“He touches your thigh, jokes about your underwear, brushes your chest—and you call it ‘drunk’? My wife favors another man in front of me, and I’m the petty one?”

The guests, uncomfortable, tried to laugh it off.

“Don’t argue on your wedding night.”

“Dorian just likes to joke—he and Elara are like sisters, you know. Don’t take it seriously.”

“Stop arguing, stop arguing. Let’s just go home already,” someone muttered, trying to defuse the tension.

Home? Fuck that. Dorian had a man’s body but still dared to call himself Elara’s “sister”?

Elara shoved me, seizing the moment.

“Go outside and calm down! Don’t embarrass yourself here!”

I stood on the balcony for a long time. The night wind bit at my skin, but not as sharply as the laughter that spilled from inside. Elara’s voice, Dorian’s voice—mingling, light, intimate. Each burst of laughter stabbed into my chest.

When I finally returned to the bedroom, Elara was already out of the shower, hair damp, slipping under the covers.

She glanced at me casually.

“Dorian’s sleeping here tonight. He’s drunk, and it’s hard to get a taxi.”

My gaze fell on his jacket tossed carelessly on our sofa. I couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped.

Maybe this whole wedding was a joke from the very beginning. Did she really think I’d always endure it—just because I loved her?

Fine. Let’s see how far you’ll take this farce.

The next morning, Dorian was still snoring on our couch when Elara and I left for the island honeymoon we’d booked months ago.

At the ocean-view villa, Elara hugged me from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder.

“We could live like this every day. Isn’t it wonderful?”

I was about to turn and answer her—when her phone rang. She slipped out of my arms and rushed into the bedroom to answer it.

Through dinner, her phone never stopped lighting up. Dorian’s name filled the screen, message after message:

“Elara, I’ve got a fever. No one’s here to take care of me. Can you video call and teach me how to make ginger soup?”

“The ocean view you posted is gorgeous. A shame I’m not there with you. So lonely.”

Then came the photo: Dorian, sprawled in bed, wearing the very lace camisole Elara had once claimed was “too small for me, so I gave it to him.” His caption read:

‘This little thing you gave me feels just like you’re here with me~’

My chest tightened. “He’s a grown man. How the hell can he post something like that?”