He Wrote His Intern's Name on Our Wedding Invitations

Theater: NovelMaster  |  Language: English  |  NEW

Synopsis

Tags: Wrong Name on Invitations, Pick-Me Coworker, Female Lead Awakening, Flash Marriage, Regretful Ex
While writing our wedding invitations, Wesley wrote the wrong name for the ninth time.
My name is Clara. He wrote Lauren.
Lauren was the new intern on his team.
"The girl’s handwriting is terrible, so she’s always asking me to sign things for her. Force of habit."
He was always like this.
Whenever he bought me a gift, it was always a baby-pink scarf. When we went out to eat, he’d order a huge seafood platter. And whenever he drove me home, he’d drop me off in front of her apartment complex instead of mine.
He was always getting things wrong.
My favorite color was black. And I was deadly allergic to shellfish.
I used to ask him, "We’ve been together for so long. Do you really not remember what I like?"
And he’d always snap back, "Then tell me! If you don't say anything, how am I supposed to know?"
Except I had told him. Thousands of times.
Just like this tenth invitation in front of him, where he was about to write her name all over again.
In that quiet second, it hit me.
When a man doesn't love you, nothing you say matters.
I took a slow, deep breath and pulled the pen straight out of his hand.
"Since you can't get the name right, don't write it."
"And we don't need to have this wedding, either."
"What kind of nonsense is that?"
Wesley reached out to take the pen back, but my grip didn't budge.
He sighed, staring at me like I was being unreasonable.
"Isn't this the wedding you begged for? Did you already forget who practically dragged me into proposing?"
"Besides, you're the one who insisted on hand-writing every single invite."
"We could’ve just had them printed."
"I'm sitting here doing it, aren't I? What more do you want from me?"
What more did I want?
My vision went dark for a second. My balance wavered.
Back when we first started dating, I told him about my family tradition. The groom had to handwrite every wedding invitation with a fountain pen. It was a symbol of pure devotion. Only couples who put their heart into it would find true happiness.
Young Wesley had listened. Back then, he bought calligraphy pads and secretly practiced late into the night. He kept it up for five whole years.
Now, he had the most beautiful penmanship. But he didn't want to write my name with it.
I couldn't stop the words from spilling out. "You promised you would write them yourself."
Wesley let out a dry laugh.
"I was young back then. Dumb, too. I took every little romantic idea seriously."
"We're adults now. There's no point in clinging to that stuff."
Was the tradition pointless? Or was I?
A chill spread through my bones.
"Then there's no point in the wedding, either."
"Stop talking nonsense," Wesley said again.
He stood up and reached over to pat my head, but I leaned away from his touch.
"Clara, we've been together for thirteen years. Everyone in our circle knows that."
"If you don't marry me, who else are you going to marry?"
"Look at yourself. You're thirty-five. In medical terms, that's advanced maternal age. If you leave me, your value on the dating market is basically zero."
His smile was soft, but his words were razor-sharp.
"You need to face reality. A man's youth and a woman's youth don't carry the same price tag."
He stopped there.
He didn't need to finish. I knew the rest of the sentence.
He thought a thirty-five-year-old man was a prime bachelor with an endless line of young girls waiting for him. But a thirty-five-year-old woman was considered expired goods that nobody wanted.
I stared at him, sick to my stomach.
A cold wave of disgust washed over me.
His face hadn't changed much in thirteen years, but on the inside, he was completely rotten.
And I had only just realized it.
My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe.
Suddenly, my mind flashed back to thirteen years ago.
A twenty-two-year-old Wesley, kneeling under a sky full of stars, making a vow.
"Clara, I'm serious about you."
"I don't date just to mess around. I date to marry."
"Before we turn thirty-five, I swear I'll buy us a home."
"A bright, sunlit place where we can raise our sweet little baby together."
From that night on, he never touched a video game again.
In college, he spent every waking hour studying and practicing his penmanship. Once he graduated, he worked three jobs around the clock.
He would leave the apartment at four in the morning and stumble back at midnight.
His discipline broke my heart.
I used to tell him, "It doesn't have to be before thirty-five. Take it easy."
But he looked me in the eye with absolute certainty. "I don't want you to wait that long."
His parents were working-class folks from a small town. I knew how brutal it was to buy property in a major city without any family support.
Yet against all odds, he pulled it off.
Because he worked so hard, I didn't want him to carry the burden alone anymore. On New Year's Day, right when we both turned thirty-five, I set up a surprise proposal in our new living room. Under the fairy lights, he smiled and let me slide the ring onto his finger.
And today, there were only two weeks left before our thirty-fifth year ended.
We had the house. We had the car. Yet he couldn't even write my name on our invitations.
And somehow, the entire wedding had been rewritten into a favor he was granting me because I had "begged" for it.
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.
I couldn't picture a future with this man anymore.
"Wesley, let's break up."
"What did you say?"
"I said, we—"
The words died in my throat the moment I opened my eyes.
Wesley was already holding his phone to his ear, laughing into the receiver.
"I told you to practice your handwriting, but you're always cutting corners."
"Fine, fine. Stay there. I'll drive over and sign the paperwork for you."
He grabbed his suit jacket off the chair and walked straight toward the front door.
He left me standing there, drowning in my own grief, without so much as a goodbye.
I looked down at the bright red envelopes scattered across the hardwood floor. It was all a sick joke.
Slowly, I knelt down. I picked up an invitation with *Lauren & Wesley* inked across the front, and ripped it in half.
Then another. Ripped.
One after another, until even the blank cards were reduced to torn scraps.
As if tearing paper could tear apart thirteen years of history.
In the empty silence of the room, I buried my face in my knees.
A whisper escaped my lips, meant only for myself.
"Clara Vance, you really are a joke."
A long time passed before I finally picked up my phone with trembling hands and sent a text.
[Mom, I'm done waiting for him.]
[The man you mentioned... I'll marry him.]My phone buzzed.
A message from my mother popped up.
[I'm glad you came to your senses, sweetheart. Leave the arrangements to me.]
[We don't need to cancel the venue. We'll just change the groom's name on the marquee.]
I typed back: [Okay.]
I locked the screen and looked up.
Around me was the lush greenery I loved, the warm modern layout, the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Wesley had spent ten years saving for this place, and I had spent three years turning it into our dream home.
Yet from the day the keys were handed over to the day the furniture was moved in, he had never stepped foot inside once.
The phone buzzed again.
A notification from Wesley.
He had created a group chat on SnapChat, but the person typing was Lauren.
Links to digital wedding invites flooded the screen, one after another.
Lauren: [Hey Clara! Wesley's super busy signing these contracts for me, so he didn't have time to finish the paper cards. I went ahead and designed some digital templates! Take a look and let me know which one you like best!]
I clicked the link.
Every single template was covered in floating pink hearts.
And right above the couple's names, there was a permanent watermark: *Designed by Lauren*.
[Lauren] [Wesley] [Clara]
Her name was slightly smaller, in a softer gray font, but it sat visibly closer to Wesley's name than mine did.
It was a blatant, petty territory claim.
If this were the old me, I would’ve blown up at Wesley.
Now, I knew arguing was completely useless.
Seeing that I hadn't responded, Wesley tagged me.
Wesley: [Take a look. I think they look great.]
Wesley: [Pink is your favorite color, right?]
He was wrong again.
Even after countless times, the sting still punched the wind out of my lungs.
I pressed a hand to my chest and typed back:
[Don't bother.]
The chat went silent for three seconds. Then, Wesley’s call came tearing through my speakers.
His voice was dripping with irritation.
"Clara, can you stop acting like a child?"
"We're literally days away from getting married! How much longer are you going to throw a tantrum over nothing?"
"Lauren worked her butt off making those digital invites for you! You don't even say thank you, and you won't even look at them? What is your problem?"
"What did she ever do to you?"
"If you keep pulling this crap, maybe we shouldn't even bother having a wedding!"
"I don't have the energy to babysit your mood swings anymore!"
"Call me when you've grown up!"
A tear hit the corner of my lip. It tasted bitter and salty.
"Fine. We won't have it."
"Wesley, we're over."
Wesley let out a scoffing laugh.
"Clara, how old are you again? Can you use your brain before you talk?"
"Do you think breaking up is something you can throw around as a joke?"
I looked at our framed portrait resting against the wall.
"I'm not joking."
"And Wesley... I hate pink."
"You're dumping me over a color?"
"Yes. Over a color."
Wesley's patience snapped.
"Didn't I tell you how slammed I am with clients?"
"I have a million things to remember every single day! I slipped up on one tiny detail, and you're holding it against me? Can't you show a little bit of empathy for once?"
"I've shown empathy."
I had shown empathy for thirteen years.
When he forgot my favorite food, I quietly ordered something else. When he bought the wrong color, I accepted it with a smile. When he forgot my birthday, I bought my own cake. When he forgot to buy gifts for my parents during the holidays, I bought them with my own money and told my family they were from him.
He never had to explain himself. I always found an excuse for him first.
And now, simply stating a fact was labeled as "throwing a tantrum."
"If you're so empathetic, then pick a damn template already!" Wesley barked through the receiver.
I pulled the phone an inch away from my ear.
A digital invite... was really unnecessary now.
I took the framed photo off the wall and set it on the floor. Then, I took out the deed to the house.
"Come by the house tonight. I have some things to give you—"
Before I could finish, Wesley cut me off.
"Give me what? You're just trying to trick me into coming over so you can force me to write those stupid cards!"
"Clara, stop being so backward and stubborn."
"Don't push me."
With that, the line went dead.
He had hung up on me again.
I didn't even know when it started, but he had completely stopped listening to anything I said.
He only heard what he wanted to hear.
Even though I had told him we were breaking up, twice.
I opened my remaining unread messages.
A text from my mother.
She had sent an image.
It was an invitation on deep crimson cardstock. The calligraphy was written in crisp, elegant black ink dusted with fine gold shimmer.
Groom: Julian Thorne.
Bride: Clara Vance.
My mother asked: [What do you think?]
[He practiced for an entire day just to get these few lines right for you.]
I typed back: [It's gorgeous. Tell him thank you.]
Wesley never understood.
It was never about the piece of paper. He had practiced his handwriting for five years, yet he refused to write my name.
I wanted a future built with him, but all he gave me was a cold, empty house in the suburbs where I sat alone.
What I wanted had always been simple.
Respect. And real, honest love.
After thirteen years, my heart finally landed on solid ground.
I called the venue coordinator and officially updated the groom's name.
I paid the deposit directly from my own checking account, and the original funds were refunded back to Wesley's account.
After staring at the screen for a long time, I sent him one last text.
[Find some time to come by the house this week.]
I needed to return everything that belonged to him and make a clean break.
Then, I would step into a future that didn't have him in it.Packing up my things didn't take long.
Our framed photos, the red silk bedsheets, the matching couple's pajamas.
Once those were boxed up, the place was basically empty.
Except, while stripping the mattress, I found a single strand of hair.
It was bright pastel pink.
My hair was long, straight, and jet black. The only person in his circle with pink hair was Lauren.
Wesley had brought her here.
To the marital bed I hadn't even slept in yet. She had slept on it first.
A freezing chill ran up my spine, making me shudder.
Without a word, I dragged the entire sheet set down to the dumpster and threw it away, pink hair and all.
I waited for Wesley to show up so I could hand over the deed and the bank card.
Ten days passed. He never replied, and he never came.
With only four days left until the wedding, my mother called, her voice sharp with worry.
"What is Wesley playing at?"
"If he doesn't love you, why won't he let you go? Thirteen years, Clara! If he cared about your well-being even a little, he never would've dragged this out for so long!"
"He knows how much you want children. Yet he kept pushing the wedding back until you were thirty-five. Does he have any idea how hard pregnancy and recovery are at this age?"
I didn't say a word.
Because every word she said was the brutal truth.
After a moment of hesitation, I gathered the property documents and the bank card and headed to Wesley's office.
He wasn't there.
In the end, Lauren was the one who met me in the lobby.
"Mr. Brooks is taking personal time off," she said, tilting her head. "Only a few select people can reach his private line right now."
I lowered my gaze.
No wonder none of my texts had gone through.
Lauren’s sweet, honeyed voice floated over.
"Coincidentally, I happen to be one of those few people."
"And you aren't."
She drove me to an upscale private hot spring resort, stopping outside Private Suite 1808.
Just as I reached for the door handle, Lauren stepped in front of me.
She wore that same innocent, wide-eyed smile.
"Clara, I know you came all this way to nag Wesley about handwriting invitations again. But maybe you should take a look at this first?"
She flipped her phone around.
It was an open chat log between her and Wesley.
A message from him read:
[If only I had met you a few years earlier...]
Inside the private room, Wesley was already on the same topic.
One of his groomsmen was asking him, "Bro, how does it feel getting hitched? Excited?"
Wesley scoffed. "Do you get excited when your left hand holds your right hand?"
"We've been together for so long, she's basically family. There’s zero passion left. Honestly, if my parents weren't breathing down my neck, I would've pushed it back another couple of years."
Someone let out a low whistle.
"You're both thirty-five and you still want to stall? Aren't you worried she'll walk?"
"Worried about what?" Wesley chuckled, sounding completely relaxed. "She gave me thirteen years of her life. We lived together for a decade. What other guy would take her now?"
"A thirty-five-year-old woman has no leverage in the dating pool. Leave me, and she won't find anyone better."
"No matter how long I drag it out, she has no choice but to wait for me."
His tone was dripping with arrogance.
Lauren whispered beside me, "He stopped loving you a long time ago. Otherwise, why would he wait thirteen years to marry you?"
My hand rested on the brass doorknob.
Suddenly, I had no desire to open that door.
Some goodbyes simply didn't need a conversation.
I shoved the manila folder into Lauren's chest.
"Give this to him."
I turned on my heel and walked away without looking back.
That night, I received the first text from Wesley in ten days:
[Send me the venue address and what time I need to be there.]
I didn't reply. I blocked his number.For the past few days, Wesley had felt an odd, hollow sensation in his chest.
Everything looked normal on the surface, but nothing felt steady.
Then, his phone pinged with a calendar reminder.
It was an automated alert from a memo created thirteen years ago.
[Hey future me, did you marry Clara Vance yet? Do you have kids? Have you given her the absolute best life in the world?]
Wesley stared at the cheesy, naive question and let out an involuntary chuckle.
His mind drifted back thirteen years.
Under a canopy of stars.
Back then, he was young, broke, and didn't know how to express his feelings. So he fell to both knees and swore an oath under the open sky.
"Clara, I promise you. Before we're thirty-five, we'll have a home of our own."
"You, me, a baby, and all the flowers you love."
Young Clara had giggled, blushing as she looked down at him.
"Then you'd better start practicing your penmanship."
"Where I come from, the groom has to handwrite every single wedding invite. It shows pure devotion, and it guarantees a lifetime of happiness."
Wesley pulled out his phone and unlocked the screen.
His wallpaper was still a photo of twenty-two-year-old Clara.
On the screen, the digital clock struck noon.
Wesley suddenly realized what was missing.
A message from Clara.
She was supposed to send him the timeline and the pickup address for the bridal party.
A flash of annoyance hit him.
Clara was usually the one who organized everything behind the scenes—the catering, the guest list, the seating charts. She had never made him worry about logistics before.
Yet this time, just because of some stupid invitations, she had come looking for him at the office three days ago, and even tracked him down to the private resort.
She actually thought handing a folder to Lauren would manipulate him into feeling guilty.
Childish.
Still, looking at her smiling face on his lock screen and remembering the past thirteen years, he decided to be the bigger person.
He put on his bespoke suit and called his groomsmen.
"Be downstairs in ten minutes. We're heading out to pick up the bride."
A few minutes later, he remembered the folder Lauren had handed him.
*Whatever,* he thought. *Writing a few cards won't kill me.*
He slid the string off the envelope and opened it. Inside were three items:
The deed to the suburban house, two brass keys, and a debit card.
There were no invitations.
Wesley's head started pounding.
What was Clara doing?
He opened their SnapChat thread. The last message was the one he had sent asking for the venue address.
Something was wrong.
He dialed her number immediately. The call wouldn't go through.
He tried her mother's cell, but it went straight to voicemail.
Right then, his own mother's name flashed across the screen.
Her voice was frantic.
"Wesley, what the hell is going on?"
"Didn't you say the wedding was today? Why haven't any of our relatives received invitations?"
"I just called the hotel to check the ballroom, and they told me Clara Vance isn't marrying you today!"
Wesley's throat tightened.
"Who... who is she marrying?"
"They said his name is... Julian Thorne."

Chapters (4)

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Watch & Promotions

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