It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
But as I stood at the altar, watching Sofia walk down the aisle with her bridesmaids behind her, something felt deeply wrong.
They were all in black.
Not just one. Not a stylistic choice.
All ten of them.
I thought it was a joke at first. A last-minute fashion statement or a misunderstanding. But when I saw their faces — serious, almost defiant — I knew this wasn’t accidental.
And then came the whispers from guests.
“Is this a funeral?”
“That’s not traditional.”
“What kind of wedding is this?”
I looked over at Sofia. She didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
So I did what any groom would do — I tried to smile and pretend everything was fine.
Until later that night.
As we sat at the head table, she leaned into me and whispered, “You should’ve seen your face when they walked in.”
I blinked. “Why did they wear black?”
She laughed softly. “Because they wanted to. And I let them.”
That’s when I realized something.
This wasn’t about style.
This was about power.
Because here’s the thing:
Black isn’t worn at weddings unless it’s intentional.
Unless someone wants to make a point without saying it out loud.
And now, on our big day — the moment we promised to love each other publicly — her bridesmaids had dressed like mourners.
Like they were mourning me.
I told her I needed air. Walked outside. Then called my sister.
“Did you know this was going to happen?”
She hesitated.
“I tried to tell you,” she said.
“But I didn’t think she’d really go through with it.”
Apparently, they had been planning it for weeks.
One of her closest friends even said during the reception, “We don’t believe in fairytales.”
“And we don’t believe in you either.”
That’s when I understood.
This wasn’t just disrespect.
This was sabotage.
So I made a decision no one expected.
I walked back inside.
Took off my ring.
And left the venue.
Because sometimes, love doesn’t die with cheating.
Sometimes, it dies quietly — in a room full of people who never truly celebrated you being there.