Everything looked perfect at my best friend Aisha’s wedding until I noticed the groom’s strange habit.

Jason kept rubbing his wrist, wincing like it hurt.

It was a gesture I’d seen before: my brother did the same thing after getting a fresh tattoo.

When Aisha reached the altar, Jason’s sleeve slipped just enough for me to see the truth — a red, irritated patch of skin and fresh black ink spelling out a name. Not hers. Cleo.

Cleo, our mutual friend. The one Aisha had left off the bridesmaid list because of “complicated history” with Jason.

And there she was, sitting in the second row in a red dress, smiling. I couldn’t let it go.

I stopped the ceremony, pulled up Jason’s sleeve, and revealed the tattoo.

The crowd gasped. Cleo walked forward, lifted her wrist, and showed a matching one: Jason .

Then she told everyone Jason had spent the night with her, called Aisha “sweet but boring,”

and admitted he was only after her family’s money. Aisha’s face turned cold.

She pulled off her ring, dropped it at Jason’s feet,

and announced to the guests there would be no wedding but the reception would go on as her “freedom party.”

Later, as we sipped champagne by the window,

Aisha thanked me. “You saved me,” she said.

I told her she deserved better than someone who’d mark himself with another woman’s name on the eve of their wedding.

By the end of the night, Jason was gone,

Cleo had stormed out,

and Aisha was barefoot on the dance floor, laughing.

The marriage never happened, but the celebration? That was unforgettable.