Everything was perfect at my best friend Aisha’s wedding—until I noticed the groom’s strange habit.  

Jason kept rubbing his wrist, wincing like it hurt.  

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A familiar gesture. My brother did the same thing after getting a fresh tattoo.  

As Aisha reached the altar, Jason’s sleeve slipped—just enough for me to see the angry red skin and bold black ink spelling out a name.  

**Not hers.**  

**Cleo.**  

Our mutual friend. The one Aisha had left off the bridesmaid list because of their *"complicated history"* with Jason.  

And there Cleo was, sitting in the second row in a striking red dress, smirking.  

I couldn’t stay silent.  

I stopped the ceremony, yanked up Jason’s sleeve, and exposed the tattoo.  

Gasps filled the room. Cleo stood, walked forward, and lifted her own wrist—revealing a matching **"Jason"** in fresh ink.  

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Then she dropped the truth: Jason had spent the night with her, called Aisha *"sweet but boring,"* and admitted he was only after her family’s money.  

Aisha’s face went cold.  

She pulled off her ring, tossed it at Jason’s feet, and announced to the guests: **"No wedding today—just a freedom party!"**  

Later, as we clinked champagne glasses by the window, Aisha squeezed my hand. *"You saved me,"* she whispered.  

I told her she deserved better than a man who’d brand himself with another woman’s name the night before their wedding.  

By midnight, Jason was gone, Cleo had stormed out, and Aisha was barefoot on the dance floor, laughing like she’d just escaped a prison sentence.  

The marriage? **Never happened.**  

The celebration? **Unforgettable.**  

*(And yes, we made sure Jason paid for the open bar.)*