Chapter 3Hijacking My Hijacked Bride

In the weeks that followed, our house was suffocatingly quiet.

The lively sound of my mother chatting with her friends on the phone disappeared. She stopped going to her weekly card games, claiming her back was acting up, and skipped her community dance classes because of her knees. Instead, she spent hours in the kitchen, washing the same vegetables over and over, staring blankly out the window.

Her pride—the joy she took in showing off her family—had been completely shattered. She only left the house for groceries, terrified of running into neighbors who might ask about the wedding.

My father’s quiet retreat was even harder to watch. He was a senior manager at his firm, a man who used to stand tall and speak proudly of his son's future. Now, he came home, went straight to his study, and barely ate.

At my own office, the whispers followed me everywhere. The story of the groom who got replaced on his wedding day had circulated online locally, turning us into a joke.

I went through cycles of rage, numbness, and profound regret. But eventually, a single, sharp focus emerged from the depression.

I wanted revenge.

The thought took hold of me, growing stronger every time I saw my parents' defeated faces.

Tiffany, you and your family love money more than life itself, I thought. If you can be bought once, you can be bought again. And I am going to destroy you.