She Took My Groom, I Took Her Boss

They say marriage is the graveyard of love, but at least a proper burial is better than leaving the corpse to rot in the wilderness.

After months of painstaking work, I had finally finished sewing my wedding dress with my own hands.

Beneath the soft glow of the lamp, the dress shimmered—pure white, refined, radiant. A masterpiece.

I dreamed of the moment I would wear it, walking toward the man I loved. Even in my sleep, I couldn’t help but smile.

From nineteen to twenty-five—six years. My love was finally ready for its "burial," to find rest in the permanence of marriage.

But when I woke, that beautiful vision crumbled into ash.

“Whitley, Mr. Grayson came to the studio earlier this morning and took the wedding dress. Did he bring it home?” My assistant, Cherry, sounded confused.

I had just woken up, my mind still muddled. “Yosef Grayson took my dress?” I asked, frowning.

“Yes. You didn’t know?”

“No. I’ll ask him.”

Hanging up, I shook off the fog of sleep but couldn’t fathom why Yosef would need the dress so urgently. It wasn’t like we had space to store it at home with all the wedding supplies piled up. The plan was to pick it up the day before the ceremony.

I called his phone. No answer. Just as I was about to try again, he called me back.

“Yosef, did you take my wedding dress?” I went straight to the point.

“Yes.” His voice was rough, fatigued, but laced with something I couldn’t quite place.

My worry sharpened. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you sick?”

He paused, then spoke with unsettling composure. “Whitley Jackson, our wedding… Let’s cancel it.”

The words hit like a slap. A sharp ring filled my ears. “What? Why?”

“Yara has late-stage cancer. The doctors give her three months to live—at most.”

My shock only grew, expanding like a balloon about to burst.

For a fleeting moment, I thought the heavens might finally have opened to deal justice—to take this plague of a person away for good.

“And that has what to do with our wedding?”

“Her last wish… is to marry me. This way, she can leave without regrets.” His tone was as steady as stone, but before I could even speak, he rushed on. “I know it’s asking a lot. But she’s dying. Couldn’t you show some compassion?”

My lips parted in stunned silence. It felt like a grotesque joke, the kind you’d hear from someone with a twisted sense of humor. After what felt like an eternity, I managed to laugh bitterly. “Yosef, do you even hear yourself right now?”

“I’m perfectly clear-headed,” he said firmly, as if rehearsed. “Whitley, I’m going to marry Yara to fulfill her last wish. I know it’s unfair to you. To make up for it, I’m prepared to transfer fifty percent of my company shares to you. Think it over.”

My entire body went cold, numb. All feeling seemed to drain away as I forced myself to ask, “And if I refuse?”

His patience frayed, irritation slipping into his voice. “Whitley, could you stop being so selfish? Yara Jackson is your sister. She’s dying—her only wish is this, and you’re… You can’t even grant her this?”

What kind of twisted logic was this?

I couldn’t hold back my derision. “If you care about her so much, are you planning to follow her into the grave after she dies?”

“You—” The word burst from him, exasperated, but he swallowed whatever retort had been on his tongue. Instead, his tone turned colder, more clipped. “Anyway, the dress is already here at the hospital. Yara’s about your size—it’ll do.”

Before I could respond, a voice echoed in the background, faint but unmistakably familiar: “Yosef, Yara’s waking up!”

“Coming,” Yosef replied immediately, urgency cracking through his flat tone. Then, addressing me again, he added, “Whitley, I need your answer soon.”

And then the call ended, snuffed out like a flickering flame.

That voice—calling for him—belonged to Xyla, my father’s current wife. My stepmother. Yara’s mother.

When had they all become a picture-perfect family, leaving me completely in the dark?

I sat there on the bed, phone clutched tight in my hand. Resentment churned like black smoke curling through my chest.

What a cruel joke.

Years ago, Xyla stole my mother’s husband. Now, her daughter wanted to steal mine. Like mother, like daughter.

More than a decade had passed since my parents divorced. Within three months of the papers being signed, my father had paraded Xyla into the house like she was royalty. She had brought along her twins—a boy and a girl, two years younger than me.

Later, by accident, I discovered the truth: They weren’t just her children. They were my father’s children. My half-siblings.

Which meant my father had betrayed my mother long before the divorce. His affair wasn’t a fleeting lapse; it was a second, secret family. And the twins—his illegitimate offspring—were barely two years younger than me.

When my mother found out, she was furious, ready to drag my father back to court and demand a new division of assets. She wanted to protect what little was left for me, to stop everything from falling into the hands of that conniving mistress.

But my father was ruthless. Not only did he deny her demands, but he doubled down—stripping my maternal grandparents of their business and bleeding their savings dry.

The betrayal devastated them. My grandfather’s health failed in the aftermath—his heart gave out, and we couldn’t even afford the treatments to save him. My mother sold her most cherished heirlooms, begged and borrowed, but it still wasn’t enough. Grandfather died.

Crushed by guilt, my mother spiraled. She blamed herself, convinced she had caused his death. Her mind broke, and her body soon followed—breast cancer claimed her in what felt like the blink of an eye.

She was eaten alive—by rage, by grief, by the betrayal of the man she’d once loved.

Their deaths left me and my grandmother reeling. For me, the loss ignited something unshakable, a silent vow: I would take back everything that was stolen from us.

Over the years, I built myself up. Brick by brick, I clawed my way forward. My career flourished. I was even about to marry Yosef Grayson, my childhood love and heir to the Grayson family fortune. With him by my side, I thought I’d finally regained my footing—thought that we would be unstoppable together.

Until now. Until the mistress’s daughter stole my fiancé days before the wedding.

When had they even grown so close? Was it when Yara had first rolled up her sleeve to donate blood for him? Or when she cooked for him for the first time, surprising everyone?

Or perhaps it was that day, years ago, when eighteen-year-old Yara had stood before a crowd and declared, "The one I love most in this world is Yosef Grayson. If I can’t marry him, I’d rather die."

At the time, Yosef and I were already publicly dating. Yet her grand proclamation turned heads. People applauded her courage, her passion.

But Yosef—does any of that justify what you’re doing now? And what about me? Were all the years I gave to you worth nothing?

Do you remember the blood I gave you? Five years I spent being your donor because your rare blood type couldn’t be matched. Five years, until your illness was cured.

Do you remember how weak you used to be, how fragile? I cooked for you, carefully crafting every meal to help you heal. They called my herbal dishes an art.

Do you remember the endless nights I spent by your hospital bed, fighting off sleep to watch over you?

And now, because of Yara’s diagnosis, you cancel our wedding like it means nothing. You turn away without hesitation, ready to run into her arms.

Tears stung at the edges of my eyes, but I forced them back.

A man like him wasn’t worth my tears. And I certainly wouldn’t waste them on pity for myself.

Living within the Jackson family had taught me long ago: tears held no power. They only made you weaker, made your enemies laugh harder.

There is only one truth in this world—if you don’t like it, fight it. Fight until you win.

I picked up my phone and called Yosef back. When he answered, I didn’t waver.

“Yosef, give me the entire company, and I’ll step down as your bride. If you agree, come home tonight. We’ll sign the contract.”