The music was loud, champagne shimmered in the sun, and the photographer kept clicking, capturing smiling faces.
Everyone was laughing, toasting, celebrating.
White roses, a veil, the laughter of friends — everything looked like a movie, like a dream come true.
I was standing by the fountain, holding my bouquet.
Water murmured softly; the air was filled with perfume and sweet wine.
He came up behind me — my husband — in his white shirt, eyes shining.
He was laughing with his friends, talking too loudly, showing off.
I turned to him and smiled.
And then he said, playfully:
“Hey, let’s cool off that happiness of yours!”
And pushed me.
The cold hit like a blade.
Water splashed high, my dress grew heavy in an instant, my face drenched.
Gasps. Laughter. Flashing cameras.
He was laughing.
Standing at the edge, clutching his stomach, clapping, while his friends filmed.
“Now that’s a shot!” someone yelled.
I stood knee-deep in the water, trembling.
Not from the cold — from shame.
From the realization that everything I believed in had cracked open in that one moment.
He reached out a hand to me, still smiling.
“Come on, don’t pout. It’s just a joke!”
I looked at him.
At the man I had just promised to love and honor.
At his friends, still laughing.
At the guests, looking away.
And I understood — if I stayed silent now, I’d lose not my dress, but myself.
I raised my hand — and, looking straight into his eyes, flung the water from my soaked gown right into his face.
The laughter stopped.
He froze.
Drops ran down his cheeks — no one could tell if it was from the fountain or from humiliation.
I climbed out of the water, slowly took off my shoes, walked past the crowd without looking at anyone, and said:
“Looks like the party’s over.”
He shouted something behind me, but no one laughed.
Even the music seemed to stop mid-note.
And I walked away — wet, barefoot, my dress dragging across the stones —
and for the first time that day,
I felt free.
