Humiliating the Bride

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In the middle of the most important day of my life, our wedding officiant was working the crowd with his overly sentimental routine.

He suddenly turned the spotlight on me and Silas, flashing a charismatic smile as he asked what we were each best at after seven years of being in love.

The eyes of every single guest in the ballroom zeroed in on us, brimming with warmth and curiosity.

My cheeks burned. Deep down, I was secretly hoping Silas would say something incredibly sweet, like "She is best at loving me."

Instead, Silas casually twisted the platinum wedding band on his finger. A mocking smirk curled the corners of his lips as he spoke into the microphone with terrifying nonchalance.

He said he was not particularly good at anything. But then his gaze shifted to me. He told the crowd that I was an absolute pro at being a hooker.

The grand ballroom instantly plunged into a dead, horrifying silence. The only sound was the sleazy, muffled snickering coming from his frat boy friends in the front row.

The officiant began sweating bullets. He desperately tried to smooth things over, laughing awkwardly and saying the groom was quite the joker, adding that I must be an amazing cook.

Silas brutally cut the officiant off, emphasizing every single syllable as he clarified that he was not talking about cooking.

Right there, in front of five hundred people, he used the absolute filthiest language to describe what a working girl was. He told the entire room that I was a cheap escort who had slept with countless men, entirely used up and worn out.

Five hundred guests. Not a single person breathed.

I stood beside him in the custom gown that took three months to make, a deafening ringing echoing in my ears.

In the third row, my mother sat frozen in her chair. Her lips were trembling violently. The private nurse beside her had to hold her down with both hands to keep her from collapsing.

Meanwhile, Silas's mother, Eleanor, sat perfectly upright. She gracefully lifted her crystal champagne flute and took a delicate sip.

She knew.

She knew exactly what he was going to say.

I gripped my bridal bouquet so tightly that my manicured nails dug right into my palms, sending sharp spikes of pain up my arms.

The whispers began rippling through the banquet hall like a plague.

"The new bride used to be a working girl?"

"No wonder Eleanor refused to give her blessing and dragged this out for seven years."

"With a face like that, I am honestly not surprised."

The officiant looked helplessly at the wedding planner, who was shaking her head frantically.

I finally managed to find my voice. My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. "Silas, what the hell are you talking about?"

He slowly turned his head to look at me. Raising his hand, he gently wiped away a single tear that had slipped down my cheek.

The gesture was so light, so incredibly tender.

It was like the monster who just spoke those vile words was an entirely different person.

"Nora," he murmured my name, his thumb tracing my jawline. "Do you really think I would stand at my own wedding and spout nonsense?"

One of his groomsmen whistled loudly from the floor.

My entire body started to shake.

Seven years.

I had been with Silas for seven years.

From our college days to entering the workforce, from squeezing into a tiny rented apartment to moving into his massive estate.

For seven years, he took the drinks meant for me at parties. He sat with me in emergency waiting rooms. He gave me every ounce of romance a girl could ever dream of.

I genuinely thought he loved me.

Now, I was second guessing everything.

It took every ounce of willpower I had just to keep my feet planted on the stage and avoid passing out.

The wedding abruptly ended in absolute chaos.

Guests scurried toward the exits, whispering furiously. I saw dozens of phones raised in the air, recording the fallout.

I could not even begin to fathom the digital bloodbath and harassment waiting for me online.

Silas grabbed my wrist in a vice grip and dragged me all the way to the hotel's penthouse bridal suite.

The second the heavy doors clicked shut, he let go. He walked straight to the minibar and poured himself a heavy glass of bourbon.

I stood frozen in the entryway, the long train of my white gown pooling on the carpet around me.

"Why?" I asked him. "If you didn't want to marry me, you could have just walked away. No one forced you to stand there. Why did you publicly ruin me with lies?"

He threw the bourbon back in one gulp.

Turning to look at me, a sudden smile broke across his face.

"Who said I didn't want to marry you?"

He closed the distance between us step by agonizing step, stopping only when he was mere inches away.

He lowered his head and pressed a bruising kiss against my lips.

"Listen to me very carefully, Nora."

"Your past, every single guy who ever put his hands on you, every time you opened your legs for cash, I know all of it."

"But I still put a ring on your finger."

"Do you know what that means?"

His voice dropped to a dark, obsessive whisper.

"It means I love you, Nora. I love you so damn much that I am willing to claim even the filthiest parts of you."

My tears spilled over, splashing hotly against the back of his hand.

He seemed incredibly satisfied with my reaction. He pulled me into a suffocating embrace, resting his chin heavily on the top of my head.

"Be a good girl. Stop crying. Now that you are my wife, absolutely no one will ever dare bring up your dirty little secrets again."

He held me so tight I could barely breathe. The steady thumping of his heartbeat vibrated against my chest.

I closed my eyes in his arms, only one thought screaming through my mind.

Not a single thing he just said was true.

I was never a hooker.

But I had stepped foot into that kind of world.

Seven years ago, when I was eighteen, I spent forty seven nights sleeping on the cold linoleum floor of the hematology ward at Harbor City General.

My mother, Helen, had acute leukemia.

The day her diagnosis came in, the lead oncologist pulled me into his office and told me the bone marrow transplant and post op care would cost roughly eight hundred thousand dollars.

Eight hundred thousand.

My father died when I was six. He left behind a leaky roof over our heads and a measly three thousand dollars in a savings account.

I barely scraped through high school on financial aid. My entire life savings consisted of four thousand dollars I earned pulling double shifts at a local coffee shop.

I got down on my knees and begged the local welfare office. I begged the charities. I begged the reviewers on medical crowdfunding websites.

I only managed to raise sixty thousand dollars. A drop in the ocean.

Eventually, someone handed me a business card with an address.

88 Golden Crest Avenue. A high end private club called The Velvet Lounge.

I went.

The madam running the floor took one look at me and asked how old I was.

I told her eighteen.

She tossed me a form fitting dress and dragged me to the door of a VIP room on the third floor.

"Go in there, pour their drinks, smile, and make small talk." She leaned against the doorframe and lit a cigarette. "You don't need to do anything else. You are too skinny anyway, none of these guys want a stick figure in their bed. Two thousand bucks a night. Do you want the job or not?"

I took the job.

I was not a hooker. I was a bottle girl.

I poured whiskey, lit cigars, swallowed insults, got forced to drink until I threw up, dodged wandering hands, and endured endless sleazy remarks.

But I never sold my body.

During those forty seven days, I worked thirty nine night shifts at The Velvet Lounge.

There was one night a heavily intoxicated client pinned me against a leather sofa.

I slammed my knee directly into his groin. The floor manager docked my pay for three days.

The manager looked at me with absolute disgust. "If you don't want to play the game, get out. There is a line of pretty girls around the block begging for this job."

I did not get out.

Because my mother's surgery bills had to be paid.

Every night, I clocked out at 2 AM. I walked forty minutes through the sketchy part of town back to the hospital, slept for exactly three hours on a waiting room bench, and woke up at 6 AM to make my mother oatmeal.

I saved up eighty thousand dollars. Combined with the crowdfunding money, it was barely enough to cover the initial surgical deposit.

The day we got the news of a successful bone marrow match, I locked myself in the hospital stairwell and cried hysterically for twenty minutes.

Then I splashed cold water on my face, walked into my mother's room, and told her the university had granted me a massive scholarship.

Silas met me in that very same hospital corridor.

He was visiting his sick grandfather in the VIP wing. He walked past the hematology ward and saw me curled up into a tight ball, fast asleep on a plastic bench.

He told me later that he stood there and watched me for five whole minutes.

"You were smiling in your sleep," he had said. "I really wanted to know what you were dreaming about."

Those were the very first words he ever spoke to me.

Throughout our seven years together, I buried my time at The Velvet Lounge deep in the darkest corner of my mind.

It was not out of guilt. It was because I knew exactly how the real world worked.

If you try to explain that you were just pouring drinks, society will simply nod and say, 'Sure, so you were a hooker.'

I really thought I had buried it deep enough.

Until last night, the eve of our wedding.

Silas took a call in his study. His voice was hushed, but I was standing right outside the door and heard every word perfectly.

"You saw the files? The ones Daphne sent over?"

"...It is just a few photos. I already knew she used to work in a place like that. I don't need you reminding me."

He hung up, pulled open the heavy oak door, and froze when he saw me standing there.

He didn't explain. He didn't ask. He just reached out and ruffled my hair.

"Go to bed early."

In that exact moment, every survival instinct in my body screamed that the wedding tomorrow was going to be a disaster.

But I was too terrified to ask.

For seven years, I was too terrified to breathe a word about The Velvet Lounge.

I was so scared that if I pulled at that loose thread, everything we built would unravel.

And in the end, it unraveled anyway.

It shattered into a million unfixable pieces in front of five hundred people.

Even the next morning, my brain was still lost in a dense fog.

Silas practically dragged me to his family's sprawling estate to perform the post wedding formalities.

His mother, Eleanor, was sitting perfectly poised on a velvet armchair. Standing right beside her was a gorgeous, elegant woman.

I recognized her from photos. Her name was Daphne.

When I knelt on the rug to offer Eleanor her morning coffee as a traditional sign of submission, she completely ignored the cup.

"Stay on your knees." She slowly twisted the diamond ring on her finger. "If Silas absolutely insists on marrying you, I cannot stop him. But we are setting ground rules right now."

"First, now that you are in my house, your dirty past is buried. You will not breathe a word of it to anyone. If you cannot keep your own mouth shut, I will shut it for you."

"Second, Daphne is a girl I watched grow up. She has been Silas's best friend since childhood. You might be the wife, but do not ever get in her way."

Get in her way?

The fine china cup in my hands rattled.

Daphne let out a delicate little scoff. "Oh, Eleanor, what are you saying? She is my pure, innocent new friend."

She dragged out the word 'pure', her eyes practically glowing with undisguised malice.

Eleanor patted the back of Daphne's hand, looking at her with nothing but absolute adoration.

I held that scalding cup of coffee in the air for a full hour. My arms were trembling so violently I thought my shoulders would snap. Finally, Eleanor reached out to take it.

I let out a breath, thinking she was finally going to drink it.

The next second.

A sharp splash.

She threw the burning hot coffee directly into my face.

"Formalities are done. Get out of my sight."

Walking out of the estate, I sat in the back of Silas's luxury SUV without uttering a single syllable.

Silas drove with one hand draped casually over the steering wheel, glancing at me through the rearview mirror every few minutes.

"Cat got your tongue?"

I shook my head.

"Are you throwing a tantrum over a little coffee? Honestly, you should be..."

I cut him off softly. "I'm not."

I was simply processing the realization that it was finally time to pull the plug on this relationship.

That night, I sat wide awake on the edge of the mattress until the sun came up.

Just as the sky began to turn a bruised purple, a violent chill wracked my body, followed instantly by a tidal wave of nausea.

I scrambled off the bed and practically crawled into the master bathroom, gripping the edges of the marble sink as I dry heaved until tears blurred my vision.

After a brutal wave of stomach cramps, I stared blankly into the mirror, a horrifying realization slamming into my brain.

My period was exactly two weeks late.

With shaking hands, I yanked open the bottom drawer of the vanity and dug out an old pregnancy test I had stored away months ago.

Those agonizing minutes of waiting felt like standing on the gallows with a noose around my neck.

The pink dye slowly crept across the window.

One line.

Two lines.

I was pregnant.

But out of all the moments in my life, why did it have to be right now?

Silas suddenly pushed the bathroom door open. His eyes instantly locked onto my right hand before I could hide the plastic stick behind my back.

"You're pregnant?"

I dug my fingernails into my palms and gave a stiff, mechanical nod. "Yes."

He slowly crouched down to my level, looking me directly in the eyes for the first time in two days.

"Whose kid is it?"

My entire body flinched. I genuinely thought it was a sick joke. "Yours, obviously. Our baby."

He stared at me in complete, suffocating silence.

"We are getting a paternity test anyway."

My heart felt like it completely stopped beating.

"What?"

"We are doing a paternity test. Once there is medical proof it belongs to me, I will claim it."

I locked myself inside that bathroom and threw up for another hour.

It was not morning sickness.

It was pure, unadulterated disgust.

Three days later, someone violently shoved me from behind while I was walking back from the grocery store. I fell hard against the concrete.

I lost the baby.

The ER doctor told me my body was already incredibly weak, and the massive spike in cortisol from my emotional distress turned the fall into a threatened miscarriage that could not be stopped.

I lay alone in the sterile hospital bed, calling his cell phone.

I dialed twelve times. He ignored every single one.

On the thirteenth attempt, his executive assistant finally answered.

"Mrs. Kensington, the CEO is currently in a high level board meeting. Would you like me to pass along a message?"

Two hours later, the assistant appeared at my hospital room door.

She set a plastic bag on the bedside table. Inside was a generic thermal food container.

"Mr. Kensington asked me to drop this off. He said you need to get plenty of rest."

I popped the lid off the container. It was cheap takeout, and it was completely cold.

He did not show up to the hospital until 11 PM that night.

He walked through the door, immediately crinkled his nose at the smell of antiseptic, and looked at me.

"It's gone?"

I nodded.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and stayed silent for a few agonizing seconds.

"Probably for the best. With everything going on right now, it is really not a good time to bring a kid into this."

He pulled out his phone, scrolled through a few business emails, and then gave my hand a dismissive pat.

"Go to sleep early."

He walked out.

My phone vibrated on the sheets.

It was a text from my mother.

"Is Silas treating you right? Because if he is hurting you, just..."

I stared at the screen for a long time before typing out a reply.

"Mom, I am doing great. Don't worry about me."

Then I shut off my phone and buried my face into the hospital pillow.

The day I was discharged.

Silas had booked a private dining room at an upscale hotel, claiming he had to host a dinner for crucial business partners and could not come to pick me up.

I nodded.

It was probably for the best.

I honestly had no idea what kind of mask I was supposed to wear around him anymore.

But the moment I stepped into the empty estate, his assistant called in a panic.

"Mrs. Kensington, Silas had way too much to drink and his cough is acting up horribly. Could you please come check on him?"

Ever since winter started, his bronchitis had been severe, so I always kept a special honey and loquat syrup brewed in the fridge.

I hesitated for a few seconds, but my muscle memory took over. I heated it up, poured it into a thermos, and took a cab to the hotel.

Third floor.

I could hear the raucous laughter echoing down the carpeted hallway before I even reached the door.

Pushing it open, I immediately recognized the faces around the table. Preston, Blake, and Connor.

They were Silas's closest business associates, and the exact same men who had laughed the loudest from the front row at our wedding.

The second I walked in.

Preston raised his whiskey glass at me. "Look who it is! The missus finally graces us with her presence."

Blake chimed in with a sleazy grin. "Silas keeps his toys locked up tight. Didn't want to share his gorgeous wife with the boys."

The atmosphere seemed casually toxic, exactly what I expected from them.

But I immediately noticed Silas's expression.

He had a smirk painted on his lips, but his eyes were completely dead and devoid of warmth.

I cleared my throat.

"I just came to drop off Silas's medicine. I will head out now."

Connor quickly slid out of his chair and blocked the door.

"Don't be like that, Nora. You're already here, you have to stay for a drink."

"I really can't. I have things to handle at home."

I subconsciously gripped the thermos tighter, turning to look pleadingly at Silas sitting at the head of the table.

He finally opened his mouth.

"Sit down. We will go home together when I'm done."

Trapped, I had no choice but to take a seat at the far end of the table.

After a few more rounds of drinks, Blake pulled out his phone and loudly cleared his throat.

"Silas, I'm in a great mood tonight. I want to show the boys something really special."

He mirrored his phone screen onto the massive flat screen TV mounted on the wall.

The screen lit up.

It was a video, heavily blurred and pixelated, but it was unmistakably a man and a woman in a hotel bed.

The woman in the footage was pinned down, her muffled but provocative noises filling the room.

Blake pointed an accusing finger at the screen, a vicious smile on his face. "Do any of you recognize the star of the show?"

Preston squinted at the screen. "Too blurry, man. Who is it?"

Blake cut his eyes directly to me, his smirk widening into a predatory grin. "It's Silas's wife."

All the blood in my body violently rushed to my head.

"That is not me." I shot up from my chair, my voice trembling with rage.

Blake leaned back, draping his arm over his chair. "Oh, come on, Nora. Stop playing innocent. Three years ago at The Velvet Lounge, I was the very first guy to get a taste of you."

My brain short circuited.

The woman in that video was absolutely not me.

The voice was wrong, the body type was wrong.

But the deepfake blur was so thick you could not prove a damn thing.

Connor practically jumped out of his seat, pulling his own phone out and waving it in the air. "I've got a clip too! I bought a night with her a month after you did. Honestly, she was a screamer."

Preston scoffed loudly. "Give me a break, she was way louder when I had her. That night we"

"It is not me." I spoke again, my whole body shaking uncontrollably now.

"The woman in those videos is not me!"

All three men turned to look at me simultaneously, before bursting into a chorus of obnoxious, booming laughter.

Blake slammed his hand on the table. "Nora, you are already married to the guy! What is the point of acting like a virgin now?"

I snapped my head toward Silas.

He was leaning casually against the back of his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, completely silent.

I threw myself across the table, desperately grabbing his forearm. "Silas, look at the videos! Look closely, that is not me! I swear that is not"

Connor took a swig of his beer and raised an eyebrow. "Hey, let's settle this right now. Who made the missus scream the loudest?"

The three of them erupted into another fit of disgusting laughter.

The next second, Silas slammed his glass down.

He pulled his own smartphone from his pocket, unlocked it, and pulled up a video file.

No deepfake blur. No pixels.

The footage was sickeningly clear.

It was me.

It was me and him.

A video taken inside our own marriage bed, inside the sanctuary I foolishly believed held the last remaining shreds of his love.

He tossed the phone into the center of the table and leaned back.

"Stop arguing," he slurred, his voice dripping with arrogant, drunken pride. "She's loudest with me."

Preston leaned over the table, his eyes glued to Silas's screen, and let out a low whistle.

"Damn, Silas wins. That is definitely the loudest."

Blake raised his glass in a toast. "The undisputed champion. Hats off to you, brother."

My mind completely blanked out.

I lunged across the wood, frantically clawing at the table to grab his phone.

Silas's brow furrowed in annoyance. He backhanded me right across the face.

The sheer force sent me crashing over the glass coffee table. Empty liquor bottles shattered in every direction. Jagged shards of glass sliced deep into the palms of my hands.

The private room went dead silent for a split second.

"Are you insane?" He stared down at me with pure disgust.

Blood was steadily dripping from my palms onto the carpet, but the physical pain didn't even register.

"Delete the video." I dropped to my knees amidst the broken glass, my voice entirely broken.

"Silas, please. I am begging you. Delete it."

He leaned down, grabbing my jaw with a grip so tight I felt my cheekbones bruising under his fingers.

"Nora, when you were hooking at The Velvet Lounge, did you beg your clients to delete their videos too?"

He violently twisted my face toward the three men sitting at the table.

"You let them look at you all they want, but suddenly I'm the bad guy? Or is it that you just love showing off for other men, but your own husband isn't allowed to watch?"

Tears completely blinded my vision.

He let go of my face, picked up his bourbon glass, and went right back to drinking with his friends.

I stayed on my knees on the floor, bleeding from both hands.

The four men in the room carried on laughing and talking business.

Not a single one of them looked down at me.

I honestly have no memory of how I managed to stand up.

I only remember that the hallway outside that room felt like it stretched on for miles.

I walked for what felt like an eternity, finally pushing open the heavy glass doors of the hotel lobby. It was pouring rain outside.

The bitter November rain chilled me down to the marrow of my bones.

I stood completely still in the torrential downpour, digging my phone out of my soaked coat pocket.

The screen lit up, illuminating Silas's profile picture. The very last message in our chat history was from the night before the wedding.

"What are you doing? I miss you."

Staring at those words, a hollow, bitter laugh escaped my lips. It was all just so utterly pathetic.

I powered down the phone. I tilted my head up, letting the freezing rain wash the blood and tears completely off my face.

Seven years. That was more than enough.

It was time for Nora to leave.