Betrayal in a Silk Dress
I wasn’t supposed to be at this wedding.
Not by anyone’s expectations.
Not after what had happened.
The stares followed me from the second I walked into the grand ballroom, high heels clicking against the marble, my sleek black dress clinging perfectly to curves I’d only recently learned to love again. I held my head high, offering a polite smile here and there, but I saw it—the way eyes trailed me with discomfort, curiosity, maybe even pity.
No one expected me to show up.
Least of all the bride.
Erica.
My younger sister.
The darling of the family. The one who always got the bigger slice of cake, the better birthday gifts, the unshakable praise. Our parents adored her, teachers praised her, boys gravitated to her. Meanwhile, I was the one clawing for everything, proving myself at every turn. I was the planner, the hard worker, the fixer.
And yet, she had stolen the one thing I thought I had that she didn’t: Stan.
Stan, my fiancé.
We had been together for three years. He was kind, charming, and predictable—which I thought meant stable. I was wrong. Because I came home early one night, burnt out from work and craving Thai food and a warm hug, only to find them.
Together.
In my bed.
They hadn’t even tried to hide it. Stan had scrambled for excuses, his face pale and full of panic. Erica, on the other hand, had calmly pulled the sheet around her and smiled.
That infuriating, smug smile.
“I won, Paige,” she said, brushing her hair back like she was in a shampoo commercial. “Checkmate.”
Checkmate.
My world collapsed that day. I called off the wedding. Fought to get what refunds I could from venues, caterers, and photographers. Most weren’t refundable. It didn’t matter. My heart was shattered into too many pieces to care.
Erica and Stan, meanwhile, became public. Facebook official. Instagram perfect. The stolen couple reborn into some tragic love story they pretended was fate.
I disappeared for a while. Took a few weeks off work, lived out of hotel rooms in three different states, and tried to forget the taste of betrayal. I bought myself a kitten from a rescue center—Peach. She had one eye and a missing patch of fur. I loved her instantly.
When I returned home, I was different. Not healed. But harder. I built myself back from the dust and swore I’d never let anyone treat me like an afterthought again.
Then the wedding invitation came.
Cream cardstock. Gold foil. Formal script.
Erica Anne Montgomery
&
Stanley Arthur Prescott
Request the honor of your presence…
I laughed when I opened it. A full, unfiltered, loud laugh that frightened Peach into jumping off the sofa.
I wasn’t supposed to be at this wedding.
But that was the thing.
I planned to attend anyway.
Because Erica didn’t just want me to come.
She wanted me to see what she had taken.
She wanted to gloat.
But what she didn’t know—what no one knew—was that I had a plan of my own.
Let the Games Begin
The day of the wedding arrived like a storm I’d been waiting to walk into. Calm on the outside. Wild on the inside.
I stood in front of my mirror, watching my reflection with a kind of detached curiosity. My black dress was smooth as silk, hugging every curve with deliberate elegance. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t trying too hard. It was striking—powerful. This wasn’t the dress of a scorned woman. This was the armor of someone who had learned to rise from the ashes with style.
I curled my hair into soft waves, added just a touch of red lipstick—not too bold, but enough to make people look twice—and clipped in my earrings. My hands didn’t shake. My heart didn’t flutter. I felt ready.
But not because I wanted revenge.
Because I wanted clarity.
And because I wanted her to feel just a fraction of what she had done to me.
Erica’s wedding was being held at the Bellmont Country Club, the place I had originally picked for my wedding. Back when Stan was still mine. I remembered touring it with him, walking through the reception hall, talking about flower arrangements and what songs we wanted our band to play.
Now, I was walking through the exact same marble-floored entrance as a guest. A ghost.
The valet took my car, and I walked in without hesitation. I didn’t bring a plus one. I didn’t need one. I wasn’t here to play nice. I was here to be seen—and remembered.
The ceremony space was already full. Guests sat in rows of gold chairs under high vaulted ceilings with chandeliers that sparkled like frozen stars. At the altar, an arch covered in fresh white roses stood tall, majestic and hollow. Everything looked… perfect. Painfully so.
I slipped into a seat near the back, ignoring the whispers as I walked past family friends and cousins I hadn’t seen in months. Their eyes followed me like I was a puzzle missing pieces.
Wasn’t she supposed to be the other bride?
Didn’t her fiancé run off with the younger sister?
They all knew. Everyone did. You couldn’t hide gossip this big, especially in a family as messy as ours.
I spotted my mother across the room, seated proudly in the second row, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief like this was a royal event. My father sat beside her, his jaw clenched and posture stiff. I had barely spoken to either of them since the engagement debacle.
Their loyalty had always leaned toward Erica. “She’s still young,” my mother had said when I confronted them. “She didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“She didn’t mean to sleep with my fiancé?” I had asked. “Because that takes a lot of meaning.”
They didn’t have a response. Just silence.
Now, they saw me. And neither one waved.
Fine.
The music began—one of those instrumental renditions of a pop song that people use in Pinterest weddings—and we all turned as the bridal party began walking down the aisle.
I had to admit: Erica looked stunning.
Her ivory lace gown fit her like a glove, her veil flowing behind her like a dream. Her smile was wide, triumphant. Her arm was looped through our father’s, and she walked like she owned the world.
She didn’t look at me. Not once. But I saw her jaw tighten slightly when she passed the row I sat in.
She knew I was here.
And she hated it.
Good.
Stan stood at the altar in a black tuxedo, freshly shaved, every strand of his hair exactly where it was supposed to be. He looked… the same. Unchanged. Like the last year had been nothing but a blip on his radar.
I looked at him and felt nothing.
Not pain. Not regret. Not longing.
Just… detachment. Like watching a stranger act in a play you once auditioned for and didn’t get.
The ceremony itself was short and forgettable. Some platitudes about love and destiny. Erica grinned up at Stan like she had conquered Mount Everest, and he looked at her with forced adoration.
I wondered if he still remembered what he had said when I caught him in my bed with her.
“I love you, Paige. It was just one mistake. She doesn’t mean anything to me.”
Those words had echoed in my mind for weeks after, hollow and pitiful.
Now, he stood here, vowing eternal love to the woman he’d once called a mistake.
I almost laughed.
The ceremony ended, and everyone was ushered into the reception hall. Tables were set with crystal glasses, golden napkins, and white rose centerpieces. A live string quartet played as people sipped champagne and whispered over hors d’oeuvres.
I floated through it all, invisible and entirely present at the same time.
The slideshow began soon after.
Projected onto a massive screen, it showed the love story of Erica and Stan. Carefully curated photos. Romantic strolls. Silly selfies. A picture of them kissing on a yacht. Another of Stan kissing her forehead under a blooming cherry blossom tree.
I stood near the screen, watching with a glass of champagne in hand.
This was it.
The moment I’d been preparing for.
The flash drive in my purse weighed nothing, but in that moment, it felt like it held the weight of the entire year. My pain. My humiliation. My recovery.
All of it, packed into a few carefully chosen video files.
I slipped toward the tech table near the back of the room. A young man with headphones stood by the laptop controlling the slides.
“Excuse me,” I said, flashing a sweet smile. “The bride asked me to play a special surprise for the groom. Can I plug this in?”
He hesitated. “The bride?”
“She’s surprising him. A private moment recorded for this exact day,” I said, leaning in. “She wanted to make sure no one knew until it played.”
He blinked. “Uh… okay.”
He moved aside.
I plugged in the flash drive, located the file labeled “For Erica, with love,” and hit enter.
Then I stepped back into the crowd and waited.
At first, it looked like just another slideshow frame. Then, the screen went dark.
The first clip played.
It was from my bedroom. The grainy security footage, black-and-white, dated from the top corner.
“Please don’t leave me,” Stan sobbed. “She was a mistake, Paige. I love you.”
The room froze.
Guests turned, glasses paused mid-air.
My parents stared at the screen, pale.
Erica dropped her glass.
Stan turned ghost-white.
And me?
I smiled.
Crashing the Fairytale
Silence is a strange thing—especially when it falls over a room meant for celebration. It felt thick, oppressive. No clinking of glasses. No murmurs of delight. Only stunned stillness as Stan’s voice echoed through the massive reception hall.
“Please don’t leave me. She was a mistake, Paige. I love you.”
The timestamp in the corner of the security footage glowed like a wound—proof that this wasn’t fake. Wasn’t doctored. Wasn’t some last-minute petty attack.
This was real.
Stan’s face twisted in pain on the screen, his eyes red and watery, his hands reaching out toward someone off-frame. Me. It had been months ago, but the desperation was unmistakable.
Gasps rippled across the hall like shockwaves.
Erica stood near the head table, mouth open. Her bouquet hung loosely from her hand, forgotten. Stan… he turned slowly, face draining of color as he stared at the screen, unable to look away.
Then came the next clip.
The same room, different day. The door creaked open. Erica and Stan slipped in together, laughing. They kissed like teenagers sneaking behind a school building.
She whispered, “She’ll never know…”
Stan replied, “Paige who?”
That’s when the murmurs started. Sharp, ugly sounds. A glass dropped and shattered. Someone in the back actually gasped out loud, and the room swelled with disbelief.
“I thought she said they fell in love after the breakup,” someone whispered.
“Didn’t Paige catch them? I heard she did.”
“She said they were soulmates…”
I stood to the side of the room, close enough to see the faces, far enough to be untouched by the wreckage. My heart thudded in my chest—not from guilt or fear. From power.
Erica looked like a statue—stone still, except for the tremor in her fingers.
Then she snapped.
“This isn’t real!” she screamed, stepping toward the screen like she could physically rip the video away. “This is fake! She made this up!”
I took a sip of champagne. “Sweetheart,” I said, loud enough for those around me to hear, “you were literally recorded. Multiple times.”
Stan finally found his voice. “You told me you deleted the security footage! You said you got into Paige’s system and erased everything!”
The crowd gasped again.
My mother pressed a hand to her chest like she might faint. My father turned to her, jaw clenched, eyes full of something I hadn’t seen before: shame.
“I… I thought I did!” Erica screeched. “I deleted everything I found!”
“You clearly missed a few,” I said, walking slowly toward her. My heels clicked across the tile like punctuation.
“You set me up,” she said, accusing.
“No. You invited me,” I replied. “All I did was bring a few receipts.”
Stan rounded on her. “You told me I was the only one you wanted. That you regretted everything!”
“Don’t you dare turn this on me!” she shrieked, cheeks blotched with red. “You were in that bed too!”
“And you said you deleted everything!”
The cracks in their perfect wedding day began to shatter wide open.
Meanwhile, guests stood back, watching like it was theater. Some had their phones out. A few were recording. Others looked horrified to be present.
And then, from the corner of the room, another voice joined in.
“Paige.”
I turned.
Jack.
He was no longer holding a tray. The waiter jacket was gone, replaced by the crisp white dress shirt underneath. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows. His expression? Calm. Confident. Steady.
He walked across the room toward me as if nothing else existed. The chaos faded into the background. The buzzing. The shouting. Even Erica’s sobbing. It all fell silent when he knelt down on one knee.
Gasps echoed again—but for a different reason this time.
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Slowly, carefully, he opened it to reveal a stunning ring—elegant, classic, sparkling like it had waited just for this moment.
“I’ve waited long enough to do this,” he said, his voice warm and unwavering. “Paige, you are everything to me. Brilliant. Brave. And right now, completely badass. Will you marry me?”
My breath caught.
Even after everything—even after revenge, humiliation, and public collapse—this moment hit like sunlight breaking through a storm.
I looked down at him, at the man who had supported me through everything, who had shown me what real love looked like. Not flash. Not ego. But substance.
“Yes,” I said, my voice clear, ringing through the stunned silence. “Yes, Jack. I will.”
Cheers erupted. At least half the room clapped. Others stood in stunned silence. My mother started crying—for real this time. My father stood frozen, unsure what to say.
And Erica?
Her face twisted in rage.
“You b***!*” she screamed. “This is my wedding! How dare you!”
I smiled sweetly and took Jack’s hand as he stood beside me. “Oh, honey,” I said, stepping a little closer, “you stole my fiancé and my wedding day. I just returned the favor and stole your spotlight.”
She lunged forward. Stan tried to stop her. She shoved him. And just like that, the room descended into pure, chaotic energy.
Erica yelling. Stan yelling back. My mother fanning herself. Guests leaving in droves.
And Jack and I?
We just walked out. Past the noise. Past the whispers. Into the cool evening air.
Outside, the sky had turned pink. The chaos behind us was muffled by the heavy wooden doors of the venue.
Jack hailed a cab and held the door for me like a gentleman.
Inside, as the car pulled away, I finally exhaled.
“Are you okay?” Jack asked.
I turned to him, still holding his hand. “I think I’m finally better than okay.”
Fries, Milkshakes, and the Beginning of Everything New
The cab pulled away from the chaos, its tires whispering against the slick road as we drove further and further from the disaster I’d just orchestrated.
Jack sat beside me, calm and quiet, his hand resting gently on mine. The ring still sparkled on my finger, catching every flicker of passing headlights. I glanced at it, not in disbelief—but in quiet awe.
Not because it was flashy.
Not because it was beautiful.
But because it symbolized something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Freedom.
Control.
Peace.
“You okay?” Jack asked gently, his voice cutting through the soft hum of the cab.
I smiled. “More than okay.”
We rode in silence for another minute before I added, “Do you think they’ll be talking about that for years?”
Jack chuckled. “Paige, they’re probably talking about it right now. Someone definitely posted that video to social media already.”
“Good,” I said, with a grin. “Let them. I hope every one of Erica’s perfect little wedding guests replays that moment on loop tonight.”
The driver glanced back briefly through the rearview mirror, lips twitching as if he knew exactly what kind of delicious drama had just taken place.
We ended up at a 24-hour diner just a few blocks from my apartment.
It was one of those old-fashioned spots with red leather booths, neon lights buzzing in the windows, and a waitress named Donna who looked like she’d seen it all. Our outfits—me in a slinky black gown and Jack in tuxedo pants with rolled-up sleeves—were wildly out of place. But no one said a word.
Donna placed two menus on the table and poured us coffee without asking. I ordered fries. Jack ordered pancakes.
“Good choice,” Donna said with a knowing nod. “Y’all celebrating or escaping?”
“Both,” I replied.
She didn’t press further. Just walked off to the kitchen with the grace of a woman who didn’t need to know the backstory to understand it.
Ten minutes later, we were digging into our food, the absurdity of the contrast not lost on either of us.
“Black-tie drama followed by diner carbs,” I said, licking salt off my fingers. “This is balance.”
Jack laughed. “It’s actually kind of perfect.”
We ate in silence for a bit, savoring the comfort food and the quiet. Then Jack leaned back and looked at me seriously.
“So… now that it’s all out in the open, how do you really feel?”
I set down my fork, wiped my hands on a napkin, and took a deep breath.
“Relieved,” I admitted. “Honestly? I thought I’d feel dirty. Like I’d sunk to her level. But I don’t. I feel like I got something back—something she took from me when she looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Checkmate.’”
Jack nodded. “You didn’t stoop to her level, Paige. You didn’t try to hurt her—you just told the truth. You just gave everyone what they deserved to know.”
“And proposed to me in front of everyone she loves,” I added, smirking.
“Okay, that was a little petty,” he said, laughing. “But worth it.”
I raised my coffee mug. “To revenge and revelations.”
He clinked his mug against mine. “And to real beginnings.”
As we sat there, the events of the evening began to settle like dust around us. I thought about my parents, about how they’d looked at me when the videos played. I thought about how my mother had clutched her pearls like she was the betrayed one, and how my father had looked at Erica with a face full of disapproval I’d never seen before.
It wasn’t just Stan and Erica whose masks had been ripped off that night.
It was the whole structure of our family.
“I think I’m done with pretending,” I said, almost to myself. “I’m done trying to earn love that should’ve been unconditional.”
Jack tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… I’m tired of being the one who has to be okay. The one who has to make peace and keep things civil just so other people feel comfortable. I’m done shrinking myself so Erica can feel tall.”
“You don’t have to explain that to me,” he said. “I’ve watched you do it for a long time. And I’ve also watched you stop. That’s the woman I fell in love with.”
My throat tightened. For a second, I didn’t know what to say.
So I leaned across the table and kissed him. Right there, in that greasy spoon of a diner with fluorescent lights and cracked vinyl booths. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t Instagrammable. But it was real.
And real felt better than perfect.
After we ate, we walked home in the cool night air, hand in hand. There was no need for big declarations or more drama. That part of the story had ended hours ago. We were stepping into a new chapter, one written with intention, not revenge.
When we reached my door, Jack turned to me and said, “You know, I meant what I said. I’m not rushing you. We can be engaged for as long as you need. Or not. Whatever you want.”
I smiled, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Let’s not plan too much right now. Let’s just… be.”
He nodded. “Being sounds good.”
We kissed goodnight, and I watched him walk away with a heart that no longer felt shattered or bruised. It felt full. Steady. Whole.
For the first time in over a year, I went to bed without replaying the betrayal in my mind.
I slept soundly.
The Day After and the Woman I Became
Morning light streamed through my window like a gentle reminder that the storm had passed.
It had been less than twelve hours since the wedding, since the video, the gasps, Jack’s proposal, and the chaos that followed. But in the stillness of my apartment, with Peach curled at my feet and my coffee steaming on the windowsill, it felt like a lifetime ago.
And yet, I wasn’t reeling.
I wasn’t hiding.
I felt… calm.
As I scrolled through my phone, the aftermath was already spilling across social media.
🔹 “Did you SEE what happened at Erica’s wedding?? #WeddingDisaster”
🔹 “Paige is iconic. That girl didn’t just crash the wedding, she owned it.”
🔹 “You know it’s bad when your waiter proposes to your sister mid-reception.”
I snorted into my coffee.
I hadn’t posted a single thing. I hadn’t said a word publicly. I didn’t need to. The truth spoke for itself—and apparently, so did the camera footage.
I opened a message from my cousin Tara.
Tara: I just wanted to say… I’m proud of you. That was bold as hell. And long overdue. Everyone knows how Erica is. But what you did? You reminded all of us not to sit quietly in the face of betrayal.
I replied with a simple:
Me: Thank you. I’m finally breathing again.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a number I knew by heart—but hadn’t seen on my screen since everything fell apart.
Mom.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Hello.”
Silence. Then, “Paige.”
Her voice was low, tired. She sounded older than I remembered.
“I saw the videos,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, not offering anything more.
Another pause. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s new,” I said softly.
She didn’t rise to the bait. “You blindsided us.”
I laughed. “I blindsided you? Erica blindsided me when she slept with my fiancé. And Stan? He shattered my trust. I owed no one a quiet exit.”
“She’s devastated.”
“Good. So was I.”
There was a pause. A long one. Then she said, “I just didn’t expect it to come from you. You’ve always been the composed one. The polite one.”
“I was also the disposable one,” I said, my voice calm. “You’ve always made space for Erica’s mistakes, but never for my pain.”
“That’s not fair—”
“It’s exactly fair,” I said, finally letting the sharp edge of my truth show. “For once in my life, I did something for me. And I don’t regret a second of it.”
More silence.
Then she said, almost reluctantly, “Your father… he’s not speaking to Erica right now.”
I blinked. “What?”
“He said she humiliated the family. Lied to all of us. Hurt you. He’s furious.”
My breath caught for just a moment. My father had always been the quiet one. The shadow in my life. Present, but passive. Hearing that even he was done shielding her—it felt like a quiet victory.
“She needs to learn that actions have consequences,” I said.
“And Jack?” Mom asked, voice changing.
“What about him?”
“He seems… solid. Loyal.”
“He is.”
“You’re going to marry him?”
“Yes,” I said simply.
“Soon?”
“I don’t know yet,” I replied. “But I know I’m not going to apologize for being happy.”
Another pause.
“Well,” she said, voice stiff, “I hope we’re invited. When the time comes.”
I didn’t answer right away. I let the silence speak for me. Then I said, “We’ll see.”
That afternoon, I received another message. From an unknown number. But I knew who it was before I opened it.
Erica: I hope you’re satisfied.
I stared at the words for a long moment. Then I typed out my reply.
Me: I’m not satisfied. I’m free. There’s a difference.
I blocked her number after that.
Later that evening, Jack came over. He brought wine, Thai takeout, and a bouquet of peonies.
“For the woman who stole the show and walked out like a queen,” he said, holding them out with a crooked smile.
I laughed. “You spoil me.”
He shrugged. “You deserve it.”
We curled up on the couch, Peach nestled between us, and watched a terrible rom-com. Halfway through, Jack turned to me.
“So, about the wedding…”
I looked at him.
“I meant it. But we don’t have to rush. Not unless you’re ready.”
I took his hand in mine.
“I want to marry you, Jack. Maybe not next week. Maybe not in a year. But someday? Absolutely. Because you never made me question who I was. And you never treated me like an option.”
He kissed my forehead.
“You’re not an option. You’re the whole damn story.”
The Real Happily Ever After
Six weeks after the wedding, I stood barefoot in my living room, watching the morning sun crawl across the hardwood floor. The apartment was still, warm. Peach was curled up on the windowsill, tail flicking occasionally in her sleep.
A few potted herbs sat on my kitchen counter. A candle flickered softly nearby—lavender and cedarwood, my new favorite scent.
It was quiet.
Not the hollow kind of quiet I used to dread after Stan left. This was the good kind. The kind that meant peace, not absence.
I had changed things in my life. Little things. I rearranged my furniture. I donated old clothes I’d been hanging onto for too long. I even updated the paint in the bedroom. No more “soft romance pink.” I went for sage green. Fresh. Calm. Steady.
I was building something that looked like me.
After the wedding fiasco, the gossip eventually began to fade—like all headlines do.
I became a myth in some social circles: The sister who exposed the bride.
Some thought I was cruel. Others thought I was iconic.
Me? I didn’t care what they thought anymore.
Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t chasing perfection. I wasn’t being the good daughter, or the reliable one, or the quiet one who keeps the peace.
I was being Paige.
One Sunday, I visited my father. Just him. He made tea—something he rarely did, always Mom’s job—and we sat in the backyard, listening to the wind rustle through the trees.
He looked older. Not in a frail way. In a worn-in, reflective way.
“I should have said something sooner,” he admitted.
I didn’t ask what he meant. I knew.
“I saw how hard you worked for that relationship,” he continued. “How much you put into it. And then… how everyone just expected you to roll over and take it when she blew it up.”
I looked at him. “You didn’t say anything.”
He nodded. “I thought I was keeping peace. I was just avoiding the mess.”
“That’s what I did for years,” I said. “Until I stopped.”
He handed me a cup of tea. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“I know,” I said. And I meant it.
Jack and I didn’t rush into anything. We went on dates. Long walks. Weekend drives. We laughed. We slept in. We had quiet nights with wine and movie marathons.
There was no pressure. No perfect timeline.
One afternoon, while we were walking by the river with Peach in her little cat backpack (yes, she loved it), he turned to me and asked:
“So… courthouse wedding next spring?”
I blinked. “That’s it?”
He shrugged. “Unless you want a big thing. But I figured you’ve done the whole wedding planning trauma. Maybe simple is better.”
I smiled, leaning into him. “Spring sounds perfect.”
I didn’t invite Erica.
I didn’t need to.
And for once, no one asked why.
Even my mother, after months of awkward silence and tentative text messages, sent me a single message the day after Jack and I made it official:
“Congratulations. I hope you’re happy.”
That was all.
And it was enough.
We married in May.
No ballroom. No floral arch. No choreographed dance.
Just us, a sunny park, two witnesses, and Peach snoozing in her carrier like she knew she’d finally landed in the right love story.
Jack kissed me under a blooming dogwood tree. It was gentle. Easy. Full of promise.
And I didn’t think once about Erica, or Stan, or the girl I used to be—the one who needed everyone else’s approval.
Because this life?
This love?
I built it.
I chose it.
And that made it real.
Epilogue: From Checkmate to Crown
I didn’t get revenge.
I got clarity.
I got my voice.
I got love.
Erica’s marriage, I later heard, barely lasted a year. Infidelity, mistrust, resentment—they ate away at her fairytale like moths in lace.
She tried reaching out to me once more. A long message filled with mixed apologies and excuses. I didn’t respond.
Forgiveness doesn’t always need a reply.
Instead, I kept moving forward. With Jack. With work. With quiet mornings and slow coffee and late-night dance parties in the kitchen.
Because some victories don’t come with a cheer.
Some come with a choice.
And I chose me.
The End.
