Tear the Gown, Crush the Groom

Today is my wedding day.
I woke up at five in the morning.
My fingertips traced the lace edges of the wedding dress, the custom piece I'd waited six months for.
Pearls were sewn along the hem, like stars scattered across the sea.
The makeup artist arrived right at seven. As the foundation brush swept across my cheeks, I kept wondering what my fiance Brendan Romano's face would look like when he saw me—he always said I looked best in white.
At ten-thirty, the bridesmaid suddenly screamed, "Where's the wedding dress? The closet's empty!"
My heart sank. Barefoot, I ran to the dressing room. The wedding dress that had been hanging there was gone—only an empty hanger remained.
At that moment, my cell phone rang. It was Brendan. As soon as I answered, I heard his urgent voice: "Eva, Mila's in trouble. She ran off wearing your wedding dress. She's by the river, crying, saying she's going to jump."
My hand holding the cell phone trembled as I asked, "What about my wedding dress... our wedding?"
Brendan cut me off, "Forget about the wedding for now! Mila's going crazy now—I have to go see her first."
Before I could say another word, the call ended.
I stood alone in the empty dressing room, sunlight pouring through the window, scattered on the floor like shards of glass.
The bridesmaid handed me a coat and asked, "Miss Black, what should we do? The guests are almost here."
I shook my head, unable to say a single word.
Suddenly, a memory flashed through my mind from three months ago: that day in the house that Mila Marley, Brendan, and I rented together—the water pipe burst, and Mila "accidentally" spilled water on my computer.
Just as I was about to speak, Brendan stepped in front of her and said, "Eva, she didn't mean to, so don't be so harsh."
Mila lowered her head, twisting the corner of her shirt nervously, and said, "Eva, I'm sorry. How about I make it up to you with a new computer?"
I saw the frown crease Brendan's brow and swallowed the rest of my words.
And just last month, I found out I was pregnant. When I went to the hospital for a checkup, I suddenly had abdominal pain and bleeding. The doctor said I needed an immediate uterine clearance.
I called Brendan, but he told me Mila had acute appendicitis and he had to stay at the hospital with her.
He said, "Eva, you'll have to handle this on your own for now. Mila can't handle this by herself."
Lying on the operating table, before the anesthesia took effect, I heard the nurse whisper, "Why didn't your boyfriend come? This is such a big deal."
I kept my eyes closed, tears streaming down from the corners of my eyes.
Looking back now, those so-called accidents were never accidents.
Mila always said she had no family and she treated Brendan and me like family, but the way she looked at me hid something I couldn't understand.
Brendan always said I was overthinking and that Mila was fragile and she needed care.
It wasn't until today, when he chose to stay with Mila—the one who stole my wedding dress at my wedding, that I realized our three-person household was a twisted farce from the very start.
I picked up my cell phone and sent a message to the MC: "The wedding is canceled."
Then I walked over to the mirror, looked at the delicate makeup on my face, and wiped it off bit by bit, as if erasing all the hope I had placed in Brendan over the past two years.

Three weeks after the wedding was canceled, I went to a private hospital for a follow-up. It was the hospital my mother always went to—quiet, with a faint smell of disinfectant hanging in the hallways.
When the nurse led me to the hospital room, I heard a familiar voice—it was Mila's.
Mila was leaning against Brendan, holding an apple. She said to him, "Brendan, look at Eva. I guess she found herself a sugar daddy. Otherwise, how could she afford to come to such an expensive hospital?"
My steps faltered, and I turned to look toward the hospital room door.
Brendan frowned and said, "Don't talk nonsense. Eva isn't that kind of person."
But in his tone, there was no defense—only uncertain hesitation.
Mila saw me, her eyes lighting up briefly, then she deliberately raised her voice and asked, "Eva, what are you doing here? Which boss brought you? I heard this hospital room costs thousands a day."
The patients and their families nearby all looked over, their eyes full of curiosity and scrutiny.
Brendan stood up and reached for my hand, saying, "Eva, don't listen to her nonsense."
I stepped back, avoiding his touch.
Just then, the Head Nurse came over, holding my medical report, and respectfully handed it to me. She said, "Ms. Black, your follow-up results are in. Mr. Black just called to check on you."
Mila's smile froze, and Brendan was stunned, repeating in confusion, "Ms. Black? Mr. Black?"
He looked at me, his eyes full of shock.
The Head Nurse, assuming he was my friend, smiled and explained, "This is Eva Black, the eldest daughter of the Black Consortium. Our hospital is also part of the Consortium's holdings."
Mila's face instantly went pale; the words she just said about me finding a sugar daddy still echoed down the hallway.
I took a black gold card from my bag and handed it to the Head Nurse. "Please prepare the VIP hospital room I reserved earlier. Also, ask this lady to leave—I don't want to see anyone unrelated during my follow-up."
The Head Nurse nodded immediately and called another nurse to escort Mila out.
Mila grabbed Brendan's arm, crying, "Brendan, please say something for me!"
Brendan didn't move. His eyes were filled with shock, confusion, and a touch of disbelief.
I didn't look back at them. Following the Head Nurse into the hospital room, I heard Mila's voice break with tears as the door closed: "How could she be the heiress of the Black family? She seemed so ordinary before..."
After the afternoon checkup, just as I stepped out of the hospital, I saw Brendan standing at the door. He held a piece of paper, his expression dark.
"Eva," he said, handing me the paper, "the studio rent is due. The landlord warned if we don't pay soon, they'll move our stuff out."
I took the paper—it was a rent notice for fifty thousand dollars. I used to secretly cover it myself, but now, I'm done dealing with it.
"This is your studio," I said, handing the notice back to him. "It's all your business."
Brendan looked at me, his lips twitching as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he said nothing.
As I got into the car and drove away, I saw him standing there in the rearview mirror, looking like a lost child.
I knew this was just the first blow he'd faced. What he owed me—and the child not yet born—was still a lot more.

A week later, Dad called me and said he'd had someone look into Brendan's studio and found something unexpected.
I went back to the former site of the Black Family. Dad put a stack of files in front of me and said, "Take a look at this."
I flipped through the files. Inside were Brendan's studio's latest design drafts, alongside product images from a competitor company. The two sets looked almost identical.
"What's going on here?" I looked up at Dad and asked, "It's our design drafts have been stolen?"
Dad nodded. "I had someone investigate. It was Mila Marley. She secretly sold your studio's design drafts to the competitor company. They've already launched three new products using those designs, and the sales are doing pretty well."
I stared at the evidence in the files: chat logs between Mila and the competitor company, their bank transfer receipts, and surveillance screenshots of her secretly photocopying the design drafts—everything was crystal clear.
"Dad," I said, gripping the documents tightly, "she's not my friend anymore, you can do everything you want."
Dad immediately told the legal team to prepare a lawyer's letter demanding one million dollars in damages from the competitor company and Mila for copyright infringement.
The day after the lawyer's letter was sent, Brendan's studio ran into trouble. Their very first loyal client called to cancel their order, saying the design style was too similar to others'.
Then, the second and third clients canceled their orders one after another. In less than three days, all the studio's regular clients had pulled out.
Brendan called me, panic clear in his voice: "Eva, can you help me? All the clients have canceled, and the studio's cash flow has been cut off."
I sat in the office, watching the busy traffic outside the window, and asked, "Why should I help you? Weren't those design drafts sold to competitors by you and Mila?"
Brendan froze and asked, "How did you find out? Did Mila tell you? Did she say anything else?"
I sneered coldly, saying, "She didn't say anything, it was my dad who found out. The lawyer's accusation has already been sent—you guys are going to have to pay a million dollars to me."
Brendan's voice suddenly went hoarse: "A million dollars? We don't have that much money! Eva, please, let your dad drop the lawsuit, okay? I swear I'll make it up to you later!"
I hung up the phone; I didn't want to hear his nonsense anymore.
In the afternoon, I got a message from the assistant saying Mila had recently reached out to several of Brendan's new clients, shared the studio's base prices, and even promised that any client who worked with her would get a better discount.
Those clients had been hesitating, but after hearing Mila's words, they immediately ended their cooperation with Brendan and chose to sign contracts with Mila Marley instead.
Brendan's studio was completely out of options.
I looked at the message from the assistant and felt nothing at all.
Mila thought this meant she had won, but she didn't realize that the clients she took wouldn't stir up any real trouble. Dad had already spread the news with several major companies in the industry and no one would really cooperate with Mila Marley. Her good days were coming to an end.

In the first month after the studio closed, I'd just finished the company's weekly meeting held by Design Division. Clutching an unsorted document bag, I stepped out through the revolving door and caught sight of a figure by the flowerbed out of the corner of my eye.
I paused and looked closer. It was Brendan.
He wore a faded light blue shirt with frayed cuffs, stained with patches of brown. His hair was disheveled, like he hadn't washed it in days, and stray strands hung over his forehead, hiding most of his face.
He used to love wearing this shirt the most. Every time before meeting a client, he'd carefully iron the collar smooth in the mirror and slick back his hair with gel. Back then, he was a confident, ambitious designer—completely different from who he is now.
It seemed like he saw me too; his eyes suddenly lit up. Without a care for the low fence by the flowerbed, he stepped right over it and hurried up to me, reaching out to grab my wrist.
I instinctively took a step back; his hand missed, hanging awkwardly in midair.
"Eva," his voice was hoarse, "please, just give me one more chance!"
He leaned in closer, and I could smell him—cheap laundry detergent mixed with dust, with none of the woody cologne he used to wear.
"I know I was wrong," he said, head down. "I shouldn't have sided with Mila, shouldn't have stayed with her while you were having a miscarriage, shouldn't have ignored all your pain. Will you come back? Let's start over."
The passing employees all stopped. Some pulled out their cell phones—screens lighting up then going dark. Others whispered in small groups, their voices low but clear enough for me to hear: "Isn't that Ms. Black's ex? How did he end up like this? He looks so broken..."
I frowned and dialed security on my cell phone. When the call connected, I said, "There's a man by the flower bed downstairs. Please come get him and don't let him into the building again."
After hanging up, I didn't look at Brendan again. I turned to head to the parking lot when he suddenly rushed over and grabbed my document bag.
"Eva! You can't do this to me!" His grip was tight, twisting the bag until blueprints spilled out. "We've been together for two years! You said you would always support me! How can you forget those and be so cold!"
His voice grew louder, attracting more people to gather around.
The security guards quickly ran over. Two of them grabbed Brendan's arms and pulled him to the roadside, saying, "Sir, please let go. Don't cause trouble here."
Brendan struggled, scraping marks into the ground with his feet, shouting, "Eva! I won't let you go! You'll regret this!"
I didn't look back, clutching the crumpled document bag as I hurried into the parking lot.
Once inside the car, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Brendan was being pulled to the roadside by security; he squatted on the ground, holding his head with both hands like a lost child.
I closed my eyes, leaned back in my chair, feeling not the slightest stir in my heart.
Three days later, the assistant knocked on my office door, holding a cup of hot coffee, her eyes full of hesitation.
"Ms. Black," she said, placing the coffee on my desk, "there's something... I'm not sure if I should tell you."
"Go ahead," I said, eyes on the design on my computer screen, fingers sliding over the mouse.
"Last night," she lowered her voice, "Mila Marley went to find Brendan at the little rental place he's staying at and confronted him."
I paused, looked up at her, and asked, "What did she say?"
"Mila said," my assistant swallowed hard and explained, "she never really liked Brendan. She only stayed with him because she knew he had design gifts and wanted to use him to land a deal with the Black Group. Now that the studio's collapsed and Brendan's no longer useful, she doesn't want to pretend anymore."
She also said Mila pulled out her cell phone and showed old chat logs with a competitor company, along with screenshots of money transfers.
"She also said," my assistant went on, "that stealing your wedding dress and faking acute appendicitis during your miscarriage was all planned—to drive a wedge between you and Brendan, so you'd never want to help him again."
I picked up my coffee, took a sip, and asked, "How did Brendan react?"
"He..." the assistant sighed, "he completely broke down, sat on the floor crying for a long time, and even smashed the glass on the table."
A week later, I heard from the supplier that Brendan's studio owed over a hundred thousand dollars in payments, and the creditors had come looking for him.
That afternoon, I asked the driver to take a detour past the studio's compound. From a distance, I saw a few burly men gathered at the entrance, holding IOUs and cursing loudly.
Brendan stood at the door, head bowed, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Before long, those people began loading things into the car, and in the end, they hauled out Brendan's favorite drawing tablet—the one he'd spent three months' wages to buy.
Brendan sat on the ground and only slowly stood up when night had fallen.
Since then, I hadn't heard any news of him, until a month later when I was scouting locations for the Children's Medical Center in the suburbs. Passing under a bridge, I saw a familiar figure.
He was wearing a worn-out black jacket, the cuffs and pant legs both a bit short. Holding a dirty snakeskin bag, he bent down, rummaging through a trash can for plastic bottles. It was Brendan.
He was much thinner now, his cheeks sunken, hair nearly reaching his shoulders, and stubble covering most of his face. If it weren't for the mole on the back of his neck that showed when he bent over, I wouldn't have recognized him.

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