One day, I was managing the lavish wedding of an incredibly wealthy woman—a celebration I had helped plan down to the smallest detail. But when I finally laid eyes on the groom, my heart nearly stopped. It was him—my Jacob.
My name is Rachel, and I’m 28 years old. I work as a private event planner, mostly handling high-end celebrations for clients with extravagant tastes. I pride myself on professionalism, discretion, and an ability to make magic happen on tight deadlines.
Nothing could have prepared me for the nightmare that unfolded on the day I was supposed to deliver the most opulent wedding of my career — not because of weather or last-minute changes, but because of the man who stepped out of the groom’s limousine.
The bride was Victoria Halston, a 38-year-old heiress to a fashion conglomerate. I had flown two hours across the country to manage her wedding, eager to bring her elegant and highly specific vision to life. Victoria knew what she wanted, and she spared no expense in getting it.
She was marrying a man named Andrew Wallace, a young tech entrepreneur with a growing reputation and an even bigger bank account. I never met him throughout the months of planning — not once.
“He’s very busy, always traveling,” Victoria would say casually during our meetings. “He trusts my taste and lets me take the reins.”
I found it odd. What groom wouldn’t want to weigh in on the band or at least the wine list? I even asked her once, “Are you sure he doesn’t want to join us for the tasting?”
She laughed it off. “He’s not the type. As long as I’m happy, he’s happy.”
I chalked it up to rich people’s eccentricities and moved on. But as the big day approached, my curiosity about the mysterious groom only grew.
The wedding day itself started like any other high-end affair — busy, buzzing, and beautiful. I was in my zone, orchestrating every detail with precision. The floral arrangements were lush, the ivory linens spotless, the crystal tableware catching the soft glow of the chandeliers. I paced between stations, headset clipped to my collar, confirming every detail.
“The seating chart is final — switch cards only if I approve,” I told the ushers. “And make sure the cake is kept cool until the photographer arrives. It’s layered in buttercream and cannot melt.”
By late afternoon, guests had begun to fill the lavish garden venue, sipping champagne and admiring the soft harp music floating through the air. Then came the moment of truth.
A black limousine rolled to a stop in front of the main entrance. Everyone turned toward it. A hush fell over the gathering.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the groom — Mr. Andrew Wallace!” the emcee announced.
I watched with interest, expecting to finally meet the elusive groom who had trusted his entire wedding to someone he’d never met.
But when the car door opened, my breath caught in my throat.
Out stepped Jacob.
My Jacob.
Or at least, the man I had known as Jacob Rivers — the man who disappeared six months ago without a trace, leaving me heartbroken and nearly bankrupt.
He was dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, smiling at the crowd like a prince stepping into a fairy tale. But I wasn’t fooled. My mouth went dry, and my legs felt like stone. He glanced around casually — and then his eyes met mine.
No recognition. No reaction.
He looked straight through me.
The man I had once planned a wedding with — my wedding — was now standing at the altar of another, under a new name and a fresh identity. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. The world around me swirled in slow motion.
As he strode confidently into the venue, shaking hands and accepting congratulations, I was dragged back into the memory of the day everything fell apart.
Six Months Earlier
Jacob and I had been living together for almost two years. We were planning our wedding — something intimate and charming, just the way I liked it.
One night, we were curled up on the couch, surrounded by wedding brochures and spreadsheets.
“How are we doing budget-wise?” I asked, sipping wine.
He hesitated, then said, “Most of the major payments are already made — the venue, the caterer, the band, the decorators. But… I’ve used all the funds. Even dipped into my savings.”
I frowned. “All of it? Including the joint account?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “There was a hiccup at work. A delayed payment. It’s temporary, but… I need access to your account too. Just to keep everything flowing smoothly.”
He asked me to sign a power of attorney document. I didn’t hesitate. I loved him. Trusted him. We were already wearing our wedding bands at home, even though we hadn’t walked down the aisle.
“The bank confirmed everything,” I told him after we filed the paperwork. “You’re authorized now.”
He smiled and kissed my forehead. “This is going to be perfect, Rachel. You’ll see.”
That was the last night I ever saw him.
The next morning, I woke to an empty bed. No note. No text. Just a strange, sinking quiet.
His clothes were gone.
Our joint savings — gone.
My personal accounts — wiped clean.
Two withdrawals. $38,000 and $23,000.
I called the bank in a panic. They confirmed the transfers were legal, made under the power of attorney he now held.
I called Jacob — voicemail.
I texted, emailed, called again. Nothing.
I went to the police.
The officer on duty, a kind man named Sergeant Daniels, listened carefully.
“I trusted him,” I said, barely holding back tears. “He was my fiancé.”
He took my statement and promised to look into it. But I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t hopeful.
“He used legal authorization. Unless we prove fraud or identity theft, this won’t be easy,” he explained.
I walked out of the station that day with a broken heart and $61,000 in debt.
Present Day
And now, here he was — Jacob — rebranded as Andrew Wallace, about to marry a woman richer than both of us combined.
He slipped into character with sickening ease, smiling, mingling, hugging guests. Watching him, I burned with fury — not just for what he’d done to me, but for what he was about to do to Victoria.
I had to stop him.
I approached as he stood near the bar, laughing with one of Victoria’s uncles.
His eyes landed on me again. This time, there was a flicker. Recognition. Panic.
I walked straight up to him and slapped him across the face, hard enough to silence the room.
“You’re a liar and a thief,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear.
He tried to play it off. “Excuse me? Do I know you?”
“Don’t pretend,” I snapped. “You’re Jacob Rivers. You stole from me, then vanished. And now you’re about to do it again.”
He backed up, palms raised. “This woman’s insane. I’ve never seen her before.”
Guests murmured in confusion. I turned to Victoria, who looked pale and stunned.
“Victoria,” I said gently. “I’m your wedding planner. But before that, I was Jacob’s fiancée. I gave him access to my finances, and he took everything — then disappeared. That man is not Andrew Wallace. He’s a con artist.”
Before she could respond, a man stepped forward from the crowd. He wore a sharp navy suit and a frown.
“I’m Detective Mark Halston,” he said, flashing a badge. “And I’m also Victoria’s brother. I know Andrew personally. You need to leave.”
My heart dropped. “Mark, I swear to you — I have proof. Bank records. Police reports. His name is Jacob Rivers.”
“You’re disrupting my sister’s wedding,” he said firmly. “Please leave before I call security.”
I walked out, defeated — but not done.
Later That Evening
Sitting at a quiet café near the venue, nursing a bitter espresso, I mulled over my next move.
Then I remembered something Victoria had once said during a planning session.
“My great-aunt Sylvia lives abroad. I haven’t seen her since I was a kid. I wish she could be at the wedding,” she had said wistfully.
An idea sparked.
I called in a favor from Carla, a friend and talented makeup artist. “I need you to make me look 90,” I told her. “Tonight.”
Three hours later, I was in full disguise: hair dyed silver, skin wrinkled with prosthetics, hands liver-spotted with makeup.
I adjusted the brooch on my shawl and walked up to the venue, clutching a purse that looked like it had been around since the 1950s.
“My name is Sylvia Halston,” I told the security guard sweetly. “I believe I’m expected.”
He scanned the list. “You’re not—”
“Could you be a dear and fetch Victoria?” I said, blinking slowly. “It’s been so long. She won’t believe I came all this way.”
Soon, Victoria emerged, surprised and emotional.
“Aunt Sylvia?” she asked.
“Of course, darling. You’ve grown into such a beauty,” I said, giving her a slow, frail hug.
Inside, I asked to say a few words to the guests.
With mic in hand, I addressed the crowd in my best elderly voice.
“I’m delighted to be here today. Before I leave, I’d like to gift my dear Victoria something special.”
I held up a sparkling faux diamond.
“This gem has been in the family for generations. It’s worth over $800,000. I’ll be storing it back in the vault tomorrow, but tonight, it’s here.”
I placed the pouch in my handbag and returned to my seat.
Two hours later, the lights flickered and dimmed.
Just as I expected.
I quietly stepped near the service entrance and waited. Moments later, Jacob — or “Andrew” — crept into the hallway, snatching the purse off the table.
As he turned to run, I c.r.ack3d him across the back of the head with a glass pitcher.
He collapsed, the diamond rolling from his grip.
Victoria and her brother Mark arrived seconds later.
“You were right,” Mark said, shaking his head. “We’ve been blind.”
He arrested Jacob on the spot. Within minutes, police officers arrived and took him away in cuffs.
A Week Later
Victoria invited me to meet her for coffee. She looked tired but calm.
“You saved me from marrying a con artist,” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
I smiled. “Just promise me you’ll keep your passwords to yourself.”
She laughed softly, then added, “I want to offer you a position as my personal assistant. If you’re interested.”
I paused, then nodded.
“I’d be honored.”
Sometimes, the best revenge isn’t justice — it’s turning the page on your own terms.
