She sent me a $1,000 invoice for “emotional labor”—right after demanding I plan her wedding for free, buy a $1,500 bridesmaid dress, and help cover a $30,000 venue bill when her fiancé’s check bounced the night before the ceremony. And she wasn’t asking nicely—she expected it, like we owed her.
This was after months of nonstop group chats, ridiculous dress codes, and a Monaco bachelorette trip none of us could afford. She turned every request into a guilt trip, shamed anyone who pushed back, and called it all “celebrating friendship.”
She thought we’d stay quiet. She thought we’d keep smiling and show up no matter what.
But we weren’t just done—we had a plan. And when it hit, it didn’t just ruin her big day. It made damn sure she’d never try this again.
The Ask, Sealed with Sparkle
The text alert pinged, standard issue chirp, but the preview on my phone screen was anything but ordinary. It was Jessica. ‘OMG SARAH! HUGE NEWS! Call me ASAP!!! ✨💍💖’ The cascade of emojis was classic Jessica – enthusiasm dialed up to eleven, even via text.
I put down the invoice I was finalizing for the Henderson corporate retreat – my actual job, the one that paid the mortgage – and dialed. Mark glanced up from his laptop across our shared home office space, raising an eyebrow. I mouthed, “Jessica,” and he gave a small, knowing nod before turning back to his code.
“SARAH!” Jessica practically screamed into the phone before I even got a ‘hello’ out. “He did it! Liam actually did it! We’re engaged!”
Behind the shriek, I could hear the genuine thrill. Jessica had been laser-focused on getting a ring from Liam for the better part of two years. “Jess, oh my god, congratulations!” I tried to match her energy, picturing her bouncing on the balls of her feet, hand likely splayed dramatically to showcase the new hardware. “Tell me everything! How did he ask?”
She launched into a breathless, highly-curated narrative involving a surprise trip to Napa, a private vineyard tour, a ridiculously oversized diamond (“Honestly, Sarah, it’s almost too big, haha!”), and a photographer hiding in the vines. It sounded expensive. It sounded very Jessica.
“It was perfect,” she sighed, the energy momentarily dipping into faux-humility. “Just… perfect.” Then, the switch flipped back. “So, obviously, the wedding is going to be epic. Like, the wedding of the year. And that, my dear Sarah,” her voice dropped conspiratorially, “is where you come in.”
My stomach gave a little clench. I loved Jessica, truly. We’d navigated terrible dorm food, disastrous college breakups, and questionable fashion choices together. But there was a side to her, a steamroller tendency wrapped in charm, that could be exhausting. Especially when she wanted something.
“Okay,” I said slowly, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear, already opening a new folder on my desktop instinctively. Event planner habits die hard. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, first things first,” she chirped, the sound bright and brittle. “I need my best girls standing beside me. And Sarah, you’re my rock. My organized, amazing, gets-shit-done rock. Will you be my Maid of Honor?”
A warmth spread through my chest, momentarily pushing aside the unease. Maid of Honor. That was big. It meant she still saw me as that essential friend, despite our lives diverging – me with the family and the home-based business, her with the power suits and the downtown condo. “Jess, I’d be honored,” I said, and I meant it. Mostly.
“YAY!” More ear-splitting enthusiasm. “Okay, so MOH duties are pretty standard, you know the drill. But also…” A slight pause. Here it comes. “Since you’re, like, literally a professional planner, I was hoping you could… you know… help?”
“Help how?” I asked carefully, keeping my tone neutral. I sometimes gave friends discounted ‘day-of coordination’ services, but full planning was my livelihood.
“Oh, just… oversee things? Make sure my vision comes together? You know, bounce ideas, maybe handle some vendor calls? It would mean the world to me. Like a wedding gift, but better!” She laughed, a light, tinkling sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes, even metaphorically over the phone.
My stomach tightened again. Asking me to be Maid of Honor was one thing. Asking me to essentially plan her wedding for free, under the guise of friendship? That was the looming issue, the one sparkling just beneath the surface of the engagement announcement. The expectation was clear: my time, my expertise, gifted freely because we were friends. It wasn’t just about being a bridesmaid; it was about being an unpaid wedding planner.
“Jess, my business…” I started, trying to find the words.
“Oh, I know you’re busy!” she cut in smoothly, preempting the objection. “But this will be FUN! Think of it – us, planning the most amazing wedding ever! It’ll be just like planning homecoming back in college, but with, like, a million-dollar budget!” She giggled.
A million-dollar budget. Right. And I suspected very little of that budget was allocated for planning services if she could get them for free.
“We can talk details later,” she rushed on, sensing my hesitation. “Right now, just say you’ll do it! For me?”
There it was. The manipulation, soft-pedaled but present. Making it personal. Refusing felt like rejecting her, not just the unpaid labor. Against my better judgment, against the warning bells clanging in my head, I heard myself say, “Okay, Jess. Okay. I’ll help.”
The squeal that followed was deafening. “You’re the best, Sarah! THE. BEST. Okay, gotta go call Chloe and Megan! Bridesmaid group chat coming soon! Love you!” Click.
I lowered the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen. Mark was watching me again, his expression unreadable.
“Maid of Honor?” he asked.
I nodded. “And unofficial, unpaid wedding planner, it seems.”
He winced. “Jessica.” It wasn’t a question.
“Jessica,” I confirmed, sighing. The sparkle from her announcement already felt tarnished. This wasn’t just going to be about choosing dresses and planning a shower. This was going to cost me. I just didn’t know how much yet.
Dress Code Dictate
The first official “Bridesmaid Pow-Wow,” as Jessica dramatically titled the group email invitation, was held at a chic downtown brunch spot. The kind where avocado toast costs twenty dollars and the mimosas flow freely – provided you’re buying. Jessica waved away the menu. “Oh, just bring us a bottle of the Veuve Clicquot Rosé, darling,” she told the waiter, not even glancing at the price. Chloe, the youngest of the bridesmaid trio (the others being Megan and Olivia, who couldn’t make this brunch), shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Chloe was a kindergarten teacher; Veuve Rosé wasn’t exactly in her daily budget. Neither was it in mine, frankly.
“Okay, girls!” Jessica beamed, clapping her hands together once the champagne was poured (by her, ensuring her glass was fullest). “First order of business: the dresses!”
She pulled out her tablet, tapping the screen with a perfectly manicured finger. “I’ve been doing some deep dives on Pinterest, obviously. And I’ve found the perfect look.”
She turned the tablet around. Displayed was a photo from a high-fashion runway show. The models wore ethereal, oyster-colored silk gowns with intricate, hand-sewn beadwork cascading down one shoulder. They were undeniably stunning. They also screamed ‘couture’ and ‘eye-watering price tag.’
“Aren’t they divine?” Jessica breathed, her eyes shining.
Megan, ever the pragmatist (and a lawyer who dealt in cold, hard facts), leaned forward. “They’re gorgeous, Jess. Where are they from?”
“Oh, it’s a little boutique designer based in Milan,” Jessica said dismissively, waving her hand as if Milan were just down the street. “I’ve already reached out. They can custom-make them for us.”
I felt my mimosa curdle slightly in my stomach. “Custom… Milan…” I started, trying to keep my voice light. “Jess, have you gotten a quote for those?”
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