My Future Brother-in-Law Was Always a Pain, but He Went Too Far at Our Wedding and That Was the Last Straw for My Fiancé and Me

My soon-to-be brother-in-law had always been an issue—impolite, conceited, and constantly testing limits. However, on my wedding day, he overstepped in a way that was beyond redemption. He publicly humiliated me, turning what should have been a perfect celebration into a catastrophe. That was the final straw, and my fiancé reached his breaking point.

When Michael and I first started our relationship, it felt like something straight out of a storybook. Not an ideal one, but one filled with surprising turns. I actually shed tears on our first date because I arrived late. I hurried into the restaurant, flushed with embarrassment and struggling to catch my breath. My eyes filled with tears as I attempted to explain—traffic delays, spilled coffee, a snapped shoe strap. Michael sat in silence, clearly unsure how to react.

We managed to get through dinner, but he didn’t reach out for an entire week. I figured I had frightened him away. Then, by chance, we ran into each other at a mutual friend’s gathering. I offered an explanation, admitting I was simply an emotional person. To my astonishment, he related and confessed he was the same. That night was six years ago, and from then on, we were inseparable. No longer did I cry alone over heartbreaking movie moments involving animals—Michael cried right alongside me. He was my other half, and I knew he felt the same.

Our relationship progressed swiftly. After a mere three months, we moved in together, and that became our normal for six years. Yet somehow, a wedding was always on hold. There was always some obstacle—either I had a major situation to deal with, or Michael did—so we kept postponing it.

Then, eight months ago, Michael proposed. He orchestrated the moment so flawlessly that I didn’t suspect a thing, making the occasion even more magical. Not that I needed an engagement to confirm I wanted forever with him. But, as with any couple, there was one persistent issue. His relatives. More specifically—his older brother, Jordan.

Jordan was insufferable. Disrespectful, self-important, and convinced he was superior to everyone, including Michael.

He was only three years ahead in age but never let an opportunity pass to remind Michael that he was the eldest. I still recall our first meeting. Michael took me to his parents’ house, and since Jordan still resided there—even as a fully grown man—he was present as well. Quite ironic for someone who thought so highly of himself.

Initially, everything seemed normal. We engaged in civil conversation. But when I excused myself to use the restroom, I found Jordan waiting outside the door.

"Already bored?" he murmured, his tone smug.

I stiffened. "Not at all," I responded, maintaining a courteous but firm tone.

He chuckled. "Come on, let’s make this interesting," he suggested, moving closer.

I instinctively stepped back. "No, I’m fine," I replied cautiously, an uneasy sensation creeping up my spine.

Jordan cocked his head. "Oh, come on. My brother doesn’t deserve someone like you. You’d have a much better time with me," he added. His voice was smooth, but there was an unsettling gleam in his eyes.

Before I could react, he grabbed my waist. His hand traveled downward, pressing against my backside.

"Get off of me!" I yelled, pushing him away. My heart raced as I hurried back to the dining room, my breath shaky.

Michael glanced up as I approached. I placed a hand on my stomach, forcing a weak smile. "I don’t feel well. Can we go?"

Michael immediately stood. "Of course."

His parents looked concerned. "It was lovely meeting you, Danica," they said as we exchanged farewells.

Once inside the car, Michael turned to me. "Are you okay? Did you eat something bad?"

I took a steadying breath. "Jordan made a move on me," I admitted.

Michael’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. "What? That jerk!" His jaw clenched. "I’m confronting him."

Michael did confront Jordan, but he merely laughed it off. He insisted he had just been "testing me" as Michael’s older sibling, as if that excused his behavior. I didn’t buy it for a second, but Michael didn’t push back. At times, I wondered if he was intimidated by Jordan. Growing up, Jordan had constantly belittled him.

He always found ways to diminish Michael, making him feel inferior. Their bond had never been strong, but Michael still attempted to maintain harmony. However, as Jordan’s behavior worsened, even Michael had to admit it was beyond a joke.

Then came the messages. Inappropriate texts. Unwanted images. Vile words. I blocked his number immediately.

When I told Michael I didn’t want Jordan at our wedding, he agreed without hesitation.

One evening, Michael arrived home looking exhausted. He exhaled deeply as he sank onto the couch beside me.

"What’s wrong?" I asked, noticing the tension in his posture.

He ran a hand over his face, sighing. "I spoke to my parents. They said if Jordan isn’t invited to the wedding, they won’t come either." His voice was low, laced with frustration.

A pang of hurt shot through me. "That’s completely unfair!" I exclaimed, clenching my fists.

"I know," Michael muttered, staring at the floor.

"The way he treats me is enough reason for me not to want him there. He harassed me, sent me vile messages. Why does none of that matter to them?" My voice wavered.

Michael remained silent, his expression lost in thought.

I let out a slow breath, the weight of the situation pressing down. "Fine. He can come," I said tightly.

Michael looked up. "Are you sure?"

"Not like we have much of a choice. But your parents must guarantee I don’t have to interact with him," I insisted.

Michael embraced me. "You’re incredible," he murmured.

Finally, the wedding day arrived. My heart was overflowing with joy. I had envisioned this day for years, and it was finally happening. I was marrying the man I adored, and nothing could ruin it. Not nerves, not stress, and certainly not Jordan.

Or so I believed.

As I stood in the bridal suite, my bridesmaids putting the finishing touches on my look, everything was flawless. The gown, the makeup—everything was perfect.

Then, a knock on the door.

Smiling, I turned to answer. The moment I saw Jordan, my breath hitched.

"What are you—" Before I could finish, he lifted a bucket and, with one swift motion, drenched me in its contents. A cold, sticky liquid seeped into my dress, my skin, my hair.

"That’s for rejecting me, witch," he sneered.

The acrid scent of paint hit me first. Neon green streaked down my arms. My pristine white dress was ruined.

Jordan merely laughed, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, then slammed the door shut.

My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto a chair, sobbing. My bridesmaids gasped in horror.

"We need water!" one said, rushing for a towel.

They scrubbed, but the paint was already set. There was no saving it.

"He told everyone you ran away. Michael is panicking," another bridesmaid blurted.

Fury surged through me.

I tore off my veil, letting my streaked hair fall free. Gasps echoed around me.

Without hesitation, I stormed out. Murmurs rippled through the church as I stepped inside.

Michael, standing at the altar, looked devastated.

"I didn’t run away!" I declared, my voice cutting through the whispers.

Michael’s head snapped up. "Danica?" He rushed toward me, pulling me into his arms.

Tears burned my eyes, but I held them back. "Jordan doused me in paint and lied to everyone," I said, gesturing to my ruined gown.

Michael’s jaw clenched. He turned sharply, scanning the crowd. "Jordan! Care to explain?!" His voice was like a blade.