The Night My Husband Sold Me

I posted an invitation on my personal website for my fiancé Preston Lockwood’s private art exhibition, but I forgot to remove his ex-girlfriend, Savannah Vaughn, from the guest list.

The next day, after our wedding, Preston began his revenge. He turned our wedding night into a betting game for his friends.

Voices drew me toward the manor’s cigar room, where I found Preston, my phone in his hand. He was on a video call with his so-called “friends” in some private online club.

"First one to get a kiss gets a million dollars."

"Preston, even if Juliana is head over heels for you, this is messed up!"

"Too far? She's my wife. I own her. And I haven't even touched her! Raise the stakes!"

The men on the other end of the screen erupted in laughter.

"Seriously? Tossing your new bride to us on your wedding night? What if she turns on you?"

Preston sneered. "She was rubbing our engagement in Savannah's face. It's my own personal hell that I can't marry my soulmate. Besides…"

He held up a small vial of clear liquid and smirked. "This will make her wild. She won't even know who she's with."

The champagne glass slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor, my vision blurring with tears.

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1

Preston Lockwood’s friends were still fawning over his “creativity” on the video call from the cigar room.

A smug smile played on my husband Preston Lockwood's lips as he nodded. "Just a little fun."

"Aren't you worried Juliana will lose it when she finds out?"

Preston snorted. "Come on. I'll just say I was joking. What's she going to do, throw a fit?"

His friends applauded dramatically, lapping up his every word.

"Preston, you're so captivating. Why else would Juliana be so crazy about you? But what on earth did she do to make you angry enough to pull a stunt like this on your wedding night?"

Preston raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the flattery.

"She flaunted our engagement in Savannah’s face. Failing to protect Savannah is my life's biggest regret. If I don't teach Juliana a lesson, she'll never stop lording it over Savannah."

He continued scrolling through his phone, then broke into a grin. "Found it!"

He held up the screen. "Hot, right? These are some private sketches Juliana drew for me. Look at that body. Worth a bet, don't you think?"

They let out a chorus of vulgar whistles and whoops.

I wanted to rush in and shut him up, but my hands were trembling uncontrollably. My throat was raw, a tight, burning pain that wouldn't subside.

Preston and I had been engaged since we were children. Three years ago, when the Lockwood family's real estate company was facing an investment crisis, Preston suddenly re-entered my life.

I was drawn to his talent and looks, falling for him at first sight. I did everything I could to win him over, until he finally asked me to be his girlfriend.

When we were together, he'd meticulously mix my paints, stay with me in the studio late into the night, hold car doors open for me, and always have my favorite art supplies ready before I even had to ask.

His constant attentiveness made everyone around us green with envy.

Seeing me so happy, my parents doubled down on their support for the Lockwood family. They not only used their connections to help the Lockwood Group expand into overseas markets but also secured two major contracts for the company.

Before long, our marriage went from a distant possibility to a sure thing.

But just a month before the wedding, a woman named Savannah Vaughn showed up, claiming to be Preston's true soulmate.

And what did Preston do?

He knelt before me, his eyes filled with a panicked and fragile innocence. "Juliana, don't listen to Savannah's nonsense. It's your talent, your soul that I love. Just… please don't let her find out about us, okay? She'll make a huge scene."

I believed him. I told myself that Savannah loved Preston, but he had never loved her.

Then came the mistake that started it all. I posted the invitation to our private art exhibition online and forgot to block Savannah.

That night, Savannah posted a video of herself weeping in the gallery, her eyes red and glistening—the perfect picture of a heartbreak designed to stir sympathy in anyone who saw it.

Just before dawn, Preston's friends brought him home.

He was so drunk he could barely stand. I rushed over and asked what had happened.

One of them shot me a sideways glance and muttered, "He feels like he betrayed the one person who truly gets his art."