Emily Taylor

Someone Else’s Bride Valery was in high demand. He never advertised in newspapers or on TV, but his name and phone number were passed around by word of mouth—the grapevine did all the work. Need a host for a concert? No problem! Birthday party or wedding? Excellent! He’d even once presided over a kindergarten graduation, winning the hearts of both the children and their mums. It all began simply enough. A close mate got married, but the emcee they’d booked in advance didn’t show up—turns out he’d gone on a bender. With no time to find anyone else, Valery grabbed the microphone. At school he’d taken part in amateur dramatics, joined the school theatre club, and at university he was always a star of Open Mic Night and student comedy contests. Impromptu hosting suited him, and right there, in the function hall, two people asked if he could run their events as well. After graduating, Valery got a job at one of the city’s research institutions earning next to nothing. His first fees as an entertainer inspired him—he took on every event, enjoying not only the financial boost but also a great sense of satisfaction. Soon his earnings from hosting outstripped his research salary by nearly tenfold. After a year, Valery took the plunge: he left the institute, used his savings to buy quality equipment, registered as self-employed, and officially went into show business. He started taking singing lessons, too—he already had a voice and an ear for music. Soon he was a singing host, performing as a lounge singer three nights a week at a posh restaurant. Now, approaching 30, Valery was good-looking, fairly well off, and had built a reputation as a solid singer, DJ, and top-notch host who could save any party. He wasn’t married—why bother? Women flocked to him; any girl he fancied was up for it. But his friends were settling down and having kids, and gradually Valery began to yearn for quiet, family happiness. Problem was, there was nobody he wanted it with! The easy girls were fine for a fling, but he longed for something once and for all, for life. “You need to meet someone young, raise her ‘just right,’ and then marry her when she turns 18. That’s the ideal wife right there!” he half-joked. He started taking on bookings for school proms, hoping to spot his future partner. But modern girls disappointed him—they weren’t what he’d imagined. Still, Valery wasn’t discouraged. He kept an eye on the young ones, as he jokingly put it, “hunting rare game.” That’s when fate decided to have a laugh at my cousin’s expense. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A woman rang up, said she’d got his details from friends: “We need a host for a wedding. Are you free June 17th? Wonderful! Can we meet?” They met. And right then, according to Valery, he understood the saying “the ground slipped from under my feet.” The woman, who introduced herself as Christina, was dazzling—he’d never seen anyone quite like her up close. She was articulate, intelligent, all business, listed exactly what was needed. Valery found himself unable to look away. Someone was very lucky indeed—not only was she beautiful, she was obviously clever too. A rare combination! At first glance she seemed around 25, maybe a little older. But in conversation she mentioned she’d been in the Young Socialists, so she had to be at least 40! They sorted out all the details, came to an agreement, and drew up a contract, though Christina protested: “No need, I trust you—you come highly recommended!” Valery always worked with contracts, making sure both he and his clients stuck rigidly to the terms. He insisted: “I need to file paperwork for tax—can’t have any problems.” In truth, he just wanted physical proof that Christina really existed, that this wasn’t a dream. Her phone pinged—a message. “Oh, my fiancé’s here to pick me up. Do you need a lift?” Valery said no but followed her out to the car park. He always did this if the couple arrived separately, to size up how they acted around each other. But this time, jealousy rather than curiosity drove him. The groom surprised him—he’d pictured a man of about forty, to match the bride. But out of the car bounced a guy clearly younger than himself. “Christina, everything alright?” She smiled, as if to say, “Why wouldn’t it be?” and got into the car. The groom turned to Valery: “You’re the one hosting our wedding? Great, Slava’s told me you’re the best,” he said, giving Valery a handshake. “Sorry, forgot to introduce myself—Christina will scold me later. I’m Robert, the groom.” More than anything, Valery wanted to punch this “Robert, the groom,” and wipe that smug smile off his face, but instead he just shook his hand. “Valery. Nice to meet you.” From that moment, Valery lost all peace and sleep. He obsessed over any excuse to call Christina, to hear her voice, to meet her again. The wedding day loomed closer and Valery thought he was losing his mind. His one confidant needled him: “Whatever happened to the schoolgirls you were going to raise into ideal wives?” Valery just waved him off: “Forget that. Christina’s perfect—she’s all I want now!” “Then tell her,” his friend shrugged, but got a sharp reply: “Are you mad? She’s getting married, so she must love him. What would she want with me and my daft feelings?” Sometimes Robert would drop by, beaming: “Christina asked me to drop this off for you…” Valery hated him in those moments, barely able to hold back a retort. He even considered backing out of the wedding, reputation be damned—but that would mean never seeing Christina again. He caved in cowardly fear. Two days before the wedding, Christina dropped round to Valery’s flat—she said, “just to polish the script, make sure everything’s perfect.” His office was undergoing renovations, so their meeting moved to his home. They chatted about nothing important, laughed, both on top form. Script done, Valery poured a glass of prosecco for a toast. “To the perfect wedding.” Christina laughed: “Why not!” She was radiant, and Valery, buoyed by bubbles, kissed her. And, to his shock, she kissed him back. The world turned upside down. Valery woke with a start. He looked around—had he imagined the best night of his life? No sight of Christina, but her perfume lingered on a pillow. So it was real… In turmoil, he called her. “Hey…” She answered brightly: “Hi! How are you? Sorry I ducked out early, but you know how it is—the wedding’s tomorrow!” “So…the wedding’s still on?” he croaked. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s grand!” Was she really so cynical? How could she look her groom in the eye after last night? Valery was torn—should he ruin the wedding? Did he even want such a heartless woman? Answer: Yes. Any form of her. Next day, he arrived at the venue early. The decorators were finishing up, throwing him flirty glances. Then— He couldn’t believe it—Christina came up to him. “Hi. I ran off straight after the ceremony—just wanted to see you,” she flashed a dazzling smile. “You alright, Valery?” “I don’t get it,” he stammered. “So, the ceremony’s over? Then you legged it?” “Yeah, silly. Why ride around with the kids when I could spend time with you? Or aren’t you happy to see me?” “Wait, what kids? Aren’t you the bride?” Christina stared at him for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. It was a pure, joyful sound, and Valery couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! My daughter Kiera is the bride—she’s at university in Leeds, just flew in yesterday,” she stopped laughing, “Did you think I was the bride? And that I’d sleep around two nights before my wedding? Charming.” Only then did it dawn on Valery—Christina never once said “I” or “we”—always “the bride and groom.” And Robert never called her “Kiera,” only “Christina” and always formally. How had he not noticed? He felt foolish… and then he finally asked the real question: “And you? Are you… free?” She nodded. He blurted out: “Marry me! Please…” The wedding was stunning, the host outdid himself, the guests were thrilled. The young couple thanked Valery: “Thank you so much! We’ve no idea how to repay you for such an amazing evening.” “I’ll thank him myself,” said Christina, joining them. “You two go on—the limo’s waiting. I’ll keep an eye on things here.” The news—Valery marrying a woman nine years his senior—spread quickly among the family. People were wary at first, but after meeting the bride everyone agreed: “How could you not fall for someone like that?” Kiera and Christina both gave birth within a fortnight of each other.

A Strangers Bride I was in high demand. I never once placed an advert in the paper or on the telly, but

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When Friends Turn Up Empty-Handed to a Lavish Table—So I Shut the Fridge Door: The Day I Refused to Let Ungrateful Guests Spoil Our Housewarming (And Rediscovered My Self-Respect Over Roast Pork and Bordeaux)

The friends arrived empty-handed to a table already laid out, and I quietly closed the fridge.

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Sunday Dad: A Short Story “Where’s my daughter?” Olena repeated, her teeth chattering from either fear or the cold…

Wheres my daughter? I kept asking, teeth chattering, but I didnt know if it was from cold or pure panic.

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Two Blue Lines on a Test Became Her Ticket to a New Life—and the Start of Hell for Her Closest Friend. She Married Amid Applause from Betrayers, but the Final Twist Was Written by the Man Everyone Thought Was Just a Foolish Pawn

Two lines on the test were her passport to a new lifeand a direct path to hell for her closest friend.

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The Lost Letter: A Snowy Evening, a Boy’s Tears, and a Christmas Wish That Changed Three Lives Forever

The Letter David trudged home from work, the crisp snow crunching under his shoes, stirring up memories

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Julie at the Doorstep: How a Loyal Dog Waited for Her Family Outside Flat 22 in a Quiet English Town – The Emotional Journey of a Brave Stray Through the Challenges of the Early 90s and the Family That Never Gave Up on Her

Julia lay beside the entrance to our block of flats. All the neighbours were aware that the family from

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Who Slept in My Bed and Left It a Mess… A Story About My Husband’s Lover, Our Daughter’s Favourite Mug, and How Twenty Years Went Down the Drain

Who Was Sleeping In My Bed and Messed It Up A Story My husbands mistress was barely older than our daughtera

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The Waiter Suggested Taking Away the Kitten, but a Six-Foot Gentleman Lifted the Crying Furry Baby and Placed Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Your Finest Cut of Meat!” — Let’s wear something daring, almost like young nymphs, and head to the fanciest restaurant in town. Show ourselves off and size up the men… One of the three friends spoke with confidence — she was the headmistress of an elite, expensive private girls’ school. The job required poise, so she always had just the right clever words ready. These “nymphs” were thirty-five. The perfect age, they agreed, for short skirts and blouses designed to highlight, not hide, their assets. Plunging necklines, flawless makeup — the full battle gear. The chosen restaurant was suitably grand: chic, exclusive, and eye-wateringly expensive. Of course, they could afford it. They booked a table, settled in comfortably, and immediately began catching the admiring glances of men — and the openly frosty looks from their companions. The conversation, inevitably, revolved around men — dreams, expectations, and requirements. Each was after her ideal: tall, athletic, handsome, and, above all, wealthy. He should pamper her, fulfill every whim, never bore her with chit-chat or bog her down with chores. If he happened to have noble lineage as well — perfect. — Just not like those ones… The friends glanced knowingly at a nearby group: three cheerful, slightly stout men with receding hairlines, drinking beer, munching on crisps and mountains of steak, discussing football and fishing. Their laughter was loud, honest, and unrestrained. — Awful. — So tacky. — Ugh. The verdict was unanimous: unkempt, coarse, not a trace of class, and entirely wrong for such glamorous ladies. But then something happened that instantly changed the tone of the evening. He walked in — the man who had just pulled up in a scarlet, latest-model Ferrari. — Count Coburg Colden Saxon! — The waiter announced grandly at the entrance. The women perked up like hounds catching a fresh scent. Tall, elegant, with distinguished silver at the temples, he wore a perfectly tailored suit worth a fortune. Diamond cufflinks, a dazzling white shirt completed the look. — Oh my… — Wow… — Mmmm… Low necklines dipped even lower, their gazes openly inviting. — Now that’s a man, whispered one. — An actual count, a stunner, and a millionaire — chimed the second. I’ve dreamed of the Bahamas since I was a kid… The third said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the count’s table. They walked grandly, shooting scornful glances at other diners — especially the beer trio. The count was charming, engaging in polite society speeches about ancient family lines, castle estates, and art collections. The tension among the women rose — all knew only one would be invited to continue the evening. The arrival of food — lobsters, trays of seafood, rare vintage wine — temporarily eased the pressure. The ladies dined in style, sending dreamy glances at the count and fantasizing about much more than dinner. Their cheeks glowed, and they looked especially radiant. The count sparkled too — joking, sharing high-society stories, and none of the women cared anymore where he’d take them after the meal. The restaurant had a small garden. The aroma from the kitchen was so tempting, it drifted outside. Soon, a small, scruffy grey kitten appeared, weaving its way between tables and sitting expectantly at the count’s feet. It was all in vain. The count’s face twisted in disgust. Without hesitation, he shoved the kitten away with his foot. The little one tumbled several feet, right into the table leg where the three beer drinkers sat. Silence swept through the room. — I can’t stand these dirty, worthless animals, the count declared loudly. I keep pedigreed hounds and the finest horses at my castle. The waiter hurried to assure: — We’ll handle it, so sorry… He headed for the beer table, but one man was already on his feet. Huge, almost six feet tall, face flushed with anger, fists clenched. His mates tried to hold him back. Without a word, he lifted the kitten and placed it on the chair. — A plate for my furry friend! — he thundered. And your finest cut of meat. Now! The waiter paled and rushed to the kitchen as applause broke out. One of the “nymphs” stood, walked over to the giant, and said: — Make room. And order a lady a whiskey. The count was speechless. Within minutes, the two other friends joined them, gifting the count a contemptuous glare. Not everyone left the restaurant together that night. One group — a man, a woman, and a scruffy grey kitten — walked out in triumph. Time passed. Today, the first of the friends is married to that giant — owner of a major investment firm. The other two married his pals, both top lawyers. Their weddings were held on the same day. Now, the former “nymphs” have a totally different life: nappies, cooking, cleaning, with baby daughters all born within months. To freshen up, they send their husbands off for football or fishing at weekends, call the nanny, and head back to their favourite restaurant — to talk about women’s stuff. About men. As for Count Coburg Colden Saxon — a year later, he was arrested. A high-profile case — a marriage fraudster preying on unsuspecting women. Real men, happily, aren’t like that. I mean those three — with beer bellies and balding heads, with no glamour or airs, but truly honourable hearts. And that’s that. There’s really no other way.

The waiter hurried over, intent on removing the stray kitten. But a towering Englishman intercepted

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Julia Steps Off the Bus with Heavy Bags and Heads to Her Family Home—“I’m Home!” She Calls, Opening the Door. “Julia, Darling!” Everyone Rushes to Greet Her—“We Knew You’d Be Here!” That Evening, Gathering at the Big Family Table, There’s a Knock at the Door. “Probably the Neighbours, Coming to Wish Us Well,” Her Mum Shrugs and Opens the Door, Returning Not Alone but with Unexpected Guests. Julia Looks at the New Arrivals and Can’t Believe Her Eyes

Tuesday, 24th December I stepped off the bus, arms aching from the weight of two shopping bags.

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“So, is he going to live with us now?” he asked his wife, casting a glance at their son…

So, will he be living with us now? he asked his wife, glancing at their son… Margaret Taylor got