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My wedding day was supposed to be the moment my love story with Liam played out on giant screens for all of Nashville to see. Instead, those screens showed something very different: my fiancé, Liam, shamelessly hooking up with my own cousin, Savannah, at his bachelor party. The chapel descended into shocked silence. Liam grabbed my arm, whispering denials, while Savannah sat sobbing in the front row, a pathetic mess. But the hickeys on their necks told the whole brutal truth. I calmly walked to the microphone, called off the wedding, and left them to face the circus they created. He tried to play the remorseful fiancé, showing up with flowers I was allergic to and Savannah's favorite BBQ, not mine. He stalked me, pleading for "one more chance," even using me as a bet to impress Savannah. Every interaction twisted the knife, confirming years of quiet betrayals I'd ignored. Why did I believe his lies for so long? Why did I allow myself to be a third wheel at my own anniversary dinner, or cook for him only to be met with his and Savannah's mockery? The humiliation was suffocating, the anger a fire in my gut. But then, a new thought ignited within me. I picked up my guitar not to write a sad song, but a war declaration. This wasn't heartbreak; it was a reckoning. And I was just getting started.