A week before my wedding, I thought my biggest problem was table settings and last-minute RSVP drama. Then my pregnant sister, Lily, showed up at my door with two suitcases, saying she had nowhere else to go. Daniel, my fiancé, hated the idea, but I couldn’t throw her out.

At first, I believed her story about being fired and evicted. But one night, I overheard a tense conversation between her and Daniel. When I walked in, both brushed it off, but my gut screamed something was wrong.

Days later, I logged into our honeymoon fund — the account was empty. In Lily’s room, I found a check stub with Daniel’s name and a sealed DNA envelope. My stomach turned.

That evening, I confronted them. “I know you drained the account,” I said. Lily smirked before dropping the bomb: “Daniel isn’t just your fiancé — he’s the father of my baby.”

Daniel panicked, denying it, but the envelope in my pocket burned like fire. I laid it on the table. “This DNA test proves otherwise. He’s not the father.”

The room went silent. Daniel’s face darkened with betrayal, while Lily crumbled, sobbing that she just wanted “security.” I had heard enough.

“Get out. Both of you,” I said, my voice steady. Daniel begged, claiming he was protecting me. But I slid the ring off my finger and pressed it into his palm. “Protect me from lies? No thanks.”

I shut the door behind them, my heart pounding, but for the first time that week, I felt free. I wasn’t losing a wedding — I was saving myself.