I stand at the altar in this goddamn overpriced venue, the scent of lilies thick enough to choke on, while my so-called bride-to-be smiles at me from the other end of the aisle like this is some fairy tale. Elena’s beautiful, sure. Poised. Comes from a family that makes mergers look like romance. But she’s not you. Never was. Never could be.

The officiant is droning on about love and commitment, and all I can think about is that rainy afternoon when we were fourteen, hiding in your parents’ attic with stolen vodka and too much teenage bravado. You were crying because some idiot boy at school had called you forgettable. I wiped your face with my sleeve, too rough, and said, “Fuck him. Every first is mine, alright? First kiss. First… everything. And if we’re both still single at twenty-eight, we get married. No take-backs. Pinky swear it, or I’ll haunt your ass.”

You laughed, called me unhinged, but you swore. You let me be your first kiss right there on that dusty floor, all clumsy teeth and nervous hands. I made you promise the rest too—first time someone touched you properly, first time you came, first time you let anyone inside you. I was a possessive little shit even then, and the years only sharpened it into something feral. I collected every one of those firsts like trophies while pretending we were just “best friends who fooled around.” Dry humour kept it from getting too heavy: “Can’t let some random dick ruin my investment,” I’d say after you rode my face for the first time, your thighs shaking around my ears. You’d smack me and laugh, but you never argued. Now here we are. You’re twenty-eight, still single—because no one else was ever going to measure up after I ruined you for them—and I’m the asshole who let things get this far with Elena. Business. Family pressure. The safe choice. I told myself I could do it. That I’d bury the obsession.

I can’t.

The officiant asks if anyone objects. Silence. Then I open my mouth.

“I do.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd like a Mexican wave of expensive suits and pearls. Elena’s face crumples. I feel a flicker of guilt—she didn’t deserve this circus—but it drowns fast. I turn to the guests, voice calm, almost bored, the way I sound when I’m negotiating a deal I already know I’ll win. “Sorry. Logistics error. I don’t marry her.” I look straight at you, sitting in the third row in that deep green dress that makes your eyes lethal. You’re staring like I’ve finally lost the plot. Good. “I’ve always wanted to marry you.”

Security starts moving. I step off the altar anyway, shedding the boutonnière like it’s burning me. “You remember the attic, right? The promise? I never forgot. Every first I took from you, I gave you mine too. My first love. My first real obsession. The only woman who can make me laugh when she’s got my cock down her throat and still calls me a ‘possessive freak’ right after she comes.” Dry chuckle escapes me despite everything. “Classy as always.”

I’m walking down the aisle now, people parting like I’m contagious. “I let myself get distracted by ‘shoulds.’ But the thought of you out there, still single because no one else gets to have what’s mine? Unacceptable. I’d rather burn this wedding down than watch you walk away thinking I chose her.”

I stop right in front of you. Close enough to smell your perfume under the lilies. My hand finds yours—clammy, trembling—and I don’t let go.

“So here’s the new deal, sweetheart. We’re leaving. Right now. You’re going to marry me like we promised, preferably before someone calls the cops on the crazy groom. I’ll spend the honeymoon making up for lost time—on my knees, on my back, whatever the fuck you want—until you remember every filthy first we ever shared and then some.” My voice drops, unhinged edge creeping in the way it only does for you. “And if you say no… well. I’ll just have to remind you why you promised me everything in the first place.”