**Diary Entry – 12th June**
A few months before our wedding, Oliver showed me that blasted viral video—some groom dunking his bride into a pool during their photos. He howled with laughter. “Imagine doing that at ours,” he gasped, wiping his eyes.
I didn’t laugh.
I fixed him with a look. “Do that to me, and I’m gone. Dead serious.”
He chuckled, pulled me close, and kissed my hair. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Poppy.”
I believed him.
Our day was perfect—warm, elegant, utterly *us*. Oliver’s hands trembled as we exchanged rings. Peonies scented the air. My dad, William, squeezed my hand before leading me down the aisle. My gown—six months in the making—was layers of ivory tulle, embroidery so fine it caught the light, pearl buttons whispering as they fastened.
The venue had a pool just past the garden. During a lull, the photographer suggested shots by the water. Oliver took my hand. “You trust me, yeah?”
I smiled. “No surprises. Remember?”
He nodded. We moved into the dip pose—romantic, classic. Then he *let go*.
On purpose.
The water hit like ice. I surfaced, gasping, makeup ruined, dress heavy. Oliver was high-fiving his mates, crowing, “This’ll go viral!”
Not a hint of remorse. Just delight.
Something in me snapped—quiet but final. The man who swore to cherish me chose humiliation instead.
Then a calm voice cut through. “Poppy, love. Come.”
Dad. He strode past the stunned crowd, shed his jacket, and reached into the water. I took his hand without thinking—that’s trust.
He wrapped me in his jacket, steadied me, then turned to Oliver—not angry, just certain. “She’s done. So are you.”
No shouting. Just truth.
The reception dissolved within minutes. Mum smoothed things with the staff. I changed in the bridal suite, handed my sodden gown to a pitying attendant.
Oliver’s parents tried reasoning with mine. Got nowhere.
Back in my old room, I didn’t cry. Just stared at the pre-written thank-you cards, wondering, *How?*
Then my phone buzzed.
Oliver: *Can’t take a joke? You’re bloody uptight.*
I blocked him.
Next morning, Dad insisted I hear it firsthand. Oliver had worked at his firm for a year—a junior role, but Dad gave him a chance, trusting my judgement. That trust had limits.
Oliver swaggered in at ten. “You can’t sack me over this. It’s personal.”
“It is,” Dad said. “And professional. You broke the trust this company runs on.”
Oliver scoffed. “You’d wreck my career over a prank? We’re married—I’ve got rights—”
“You’re not,” Dad cut in. “The licence wasn’t filed. Poppy wanted to sign it post-honeymoon. Legally, nothing happened.”
Oliver paled. “Bollocks.”
I stepped forward. “Rang the registry this morning. No record. Nothing.”
Dad opened the door. “You lost a wife, a job, and you’re leaving with nothing. This wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice.”
Oliver left without another word.
Later, our housekeeper, Margaret, made tomato soup and cheese toasties. “If I’d been there,” she muttered, “I’d have shoved him in headfirst.”
We laughed. For the first time since the pool, I breathed easy.
Weeks later, I collected my dress from the cleaners. It was clean but altered—faded, stiff, like a ghost of itself. I donated it. Let someone else make it beautiful.
People ask what hurt most—the dress, the shame, the betrayal. Truth? None of it.
The real pain was him choosing to cross a line I’d clearly drawn.
Love’s foundation isn’t grand gestures. It’s respect. Without that, it’s just noise.
The firm thrived without him.
Me? I’m in a sunlit flat, editing manuscripts. Saying yes to Sunday roasts, walks in the park—small, solid joys.
And if I ever marry again, there’ll be no dips by pools. Just a man who hears “don’t” the first time.
**Lesson learned: Boundaries aren’t negotiable.**
**And real love doesn’t laugh when you’re drowning.**
