My fiancée, Natalie, was a whirlwind of efficiency. Seriously, she could organize a small army with a clipboard and a smile. So, when she offered to take the reins on designing our wedding invitations, I didn’t just agree; I breathed a sigh of relief. One less thing on my plate, I thought. She’s got this. They’ll be perfect. She loved details, design, making things just so. I trusted her implicitly. A few days after she proudly announced they’d gone out, my phone buzzed. It was my brother. His text read: “What the hell, Mike? Are your invitations a joke or something?” My heart lurched. A joke? What was he talking about? My first thought was a typo, maybe a misspelled name or the wrong date. Annoying, but not “what the hell” worthy. I texted back, asking him to explain, but he just called. His voice was tight, almost angry. “Just… get one. Look at it. Really look at it.”
Panic started to bubble. I hadn’t even seen the final product. Natalie had shown me sketches, sure, but the actual printed card? She’d said she wanted to surprise me with the finished thing when the first RSVPs started rolling in. A romantic gesture, I’d thought. Now it felt like a trap.
I drove straight to my parents’ house, knowing they’d have received one. My mom met me at the door, her face a mixture of confusion and pity. She held out the heavy cardstock envelope. My hands trembled as I opened it.
The invitation itself was beautiful, elegant, exactly Natalie’s style. Our names, the date, the venue… everything looked correct. My eyes scanned every word, every flourish. And then I saw it. Tucked discreetly into the bottom right corner, almost like an afterthought, was a small, delicate emblem. A crest. Not our family crest, not hers either. I didn’t recognize it. And beneath it, in tiny, almost invisible script, a single name: “Elias.”
My breath caught. Elias? Who the hell was Elias?
I spun around, showing my mom. She just shook her head, her lips pressed thin. “I thought it was some kind of modern design, a nod to your side of the family I didn’t know about,” she whispered. “But your brother recognized it. He was furious.”
“Furious? Why?” I demanded, the blood draining from my face.
“It’s the crest of the Worthington family, Mike,” she said, her voice barely audible. “The family Natalie grew up with. Her birth family.”
My world tilted. Birth family? Natalie had always been open about being adopted. She’d told me she had no contact with her birth parents, no knowledge of them beyond basic medical history. She was raised by wonderful, loving parents who were practically my own. This “Worthington” family was news to me. And “Elias”?
I called Natalie, my hands shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone. She picked up, her voice bright and cheerful. “Darling! Did you see the invites? Aren’t they gorgeous?”
“Natalie,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “Who is Elias? And what is the Worthington crest doing on our wedding invitation?”
A beat of silence. Then, a sigh. “Oh, that. I meant to tell you. It’s… a tribute.”
“A tribute?” I yelled, the sound tearing from my throat. “To what? To whom?”
“Elias Worthington,” she said, her voice suddenly flat, devoid of emotion. “My birth father. And the Worthington crest… well, it’s my birthright, isn’t it? I just wanted to acknowledge my full heritage.”
“Acknowledge?” I clenched my jaw. “You ‘acknowledge’ your birth father and some mysterious family crest in tiny print on our wedding invitations without telling me? And my brother thinks it’s a joke!”
She paused again. Longer this time. “It’s not just Elias, Mike.” Her voice was barely a whisper now, strained. “Look closer at the text below his name.”
I fumbled with the invitation, my vision blurring. I had to hold it right up to my face, squinting. The script was infinitesimally small, an elegant, almost imperceptible silver on cream. And then I saw it. Below “Elias,” the line continued, a damning, horrifying sentence that shattered everything I thought I knew:
“This union is undertaken under the auspices of the Worthington Family, as per the binding contract of May 12th.”
My lungs seized. The date. May 12th. That was three months before we even got engaged. Three months before I even met Natalie.
My brother wasn’t asking if the invitations were a joke. He was asking if I was. I dropped the invitation. It fluttered to the floor, a beautifully printed lie. I was the joke. I was marrying a woman who had already signed herself away. This wasn’t our wedding. It was a transaction. And I was just the unfortunate, unwitting party to it.
