On the day of Elise and Rowan’s wedding, they were trapped in a limousine, inching along the motorway in gridlock. Instead of keeping her mother’s guests entertained, Elise’s daughter, Clara, hijacked the wedding, stealing the spotlight. Would Elise retaliate at the event or teach Clara a lesson another way?
Weddings are meant to be enchanting, aren’t they? A day of love’s culmination, months of planning, and a vow to stand by your partner forever. That was the dream, at least, until my daughter Clara turned it into a complete disaster.
It started with traffic, naturally. My fiancé Rowan and I were stuck in our limousine, surrounded by a sea of brake lights due to a lorry accident miles ahead. We weren’t fussed about traditions—both of us had been married before, so seeing each other pre-ceremony was no issue.
“Time check, please, Leo?” I called through the intercom to our driver. “Hard to say, Elise,” he replied. “But I’m weaving through where I can!
I’ll get you and Rowan to the altar!”
We were definitely running late. “Love, call Clara,” Rowan said, his jaw tight as he tapped the seat. “Tell her to manage the guests—get the band playing, keep everyone happy.”
I dialed my daughter, feeling the pressure mount.
She answered on the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart,” I said. “We’re stuck in traffic—an accident’s holding everything up.
Can you keep things running smoothly at the venue? We’ll be about 30 minutes late. Rowan says to start the band.”
“Of course, Mum!” Clara chirped, her voice overly sweet.
“Don’t worry about a thing except getting here. I’ve got it all under control. Stay safe!”
I exhaled, her words easing my nerves.
But ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was my sister, Nora. Her voice was panicked.
“Elise, you need to get here now! Clara’s…” Her voice cut off as the call dropped. “She’s what?” I muttered, redialing, but it went to voicemail.
A sick feeling settled in my gut, but we were helpless, crawling along in traffic. “What did Nora mean? What’s happening?” I asked Rowan after filling him in.
“Honestly, love,” he said, “I bet Clara’s grabbed a mic and is singing with the band.”
When we finally arrived at the venue half an hour later, nothing prepared me for the sight. Clara stood on the steps, glowing, holding a bouquet of cream roses. She wore a wedding dress—simple, white, unmistakable.
Photographers swarmed, cameras clicking as she posed with a radiant smile. Beside her stood Milo, her boyfriend of barely a year, looking uneasy in a suit. My heart stopped.
“What the hell is this?” I shouted, storming up the steps. Clara turned, her face a mix of surprise and smugness. “Oh, Mum!” she gushed.
“I’m so sorry you missed the ceremony! It was beautiful!”
My jaw dropped. “My ceremony?
You stole my ceremony? Clara, are you out of your mind?”
“Well,” she said, brushing her dress, “since you were late, we couldn’t waste the setup. The officiant had to leave, and you know I hate delays.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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