Married My Ex's Hockey King Uncle: Now My Family Begs

The last time I wore this wedding dress, my fiancé ran out on me.

Twenty minutes before our wedding, Preston Vance got a phone call. His first love, Bri, had fallen at skating practice and broken her leg.

"I have to go," he said. "Make up an excuse."

In my last life, I begged him to stay. I cried until my throat bled. He left anyway.

Three years later, my adopted sister framed me, and my own family threw me out into a Chicago blizzard. I called Preston with frozen fingers. I heard Bri giggling before he hung up. My mother left me a voicemail: "Die in the street, Wren. Just don't bleed on my carpets."

So I died.

Then I opened my eyes in my wedding dress, on the same morning, twenty minutes before the ceremony.

This time, I didn't beg. I let him go.

My sister told me to go apologize to the guests. I slapped her hand away. My mother told me to say the wedding was off, and that it was all my fault.

"The wedding is not being postponed," I said. "I'm going to get a new groom."

There was only one man in that cathedral Preston was afraid of.

His uncle.

Rhett Kincaid. Captain of the Chicago Wardens. The most feared man in the NHL. In my last life, he was the one who covered my frozen body with his own coat and buried me when my family wouldn't.

"If you sign this, there's no backing out," he told me. "Ever."

"I have nothing left to lose."

Ten minutes later, every screen in the cathedral changed from PRESTON & WREN to RHETT & WREN. Six hundred guests watched him slide the Vance family ring onto my finger and kiss me in front of every camera in Chicago.

Now my family wants me to divorce him and crawl back.

Preston just saw the photo.

And my new husband just told me: "Tear the house down if you want. No matter what mess you make, I will bury it."