The Event of the Year—And His Worst Nightmare
My father was a monster. A man who abandoned his sick wife and child, leaving us to rot while he built a life of luxury. He never looked back, not even when my mother—his wife—lay on her deathbed, still hoping he’d return.
But he didn’t.
I spent years bouncing between foster homes, carrying nothing but resentment and a burning desire for revenge. Then, one morning, fate handed me my chance.
I saw it in the newspaper: “Billionaire Richard Alcott to Marry Young Socialite in the Event of the Year!”
Lavish. Extravagant. A fairy-tale wedding.
I clenched my fists. My mother had died in a tiny apartment, barely able to afford her medication, while he was throwing millions at some new trophy wife.
He had no idea what was coming.
The venue was a five-star resort, the guest list packed with celebrities, politicians, and the elite. But none of that mattered. I had already secured my invitation—money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t erase the past.
I arrived dressed in a sleek black suit, blending in effortlessly. As the ceremony began, I watched my father stand at the altar, looking smug and proud, waiting for his bride.
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He still had that same self-satisfied smirk, the one that told the world he had everything he ever wanted.
Not for long.
As the officiant asked if anyone had objections, I took a deep breath, stood up, and said in a loud, steady voice:
“Yes. I object.”
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Gasps filled the room. My father’s head snapped toward me, his face paling as recognition dawned.
I took a step forward. “Tell them, Richard. Tell them about your first wife. About the son you abandoned. About the woman who died begging for you to come back.”
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Silence. All eyes were on him. His bride turned, confused. The reporters were already scrambling, cameras flashing.
I pulled out my mother’s old wedding photo—the one she clutched until the day she died—and held it up.
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“You spent millions on this wedding while she couldn’t even afford her hospital bills. But don’t worry. The whole world is going to know exactly the kind of man you are.”
His face twisted in horror. He took a step forward, reaching out. “Listen, son, let’s talk—”
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I stepped back. “I’m not your son.”
Then I turned to the cameras, looking straight into the flashing lights.
“I hope the headlines tomorrow say, ‘The Event of the Year—Ruined by the Groom’s Darkest Secret.’”
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Then I walked out—leaving his life in ruins, just as he had left ours.