A week before my wedding, I was buried in stress — guest lists, budgets, and constant calls from Daniel’s mother. Then, at 10 p.m., my pregnant sister Lily showed up with two suitcases, saying she’d been kicked out and had nowhere else to go.
Daniel wasn’t happy. “She can’t stay here,” he warned. But I couldn’t turn her away.
At first, I thought it was just bad timing, but unease grew. One night, I overheard Lily demanding money from Daniel. Later, I discovered our honeymoon fund had been drained. Searching her room, I found a check stub with Daniel’s name — and a medical envelope. My heart dropped.
That evening, I confronted them. Daniel stayed silent, but Lily smirked. “You really want the truth? He’s not just your fiancé — he’s my baby’s father.”
Daniel’s face went pale. My world cracked. The chaos of the wedding suddenly felt meaningless. I had been planning a future built on lies.
A week before saying “I do,” I realized I’d been sharing my life — and my home — with betrayal.
