My Groom Humiliated Me with the Village Idiot

The morning light streamed through the stained glass windows of the Grand Ballroom, casting rainbow patterns across the marble floor. I stood at the top of the staircase, my fingers trembling slightly against the delicate lace of my wedding gown. Three hundred of New York's elite werewolf society filled the room below, their perfumes and colognes mingling in the air. My heart hammered against my ribs as I scanned the crowd for Liam.

"He's just running late," my brother Marcus whispered behind me, his hand steady on my shoulder. "The Andersons are never on time for anything."

I nodded, swallowing hard. The hand-knitted scarf I'd spent weeks making for Liam was clutched in my bouquet. Each stitch had been a prayer, a hope for our future together. I'd imagined him wearing it on cold winter nights, a reminder of my love.

The string quartet finished playing Pachelbel's Canon and launched into another piece. My stomach twisted. We were thirty minutes past the start time.

"Maybe I should call him," I murmured, reaching for my phone.

Before I could dial, a commotion erupted outside. Through the ballroom's floor-to-ceiling windows, I saw a beat-up station wagon pull up to the valet. The paint was peeling, one taillight was cracked, and it looked utterly out of place among the sleek limousines and luxury cars.

"What is that?" someone whispered.

The driver's door creaked open, and a man stumbled out. His suit was at least two sizes too large, stained with what looked like coffee and mustard. His hair was unwashed, sticking up at odd angles. But it was the crude cardboard sign in his hands that made my blood run cold.

"Here for the Bride," it read in uneven letters.

"Is that—?" I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Caden Ward," Marcus growled. "The chauffeur's son. They call him the village idiot."

Caden's eyes were vacant, his mouth slightly open with a thin line of drool trailing down his chin. He swayed slightly as he held up the sign, looking around with childlike confusion.

My phone buzzed. A text from Liam.

"Since you like charity cases so much, I sent the village idiot to pick you up. He's more your speed."

The room fell silent for a heartbeat before erupting into whispers and poorly concealed laughter. I felt the weight of three hundred pairs of eyes on me, some pitying, others gleeful at the spectacle.

"Poor thing," a woman in pearls murmured. "Always knew she wasn't good enough for the Andersons."

"Did you see that sign? Oh my God, how humiliating!"

I clutched my bouquet tighter, the stems digging into my palms. The scarf—my gift of love—felt suddenly heavy and ridiculous.

"Stella, don't move," Marcus said urgently. "I'll handle this."

But something inside me snapped. Fifteen years of being the good beta, the understanding girlfriend, the one who never caused trouble—it all crystallized into a single moment of clarity.

"No," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I've got this."

I descended the stairs slowly, aware