Oliver married Poppy on purpose—just to spite Mary. He wanted to prove he wasn’t heartbroken after her betrayal.
He and Mary had been together nearly two years. Oliver was madly in love, ready to move mountains and reshape his entire life around her dreams. He assumed wedding bells were in their future. But her constant dodging of the topic grated on his nerves.
*”Why marry now? I haven’t even finished uni, and your business is barely scraping by. No decent car, no house of your own. And honestly, I’m not keen on sharing a kitchen with your sister. If you hadn’t sold that house, we’d be fine,”* Mary would say, tossing her hair like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
It stung, but Oliver couldn’t deny the truth in her words. He and his sister, Eliza, were still in their parents’ flat, the business was only just finding its feet, and he was still a final-year student. He’d had to step up before graduation. Selling the house had been a joint decision with Eliza—it was the only way to save their parents’ struggling trade supplies shop.
Within six months, debts had piled up while they juggled studies. The sale cleared every bill, restocked the shop, and even left a little nest egg.
Mary, however, lived by the motto *”why wait when you can have it now?”*—easy to say when your biggest worry was which brunch spot to Instagram. But Oliver had grown up fast: responsibility for Eliza, the business, daily survival. He clung to the hope that someday, there’d be a house, a car, a garden.
Then, disaster struck.
They’d agreed to meet at the cinema. Mary insisted he *not* pick her up—she’d make her own way. So Oliver waited at the bus stop, only to watch her step out of a flashy Mercedes. She handed him a book and said, *”Sorry, it’s over. I’m getting married,”* before turning back to the car.
Oliver stood frozen. What could’ve changed in the few days he’d been away? When he stumbled home, Eliza took one look at him and sighed.
*”You know, don’t you?”*
He nodded numbly.
*”She’s marrying some rich bloke. Asked me to be a bridesmaid—told her to sod off. Cheating cow!”*
Oliver pulled Eliza into a hug, ruffling her hair. *”It’s fine. Let her be happy. We’ll be happier.”*
Then he locked himself in his room for a full day. Eliza banged on the door.
*”At least eat something! I made pancakes!”*
By sunset, he emerged, eyes blazing. *”We need to get ready.”*
*”For what? What’s your plan now?”*
*”I’m marrying the first woman who says yes,”* Oliver said flatly.
*”Don’t be daft! This isn’t just about you!”* Eliza protested, but he was already grabbing his coat.
*”Come or don’t. I’m going.”*
The park was packed. One woman tapped her temple (clearly questioning his sanity), another bolted. But the third—Poppy—looked him dead in the eye and said *”Alright.”*
*”What’s your name, then?”*
*”Poppy.”*
*”Brilliant! Drinks to celebrate!”* He dragged her and a bewildered Eliza to the nearest pub.
The table was awkwardly silent. Eliza fidgeted. Oliver’s mind hummed with revenge plots. *”Our wedding’s on the 25th—same as hers,”* he decided.
*”I assume there’s a reason you proposed to a stranger,”* Poppy finally said. *”If it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, no hard feelings—I’ll walk.”*
*”No take-backs. We’ll file the papers tomorrow and meet your parents.”* Oliver winked. *”Oh, and—first names from now on, yeah?”*
The month before the wedding was a whirlwind of coffees, chats, and hesitant getting-to-know-yous.
*”So… any chance you’ll explain why you did this?”* Poppy asked once.
*”Everyone’s got skeletons,”* Oliver deflected.
*”As long as they don’t rattle too loud.”*
*”Why’d *you* say yes?”*
*”Felt like a princess handed off to the first passing knight. Fairy tales always end well—‘happily ever after’ and all that. Wanted to test the theory.”*
Truthfully, it wasn’t that simple. A past heartbreak (plus a drained savings account) had taught Poppy to spot sincerity. Suitors came swarming, but one sharp glance sent them scattering. She wasn’t hunting for Prince Charming—just someone sharp, self-sufficient, and decisive. Oliver fit the bill. If he’d been larking about with mates instead of shouldering responsibilities, she’d have walked.
*”So which princess are you, then?”* Oliver mused. *”Tragic Ophelia? Frog-charming Tiana?”*
*”Kiss me and find out,”* she grinned.
(No kissing happened. Or anything else.)
Oliver obsessed over wedding plans, leaving Poppy to just nod at his choices—even the dress and veil were his picks.
*”You’ll be the most stunning one there,”* he’d say.
At the registry office, they bumped into Mary and her fiancé. Oliver forced a smile.
*”Congratulations,”* he said, kissing Mary’s cheek. *”Hope you and your walking wallet are very happy.”*
*”Don’t make a scene,”* Mary hissed, eyeing Poppy.
Tall, striking, radiating quiet confidence—Poppy outshone Mary in every way. Jealousy twisted Mary’s face. She’d gambled and lost.
Oliver squeezed Poppy’s hand. *”All good?”* he muttered.
*”We can still back out,”* she whispered back.
*”No. We see this through.”*
Only during the ceremony, seeing Poppy’s sad eyes, did Oliver realize what he’d done.
*”I’ll make you happy,”* he promised—and almost believed it.
Married life began. Eliza and Poppy bonded instantly—the fiery sister mellowed by Poppy’s calm, the home transformed by her effortless efficiency. A whiz with numbers, Poppy soon streamlined the business finances. Within months, they opened a second shop, then branched into renovation teams. Profits soared.
She was his secret weapon—floating ideas so smoothly Oliver thought they were his own. By all accounts, life was golden. Yet Oliver missed the wild highs of his time with Mary. Now? Predictable. Safe. *”Routine,”* he grumbled. *”Quicksand.”*
Poppy’s next masterstroke: building turnkey homes. Their first project? Their own house.
The more successful he became, the more Oliver dwelled on Mary. *”If she’d just waited! Look at my car now! That house—not a house, a *mansion*!”* Pride curdled into bitter fantasies. *”What if…?”*
Poppy noticed. She longed for love, but hearts don’t follow orders. *”Not all fairy tales have happy endings,”* she thought—but her name meant hope, and she clung to it.
Eliza cornered Oliver catching him on Mary’s Instagram.
*”You’ll lose more than you gain.”*
*”Piss off!”*
*”You’re a berk. Poppy *adores* you, and you’re playing games.”*
*”Since when do I take life advice from my kid sister?”* he snapped.
Yet Mary’s pull grew stronger. He DM’d her.
Mary complained: her marriage had collapsed, she’d dropped out of uni, jobless, dumped by her sugar daddy, now renting a dingy flat.
Oliver agonized for days. *”Go or stay?”* Fate intervened—Poppy left to visit her ailing gran.
He caved. Drove to Manchester, speeding past speed cameras, heart hammering with fantasies of grand speeches and clandestine meetups.
Reality was… grim.
*”Look at you!”* Mary lunged for a hug.
The stench of unwashed hair hit him. He recoiled. *”People are staring.”*
*”Who cares!”* She giggled, slurring.
Short skirt, streaky makeup, bargain-bin perfume—this wasn’t the Mary he remembered. *”Was she always like this?”* he wondered, watching her chug cheap lager.
*”Lend us fifty quid? I’ll make it worth your while,”* she winked.
He couldn’t leave fast enough.
*”Sorry, sudden emergency.”* He stood.
*”We’ll meet again?”*
*”Doubt it.”* He flagged the waiter. *”Bill, please.”*
*”I’m staying!”* Mary pouted.
Oliver peeled off a twenty.As he drove home, Oliver finally understood that the real fairy tale had been beside him all along—not in the past he’d clung to, but in the quiet, steady love of the woman who’d said yes to a reckless stranger and turned his life into something better than he’d ever dreamed.
