It was a photo of her and Hudson, accompanied by two plane tickets to Bali. The caption read: The happiest thing in the world is going to a dreamlike place with the one you love to take beautiful wedding photos.
After ending my friendship with Harper, I had deleted all her contact information. I didn’t use social media much anymore, and it slipped my mind that I was still following her through an old college account I had set up to chase after my favorite male idols. I hadn’t thought to clean it up.
I made an appointment to select the wedding photos the next morning. As the woman assisting me in the studio noticed Hudson's absence, she asked, "Why didn’t Hudson come with you for such an important occasion?"
I responded blankly, "He’s dead, and his body is torn apart."
Her face fell in shock, eyes widening with horror. "I’m so sorry, Miss Aubrey. This is so sudden. Please accept my condolences."
I smiled, a cold twist of irony creeping into my expression. "It’s okay. He deserved it."
Flustered and unsure how to respond, she quickly led me to the VIP room.
When it came time to select the photos, I made only one request: delete every group shot and keep only my individual portraits. I chose just two photos of Hudson—a full-body shot and a headshot. Both were printed in black and white, framed, and prepared to be sent to the banquet hall on the second floor of the Royal No. 1 Hotel in four days—for a funeral.
The wedding photos I had taken turned out beautifully, and I decided to repurpose them as my personal portraits.
Later, I reached out to a few small influencers online, hinting that there would be explosive drama at the wedding—something reminiscent of a "catfishing bride" scandal. I encouraged them to seize the opportunity for the traffic it would generate.
These would be the wedding gifts I had prepared for Hudson and Harper. If everything went as planned, an even bigger surprise awaited them on the day of the ceremony.
I returned to the wedding suite that I had shared with Hudson and began packing all my belongings, including the carefully selected wedding items that now felt meaningless. I moved out that same day.
Hudson was right about one thing: the houses in our hometown were uncomfortably close to the Harpers’. It made my stomach churn to see them everywhere. After discussing it with my mother, we decided to hire a local agent to help us sell the property.