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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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My Mother-in-Law Gave Me a “Hinting” Cookbook for My 35th Birthday—So I Gave Her the Gift Right Back

Did you chop this salad yourself, or is it again from one of those ghastly plastic tubs, the kind you

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Mum’s Not Exactly Winning Any Parenting Awards: How Anna’s Cold Mother-in-Law Tried to Turn Her Son Against Her Until the Truth Finally Came Out

Mums Not Exactly the Best Emily, have you left your wet towel hanging in the bathroom again?

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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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“We’re Staying Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Entitled Family, Changed the Locks, and Reclaimed My Own Home The intercom didn’t just ring—it screeched, desperate for attention. I glanced at the clock: 7 AM on a Saturday, my one chance to sleep in after slogging through the quarterly report—not exactly the best time for uninvited visitors. The screen lit up with my sister-in-law’s face. Svetlana—now just “Sue,” my husband’s sister—looked ready to storm the Tower of London, three wild-haired children crowding behind her. “Ian!” I bellowed, ignoring the receiver. “Your family’s here. You deal with them.” Ian stumbled out of our bedroom, fumbling his shorts on backwards. He knew by my tone there was no loyalty left in reserve for his relatives. While he mumbled into the intercom, I stood, arms folded, making it clear this was my flat—my rules. I’d bought and paid off this three-bed in Central London years before saying “I do,” and the last thing I wanted was a house full of freeloaders. The door flung open and in tumbled the whole circus. Sue, burdened with bags, didn’t even greet me—she just shoved past, as if I were a coat-stand. “Oh praise the Lord, we’ve made it!” she sighed, dumping her luggage on my expensive Italian tiled floor. “Alice, why are you blocking the way? Put the kettle on. The kids are starving after the journey.” “Sue,” I said coolly. Ian hunched his shoulders, knowing he’d meet the gallows later. “What’s going on?” “She didn’t tell you?” Sue went full ‘innocent victim’ mode. “Our place needs major work—pipes, new floors, the lot. Can’t live in all that dust. We’ll just crash here for a week. And you’ve got all this space we wouldn’t want to go unused.” I shot Ian a look. He studied the ceiling. Death row awaited. “Ian?” “It’s only for a week, Alice,” he bleated. “Where else can they go? Just a week.” “One week,” I declared. “Seven days, exactly. You buy your own food. The kids don’t run wild, no sticky fingers on the walls, no one comes near my office. And silence after ten.” Sue rolled her eyes, scoffing, “Oh, aren’t you the prison warden! Fine, deal. Where are we sleeping? Not on the floor, I hope?” That was the start of hell. “One week” turned into two. Then three. My pristine, designer-kissed flat became a wreck. The entryway was a mountain of filthy shoes. The kitchen—a disaster of greasy countertops, crumbs, and mysterious puddles. Sue acted like lady of the manor, treating me like one of her maids. “Alice, why’s the fridge empty?” she asked one evening, peering at the bare shelves. “Kids need yogurts. As for us, Ian would like a proper steak. You’re the high earner here. You could look after family.” “You’ve got a card and a phone. Use them,” I replied without looking up. “There’s 24-hour delivery.” “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming my fridge so hard the bottles clattered. “Can’t take it with you when you’re gone, remember.” But the final straw wasn’t even that. Coming home early one night, I found my nephews in my bedroom. The eldest was jumping on my orthopaedic mattress—pricey as a round-the-world ticket—and his sister was drawing on the wall. With my Tom Ford lipstick. Limited edition. “Out!” I roared, sending them scattering. Sue came running at the noise, took in the graffiti and broken lipstick, and just waved it off. “Oh, come on! They’re just kids! It’ll wash off. And your lipstick’s just a chunk of dyed fat, Alice—you’ll buy another. By the way, our builders are hopeless drunks. Looks like we’ll be staying till summer. It’s not like you two get lonely here—think of the fun!” Ian just stood there. Spineless. I said nothing. I walked to the bathroom, resisting the urge to become a tabloid headline. That night, Sue went for a shower, leaving her phone on the kitchen table. The screen lit up with a message I couldn’t help but read—in big bold letters: a transfer from “Marina Rentals” had landed. “Sue, I’ve sent next month’s rent. Tenants are thrilled—want to extend through August?” Followed by a bank notification: “+£800 received.” Everything clicked. There was no renovation. My husband’s dear sister had let out her own flat for a tidy profit, came to live in comfort and luxury at my expense, and was pocketing passive income on the side. I snapped a photo of her phone with mine. My hands were steady—calm, cold, clear. “Ian, come to the kitchen,” I called. He saw the photo, paled, and looked back at me. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” he said. “No, Ian—the mistake is you not throwing them out,” I said evenly. “You have a choice. By tomorrow lunchtime, either they’re all gone—or you move out with them. You, your mum, your sister, and the whole travelling show.” “But where—?” “I don’t care. Under Tower Bridge for all I mind.” Sue waltzed out bright and early, shopping bags in hand, leaving Ian with the kids. Once she was gone, I said, “Ian, take the kids out. To the park. All day.” “Why?” “Because this flat’s about to get a deep clean—from parasites.” Once they were gone, I called a locksmith and the police station. Hospitality was over. It was time for a purge. The locksmith—a bear of a man with a forearm tattoo—installed a monstrous lock. “Good door,” he said. “But this lock’s a beast. No way in without power tools.” “Exactly what I want,” I replied. I filled black rubbish bags—Sue’s bras, kid’s tights, toys. Tossed her cosmetics in without a thought. After forty minutes, five bulging sacks stood in the hallway, two battered suitcases by their side. When the police officer arrived, pen hovering, I greeted him with my ownership documents. “They’re relatives?” he asked. “Ex-relatives,” I said with a smirk. “Let’s just say the family drama’s reached its climax.” Sue finally arrived. Glowing, new shoes poking out of a designer bag—her face fell when she saw the pile and me beside the officer. “What’s this?” she shrieked. “Alice, have you gone mad? These are my things!” “Correct. Take them. The hotel is closed.” She tried to barge past, but the officer blocked her way. “Do you live here? Any paperwork?” “I’m his sister! We’re just staying—” She spun to me, cheeks blazing. “Where’s Ian? He’ll fix you!” “Go ahead—call him.” But he didn’t answer. For once, he’d grown a spine, or maybe just feared the divorce and asset split. “You’ve no right!” Sue shrieked, a shoebox tumbling from her shopping bag. “We’re having work done! We’ve nowhere to go! I’ve got kids!” “Liar,” I snapped. “Say hi to Marina. Ask her if your tenants will extend the lease, or whether you’ll have to turf them out.” Her mouth dropped. Air leaked from her like a punctured balloon. “How did you…?” “Should lock your phone, businesswoman. You lived for free. Ate my food. Wrecked my home while letting your place out to save for a car? Genius. But listen: Take your stuff and leave. If I see you, or your precious children, within a mile of my home, I’ll call HMRC. Unregistered subletting—tax fraud will interest them. Oh, and I’ll report you for theft—my gold ring’s gone missing. Guess where the police might find it?” The ring was in my safe, of course, but Sue looked set to collapse. “You’re vile, Alice,” she spat. “God will judge you.” “God’s busy,” I said, “but I have all day. And my home’s finally free.” She clutched her bags, dialing Ubers with trembling fingers as the police officer idly watched. When the lift doors hid her, I turned to him. “Thank you for your service.” “Best to stick with good locks,” he grinned. I turned, shut my door, and locked it with a satisfying click. The smell of bleach said the cleaners had been thorough. Ian came back alone, eyes wide, cautious. “Alice…she’s gone.” “I know.” “She said awful things about you—” “I don’t care what rats scream as the ship goes down.” I sat at my kitchen table, sipped espresso from my favourite cup. No more lipstick art on the walls. Fresh food in my fridge—just for me. “Did you know about the rental?” I asked without looking up. “No, honest. If I had—” “If you had, you’d have kept quiet,” I cut in. “Listen closely, Ian. This was your family’s last free ride. One more stunt, and your bags will join theirs. Got it?” He nodded, fast, terrified. He knew I wasn’t bluffing. I took another sip. It was perfect—hot, strong, and finally, blessedly, enjoyed in the total peace of my own home. No crown too heavy here—it fit just right.

Were just staying until summer!: How I Sent My Husbands Pushy Family Packing and Changed the Locks The

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You Think I’m Struggling? My Husband Chuckled, Unaware That I Had Just Sold My ‘Pointless’ Blog for Millions!

Youre broke, and Im the one whos getting ahead! James chortled, oblivious to the fact that I had just

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My Mother-in-Law Gave Me a Cooking Bible “With a Hint” for My 35th Birthday—and I Gave the Gift Right Back

Did you actually chop this salad yourself, or is it more of those grim little boxes you use to poison my son?

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Mum’s Not Exactly a Star: When Grandma’s Whisper Campaign Almost Tore Us Apart, and How We Fought to Win Our Son Back

You know, my mother-in-law was never exactly the warm and fuzzy type. “Emily, did you leave that

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“I refuse to trudge to that wretched village to lay your mother to rest,” her husband retorted. However, when he learned of her fortune, he arrived with blooms in hand.

Im not dragging myself out to that godforsaken village to bury your mum, Victor snapped. But when he

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Someone Else’s Bride Valery was in high demand. He never needed to advertise in newspapers or on TV – his name and phone number always spread “word of mouth”. Need an MC for a concert? No problem! Hosting an anniversary or wedding? Perfect! He’d even hosted a kindergarten graduation once, winning the hearts of both the children and their mums. It all began simply enough. A close friend was getting married, but their pre-booked host went on a bender and never showed up. With no time to find a replacement, Valery grabbed the mic. Back in school, he’d performed in drama club and joined the university’s comedy society – improv came naturally. He did a stellar job, and right there at the reception, two guests asked him to host their events. After university, Valery got a job at a local scientific institute, earning next to nothing. The money from his hosting gigs was a revelation – before long, he made ten times his day-job salary entertaining at events. Within a year, Valery left his nine-to-five, bought quality equipment, registered as self-employed, and officially made hosting his career. He even started singing lessons and soon became a singing host, moonlighting as a restaurant vocalist three nights a week. Now 30, Valery was good-looking, well-off, and known as a decent singer, DJ, and all-around outstanding host. He wasn’t married – why would he be? Girls threw themselves at him; any flirtation could turn into a fling. But gradually, as his friends married and had children, Valery started yearning for his own bit of domestic bliss. Only problem? Not one of the easy flings interested him long-term, and what he wanted was one love, for life. “You need to find a young girl, train her up, and marry her when she turns 18. Perfect wife!” he’d joke. He even began accepting jobs for school proms, in hopes of scouting a future partner. But modern girls never matched his idea – and so, as he put it, he kept “hunting for a rare specimen”. That was when fate decided to have a laugh with him. At first, nothing seemed unusual. A woman called, name-dropping acquaintances. “We need a wedding host. Are you available June 17th? Perfect! Can we meet?” They met. And for the first time, Valery understood the meaning of “the ground fell away”. The woman, introducing herself as Katherine, was stunning – and clearly clever; she spoke smartly, to the point, handling every detail. At a glance, Valery thought she might be 25, perhaps a little older. But in conversation she mentioned being in the Girl Guides, so she was at least 40. They agreed on the job and wrote up a contract, though Katherine objected, “There’s really no need – I trust you, you come highly recommended!” Valery insisted – he always worked with a contract, for his records as much as theirs. But he secretly admitted he just wanted concrete proof she was real. Her phone chimed – a text. “Ah, my fiancé is here. Need a ride?” Valery declined but walked her out, not out of habit but out of jealousy. He was expecting a mature man, maybe in his 40s. Instead, a lad several years his junior hopped out of the car: “Katherine, all OK?” She smiled serenely. After helping her in, he greeted Valery warmly, “You must be the host for our wedding! Pleased to meet you – I’m Rupert, the groom.” Valery wanted nothing more than to punch “Rupert, the groom” and wipe that happy grin off his face, but instead just shook his hand. “Valery, pleasure.” From that day, Valery was obsessed. Any excuse to call Katherine, to hear her voice, to see her. The wedding day drew close and he felt he was going mad. A friend, the only one he confided in, teased, “What about those girls you wanted to train up as the perfect wife?” Valery would just wave him off. “Sod schoolgirls – Katherine’s perfect, she’s all I want.” “So tell her how you feel,” his friend advised. But Valery snapped, “Don’t be stupid! She’s getting married. She must love him. What would she want with me and my hopeless feelings?” Sometimes Rupert would swing by with an errand from Katherine, and Valery seethed with envy, barely restraining himself. He even considered backing out of the gig. But then he’d never see Katherine again. And he always relented. Two days before the wedding, Katherine came to finalise the script – the office was being renovated, so they met at Valery’s flat. They talked, joked, laughed, nailed down the last details. Valery suggested a glass of champagne, “To a perfect wedding.” Katherine agreed, relaxed and beaming. Somewhere between laughter, Valery kissed her – and, unexpectedly, Katherine kissed back. He woke up the next morning, unsure if it was real… her perfume lingering on the pillow confirmed it wasn’t just a dream. But now what? Wasn’t the wedding going ahead? He called her. “Hi…” She greeted him cheerfully, “Hello! Sorry I left quietly, but there’s so much to do, you know, wedding tomorrow!” “So the wedding’s still on?” he said bleakly. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s fine!” Were all women this heartless? Could she really look Rupert in the eye tomorrow? Valery was in torment. Sabotage the wedding? But did he even want someone so devious? He admitted to himself: yes, he did. Any version of her. On the big day he arrived early; the decorators eyed him flirtatiously. And then— Katherine appeared. “Hi. I ran out straight after the registry – just wanted to see you before things kicked off.” She grinned radiantly. Valery was confused: “So there was a registry? You ran out after?” “Of course, silly. Who wants to spend a day carousing with the youngsters when I could be here with you? Unless you mind.” Valery was baffled: “Wait, with youngsters? Aren’t you the bride?” Katherine stared at him in stunned silence, then burst out laughing – a pure, infectious laugh that made Valery smile despite himself. “Goodness, no! My daughter – she’s in university up in Edinburgh. She just flew in yesterday. Did you think I was the bride?” “And that, two days before the wedding, I’d sleep with someone else? You have a high opinion of me…” Finally, the penny dropped. Katherine never once implied she was the bride; she always said “the bride and groom”. Rupert never called her “Kathy”, always “Katherine”, always formally. How had he not seen it before? He finally asked the big question: “But you – are you free?” When she nodded, he blurted, “Marry me. Please.” The wedding was a triumph; the MC outdid himself and the guests were rapturous. The newlyweds came to thank him. “Thank you – we don’t know how to repay you for such a wonderful evening.” Katherine joined them. “I’ll thank him myself. Off you go, your limo’s waiting – I’ll watch over things here.” Word raced through Valery’s family: he was marrying a woman nine years older than himself. At first, relatives were wary; but then, after meeting Katherine, everyone agreed: “How could you not fall for her?” Katherine and her daughter gave birth just two weeks apart. Someone Else’s Bride

Someone Elses Bride Charlie was a man in high demand. He never once put out an advert in the local paper