pushed through the crowd with a calmness that didn’t match the chaos.

He wasn’t alone.

A thin wire ran from under his shirt.

Behind him were three people: a uniformed police officer, a woman in a severe business suit carrying a briefcase, and a man with a professional video camera.

Nathan’s face was steady.

But his eyes were ice.

Derek’s smile faltered.

Nathan stepped forward, voice carrying through the ballroom.

“My name is Nathan Pierce. I’m a criminal prosecutor for the state.”

A ripple went through the room.

“I’ve been investigating Derek Stone for the past three months.”

Derek’s smug expression vanished.

His face went pale.

“What I just witnessed,” Nathan continued, “was assault and battery on a pregnant woman. That alone is a felony.”

The word felony landed like a stone.

“But that’s just the beginning.”

Nathan pulled out a tablet and walked toward the venue’s AV booth.

Within seconds, he connected it.

The massive projector screen—still showing Derek and Amber’s romantic photos—flickered.

Then it changed.

Documents filled the screen.

Bank statements.

Emails.

Spreadsheets.

Things that looked too official to ignore.

“For the past three months,” Nathan said, pacing slowly in front of the screen, “I’ve been working with the IRS and the FBI to investigate Derek Stone’s business practices.”

The woman in the business suit stepped forward.

“I’m Agent Morrison with the Internal Revenue Service,” she announced, voice sharp and clear.

The room was dead silent now.

“Mr. Stone has been committing tax fraud for the past six years,” she said. “Hiding over eight million dollars in offshore accounts.”

A gasp went through the guests.

Derek’s lips parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

Nathan tapped his tablet again.