On My Wedding Invite, I'm Not the Bride

On the eve of our wedding, I find out that the wedding invitations have Travis Somerson's and his assistant, Victoria Cademere's names printed on them instead of mine.

I demand an answer from Victoria, who bursts into tears and tells me that she has accidentally mistyped the bride's name as hers.

Travis calls me right away. "It's just a naming mistake, Harper! Must you make such a huge deal out of such a small mistake?"

He even calls me a petty and jealous woman who can't even tolerate the presence of a female employee in his vicinity.

Five minutes later, Victoria uploads another social media post. Apparently, not only has she uploaded a photo of the wedding invitation, but she also adds a couple photo of her and Travis being lovey-dovey.

The caption reads, "Mr. Somerson told me that even if I screw up, he'll be there to help me settle everything."

If a female employee were to provoke me in the past, I'd have forced Travis to fire the former.

But this time, I no longer care about him anymore.

I threw the wedding invitations that had Victoria Cademere's name printed on them into the trash before heading to my usual salon.

The hairstylist hesitated as she held the scissors, repeatedly asking me if I was sure that I wanted to cut my hair short.

It had taken me four years to grow my hair out until the tips reached my waist. I only did so because Travis Somerson had once promised to marry me when my hair reached my waist.

My hair had finally reached my waist.

Travis had also stuck to his word and was about to marry me.

However, I didn't want to keep my long hair anymore.

I was just about to nod and give the hairstylist the green light when my phone started ringing.

Travis was video-calling me.

His voice echoed from the receiver the moment the call connected. "Where are you?"

I didn't answer him.

Meanwhile, Travis could see the hairstylist standing behind me, as well as the pair of scissors she was holding. He frowned and asked, "You're cutting your hair?"

I nodded.

Travis suddenly burst into laughter as if I had just told him a hilarious joke.

"You look awful with short hair. It took so long for you to grow your hair out. What's gotten into you? Why do you want to cut it short?"

A few years ago, when I was growing my hair out, Travis constantly mocked me by saying that I wasn't feminine at all.

I would argue with him every single time, trying to convince him that a woman's femininity wasn't tied to the length of her hair.

However, at that moment, I didn't make a single retort. I simply nodded at the hairstylist and said, "Do it."

Travis finally realized that I was serious as he watched the hairstylist move the scissors closer to my hair. His smile faded away.

"Do you have to throw