I coordinated a spectacular wedding for a rich lady, which I helped prepare down to the last detail. I almost fainted when I saw the groom. His name was Jacob.
Rachel is 28. I arrange luxury parties for wealthy clientele as a private event planner. Professionalism, secrecy, and magic on tight timelines are my strengths.
My worst fear occurred on the day I was scheduled to execute my most lavish wedding, not due to weather or last-minute modifications, but because of the guy who exited the groom’s vehicle.
The bride was 38-year-old fashion company heiress Victoria Halston. I flew two hours across the country to oversee her wedding, excited to execute her exquisite and detailed idea. Victoria understood what she wanted and spent to get it.
Andrew Wallace, a young software entrepreneur with a developing reputation and increasing financial account, was her groom. Never met him throughout planning months.
Victoria nonchalantly said, “He’s very busy, always traveling,” during our meetings. “He trusts my taste and lets me lead.”
It seemed weird. What groom doesn’t want to review the band or wine list? I questioned her, “Are you sure he doesn’t want to join us for the tasting?”
She laughed. “He’s not like that. If I’m pleased, he’s happy.”
I walked on, assuming affluent folks were quirky. As the wedding neared, my interest about the enigmatic groom intensified.
Like any high-end event, the wedding day began with excitement and beauty. I was in control, planning every detail. Floral arrangements were abundant, white linens clean, and crystal dinnerware caught the chandeliers’ mellow radiance. I strolled between stations, headset on collar, checking every detail.
“The seating chart is final— switch cards only if I approve,” I instructed ushers. Keep the cake chilled until the photographer comes. Buttercream layers prevent melting.”
Late afternoon people filled the beautiful garden location, drinking champagne and enjoying the quiet harp music. Then truth struck.
In front of the main door, a black limousine stopped. Everyone faced it. The crowd quieted.
Please welcome Mr. Andrew Wallace, the groom! Emcee announced.
I watched, hoping to meet the enigmatic man who had given his whole wedding to a stranger.
I choked on my breath as the vehicle door opened.
Jacob emerged.
My Jacob.
Jacob Rivers, the guy I knew who left six months ago, leaving me distraught and practically destitute.
He smiled at the throng in a superbly cut tuxedo like a prince entering a fairy tale. I wasn’t tricked. My mouth dried and legs felt stone. After a casual look, his eyes met mine.
Lack of recognition. No response.
He saw through me.
The guy I planned my wedding with was now at another wedding under a different name and identity. I was speechless. Unable to move. My world spun slowly.
As he boldly entered the event, greeting hands and taking compliments, I was brought back to the day everything went wrong.
Six Months Before
Jacob and I lived together nearly two years. I wanted a small, romantic wedding, so we planned it.
We cuddled up on the sofa with wedding brochures and spreadsheets one night.
Budget-wise, how are we? I asked, drinking wine.
He paused, then replied, “Most of the major payments—venue, caterer, band, decorators—are made. But… I’ve exhausted finances. Even used my savings.”
I frowned. All of it? Including joint account?”
“Yes,” he moaned. A glitch occurred at work. A late payment. Temporary, yet… Let me access your account too. For seamless operation.”
His power of attorney form required my signature. I acted immediately. Loved him. Trusted him. Without walking down the aisle, we wore our wedding rings at home.
“The bank confirmed everything,” I informed him after filing the papers. Now you’re authorized.”
Smiled and kissed my forehead. Rachel, this will be excellent. You’ll see.”
The last night I saw him.
The following morning, my bed was vacant. No note. No text. Quite odd, falling silent.
His clothing vanished.
Lost joint savings.
Personal accounts erased.
2 withdrawals. $38,000 and $23,000.
Panicked, I contacted the bank. They verified the transactions were permissible under his power of attorney.
I dialed Jacob—voicemail.
I texted, emailed, phoned again. Nothing.
Visiting the cops.
Sergeant Daniels, a friendly officer, listened intently.
Almost crying, I continued, “I trusted him.” He was my fiance.
He accepted my testimony and promised to investigate. I could see from his eyes that he wasn’t optimistic.
His authority was lawful. This will be difficult without fraud or identity theft, he said.
That day, I left the station heartbroken and $61,000 in debt.
Presently
Jacob, now Andrew Wallace, was set to marry a lady wealthy than us.
He smiled, mingled, and hugged people with nauseating ease. I was enraged by what he had done to me and what he was going to do to Victoria while I watched him.
I had to stop him.
He was chatting with Victoria’s uncle near the bar as I approached.
He looked at me again. A flicker occurred this time. Recognition. Panic.
I approached him and smacked him across the face, quieting the room.
“You’re a liar and a thief,” I shouted.
He pretended. Excuse me? Do I know you?
“Don’t pretend,” I said. “You’re Jacob Rivers. You took from me and left. You’re about to repeat it.”
The man backed up, hands up. This woman’s crazy. I’ve never seen her.”
Confused guests mumbled. Victoria was pale and shocked.
I murmured, “Victoria,” softly. I arrange your wedding. I was Jacob’s fiancée first. He stole my money and vanished once I granted him access. He’s not Andrew Wallace. Con artist.”
A guy emerged from the throng before she could react. He frowned in a blue suit.
He said, “I’m Detective Mark Halston,” waving a badge. I’m Victoria’s brother. I know Andrew. Get out.”
Heart fell. I swear to Mark—I have evidence. Banking data. Police said. His name is Jacob Rivers.”
He responded, “You’re disrupting my sister’s wedding,” sternly. “Please leave before I call security.”
I left defeated but not done.
That night
I contemplated my next move while drinking a bitter espresso at a small café near the event.
Victoria stated something during a planning session that I recalled.
“My great-aunt Sylvia lives abroad. I haven’t seen her since childhood. I wish Mom could attend the wedding, she remarked longingly.
Idea ignited.
I requested help from Carla, a brilliant makeup artist and friend. I told her, “I need you to make me look 90.” “Tonight.”
I was in full disguise three hours later: gray hair, artificial skin wrinkles, liver-spotted makeup hands.
I adjusted the brooch on my shawl and proceeded to the venue with a 1950s-style pocketbook.
“My name is Sylvia Halston,” I pleasantly informed the security man. “I think I’m expected.”
He checked the list. You’re not—
“Could you be kind and get Victoria?” I blink slowly. It’s been awhile. She won’t believe I traveled that far.”
Victoria appeared, shocked and distraught.
“Aunt Sylvia?”
“Yes, darling. I hugged her slowly, frailly, saying, “You’ve grown so beautiful.”
Inside, I requested to address the attendees.
I spoke to the audience in my best geriatric voice using the mike.
It’s great to be here today. I want to give my lovely Victoria something special before I leave.”
Presented a beautiful fake diamond.
“The family has owned this gem for generations. Worth over $800,000. I’ll put it back in the vault tomorrow, but tonight it’s here.”
I put the packet in my handbag and sat down.
Two hours later, lights flickered and faded.
Exactly as anticipated.
I silently waited at the service entrance. After a while, Jacob (or “Andrew”) entered the corridor and grabbed the handbag off the table.
I hit him in the back of the head with a glass pitcher as he ran.
The diamond fell from his grasp as he fainted.
Victoria and brother Mark arrived seconds later.
Shaking his head, Mark continued, “You were right.” “We were blind.”
On the scene, he apprehended Jacob. Police cuffed him within minutes.
A Week Later
Victoria asked us to coffee. She seemed exhausted yet serene.
“You saved me from marrying a con artist,” she remarked. No words can express my gratitude.”
I grinned. “Just promise me you’ll keep passwords private.”
She chuckled gently and said, “I want you as my personal assistant. If interested.”
I hesitated and nodded.
I’d be honoured.”
Best retribution is often turning the page on your own terms, not justice.
