Reborn at the Wedding: I Changed the Groom

In my previous life, I had just finished an abortion when I was suddenly surrounded by a swarm of reporters.

One of Dylan Prescott’s crazed fans even drove a car straight into me.

On the verge of death, I called him.

On the other end of the line, Dylan’s breathing was rough, laced with obvious lust.

“What a damn buzzkill. I knew you’d ruin my mood.”

“You’ve been clinging to me just for exposure, haven’t you? This time, you’ll get plenty.”

When I opened my eyes again, I was back five years in the past.

At my wedding with Dylan.

This time, I grabbed the hand of a certain big shot sitting below the stage. “Everyone, sorry, there’s been a mistake. The groom is actually him.”

“The wedding needs to start over.”

—

In my previous life.

I went through the abortion alone, then dragged my weak body toward the parking garage.

The dim underground lot suddenly flooded with reporters and media.

The harsh lights made my head spin.

“Tessa Newton, is it true you climbed into Oscar-winner Dylan Prescott’s bed just for exposure?”

“Did you come to the hospital to use the baby to force Dylan into marriage? Is that true?”

Dylan and I had gotten married five years ago.

Back then, his career was on the rise, so the wedding was kept simple, with only a few close friends invited.

Because of that, hardly anyone outside—hell, hardly anyone in the industry—knew we were married. Everyone just assumed I was the movie king’s number one bootlicker.

I shook my head.

I had just opened my mouth to explain when a car sped in from the side and slammed into me, knocking me to the ground.

The driver sat inside, smiling in a way that was eerie and grotesque.

“Bitch. How dare you stain my brother.”

Her voice cut through the glass and echoed in the empty, enclosed garage, like a demon crawling up from hell.

I remembered her. She was Dylan’s top fan and the administrator of his fansite, Kira Young.

All these years, I had loved Dylan down to my bones.

I’d created countless burner accounts and had long since become his top fan on every platform.

Because of that, I was familiar with every hardcore supporter who stood by him.

Even as I lay dying, my mind was still filled with Dylan.

I used the very last of my strength to dial his number.

On the other end, Dylan’s breathing was rushed, thick with desire.

“What a fucking jinx. I knew you’d ruin my fun.”

“You’ve been shamelessly tagging along just for clout, right? This time, you’ll get more than enough.”

“Alright, don’t be mad, baby. I love you. Forget that dead woman, let’s keep having fun.”

We had known each other for fifteen years, married for five.

From childhood sweethearts to a couple everyone thought was perfectly matched.

I’d let people call me his pathetic fangirl, his lapdog. I’d lost a child for him.

And not once—not even in the most fevered, intimate moments—had I heard him say he loved me.

Now, hearing him pamper and coax the woman beneath him, hearing the tenderness he’d never shown me, I felt like a complete fucking clown.

Just as I was about to lose consciousness—

A few scalding drops landed on my cheek. They weren’t mine.

“Tessa, you’re so damn stupid.”

“Tessa, wake up. Don’t sleep here, it’s too cold.”

“What the fuck are you filming for? Don’t you know how to call an ambulance?”

The man’s voice was thick with anger and helplessness, like a lion that had just lost its mate, snarling under its breath.

Then someone lifted me. Heat wrapped around my whole body.

I fought to open my eyes and finally managed to slit them the tiniest bit.

It was Harrison Ford.

The young CEO of Dylan’s film company, a rising titan in the industry.

I’d always disliked him, because Dylan would complain that Harrison never gave him the best resources.

From my angle, I could only see Harrison’s sharply defined jaw, dotted with a few droplets of water—whether sweat or tears, I couldn’t tell.

Clinging greedily to that last bit of warmth, I wanted to reach out and touch him.

In the end, I no longer had the strength.