Oliver married Poppy on purpose—just to spite Emily. He wanted to prove he wasn’t heartbroken after she cheated on him.
He and Emily had been together nearly two years. Oliver was madly in love, ready to move heaven and earth, and reshape his entire life around her dreams. He thought they were heading for marriage. But her constant dodging of the topic drove him up the wall.
“Why rush into marriage now?” she’d say. “I haven’t even finished uni yet, and your business is hardly raking it in. No decent car, no proper house. And honestly, I refuse to share a kitchen with your sister. If you hadn’t sold that house, we’d be fine.” That was Emily’s usual refrain.
It stung, but Oliver had to admit she wasn’t wrong. He and his sister Lily were crammed into their parents’ old flat, the business was barely off the ground, and he was still finishing his degree. He’d had to take charge before graduating. Selling the house had been a joint decision with Lily—it was the only way to save their parents’ failing business.
Half a year in, debts piled up, and they were still studying. The sale cleared the loans, restocked the shop, and even left a tidy emergency fund.
Emily, though? She believed in living for the moment, not some imaginary future. Easy for her to say—she had her parents footing her bills. But Oliver had grown up overnight: Lily to look after, the business, the daily grind. He was sure things would improve—there’d be a house, a car, a garden.
Then disaster struck.
They’d agreed to meet at the cinema, but Emily insisted he shouldn’t pick her up—she’d get there herself. Oliver waited at the bus stop when suddenly she rolled up in a flashy car. She stepped out, handed him a book, and said, “Sorry, we can’t be together anymore. I’m getting married.” Then she turned and climbed back in.
Oliver stood frozen. What could’ve changed in the few days he’d been away? When he got home, Lily took one look at his face and sighed.
“You already know?”
He nodded.
“She’s marrying some rich bloke. Asked me to be her bridesmaid—I said no. She’s a cheat! She was seeing him behind your back…”
Oliver hugged his sister, ruffling her hair.
“Let her be happy. And we’ll be even happier.”
Then he locked himself in his room for a full day. Lily knocked, pleading,
“At least eat something. I made pancakes…”
By evening, he emerged, eyes blazing.
“We need to get ready.”
“For what? What’s got into you?”
“I’m marrying the first woman who says yes,” Oliver said flatly.
“You can’t! This isn’t just about you!” Lily protested, but he cut her off.
“Come with me or don’t. I’m going.”
The park was packed. One woman tapped her temple, another bolted. But the third—she looked him in the eye and said yes.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?”
“Poppy.”
“Let’s celebrate our engagement!” He dragged Poppy and Lily to a café.
An awkward silence hung over the table. Lily fidgeted. Oliver’s mind, though, buzzed with revenge. He’d already decided: their wedding would be on the 25th too.
“I assume there’s a proper reason you proposed to a stranger,” Poppy finally said. “If it was just a whim, I won’t hold it against you. I’ll leave.”
“No. You gave your word. Tomorrow, we file the paperwork and meet your parents.”
Oliver winked.
“First things first—let’s drop the formalities.”
For the month leading up to the wedding, they saw each other daily, talking, getting to know one another.
“Care to explain why you did this?” Poppy asked once.
“Everyone’s got skeletons in their closet,” Oliver deflected.
“As long as they don’t haunt us.”
“Why’d *you* say yes?”
“I pictured myself as a princess handed off to the first passerby. In fairy tales, it always works out—‘happily ever after.’ I wanted to test the theory.”
The truth wasn’t so simple. A past heartbreak had left her wary. She could sniff out insincerity in a heartbeat. She wasn’t hunting for Prince Charming—just someone sharp, independent, and decisive. In Oliver, she saw grit and a serious work ethic. If he’d been out with mates instead of his sister, she’d have walked right past.
“So who are you, princess?” Oliver mused. “The melancholic beauty? The frog princess?”
“Kiss me and find out,” she teased.
But there were no kisses. Nothing more.
Oliver handled all the wedding prep. Poppy just picked between his suggestions—even her dress and veil, he bought himself.
“You’ll be the most beautiful,” he kept saying.
At the registry office, they bumped into Emily and her fiancé. Oliver forced a smile.
“Congratulations,” he said, kissing Emily’s cheek. “Hope you and your walking wallet are very happy.”
“Don’t make a scene,” Emily hissed.
She scrutinized Poppy—elegant, striking, regal. Emily paled in comparison. Jealousy clawed at her. She felt no joy, just the crushing weight of a mistake.
Oliver turned to Poppy.
“Everything’s fine,” he said tightly.
“It’s not too late to stop,” she whispered.
“No. We see this through.”
Only when he met his new wife’s sad eyes at the altar did Oliver realize what he’d done.
“I’ll make you happy,” he vowed, half-believing it.
Married life began. Lily and Poppy hit it off brilliantly, balancing each other—Lily’s impulsiveness tempered, Poppy effortlessly running the household.
With her accounting expertise, Poppy soon streamlined their finances. In six months, they opened a second shop, then launched a renovation team—now they sold building supplies *and* did the work. Profits skyrocketed.
She was a real wise woman—her ideas so cleverly presented, Oliver thought they were his own. By all appearances, life was sweet. But Oliver missed the dizzying highs of his time with Emily. Everything now was measured, predictable. *”Stale,”* he thought. *”Like wading through treacle.”*
Thanks to Poppy, they leveled up—building turnkey homes. Their first project was their own house.
The better things got, the more Oliver dwelled on Emily. *”She couldn’t wait. Look at the car I drive now! The house—not a house, a bloody palace!”* Pride swelled. *”What if…?”*
Poppy noticed his torment. She longed to be loved, but hearts aren’t commanded. *”Not all fairy tales end well,”* she thought bitterly—but hope lingered. Her name demanded it.
Lily kept watch too.
“You’ll lose more than you gain,” she said, catching him on Emily’s social media.
“Stay out of it,” Oliver snapped.
Lily glared.
“You’re an idiot. Poppy loves you, and you’re playing games.”
*”Like I need a lecture from a kid,”* Oliver fumed. Emily’s pull grew stronger. He messaged her.
Emily whined about her failed marriage—kicked out with nothing, dropped out of uni, no steady job, couch-surfing in a dodgy flat.
Oliver agonized for days: *”Go or stay?”* Then fate handed him an opening—Poppy left to visit her sick gran.
He steeled himself and arranged a meeting. Speeding toward Manchester, he barely noticed the traffic. His heart pounded, imagining their reunion.
Reality was harsh.
“Look at you!” Emily lunged at him.
The stench of unwashed skin hit him. He recoiled.
“People are watching.”
“I don’t care!” She laughed, sloshing her lager.
Short skirt, garish makeup, bargain-bin perfume—this brash stranger bore no resemblance to his refined Poppy. *”Was she always like this? How did I not see it?”* He watched, repulsed, as Emily downed another pint.
“Loan me some cash, yeah? I’ll make it worth your while,” she purred.
He needed an escape.
“Sorry, things to do.” He stood.
“See you again?”
“Doubt it.” He flagged the waiter. “Bill, please.”
“But I’m not done!” Emily whined.
“Whatever she drinks, it’s covered.” He handed over a crisp fifty.
The waiter nodded, understanding.
Oliver raced home.
“What a fool,” he berated himself. “Lily was right. Why did I—? No. Maybe it wasn’t for nothing.”
*”I’ve never once called Poppy ‘my wife.’ There’s no one closer, no one dearer.”* The realization struck like lightning. He pulled over, replaying their years together.
Poppy’s faceAs he held Poppy close in the golden light of their home, Oliver finally understood that true happiness wasn’t about proving anything—it was about the quiet magic of loving someone who loved him back, flaws and all.
