My best friend stole $300 from me with a cheerful text message, and that wasn’t even the worst thing she did.
It started with an honor and ended with a bill. A very, very long bill.
She asked for my time, my money, and my dignity, all in the name of her “perfect day.”
I smiled and paid, again and again, until I had nothing left to give.
But she underestimated me. She thought I was a doormat, but she forgot that even doormats get dirty, and eventually, all that dirt has to go somewhere.
She was about to find out that revenge isn’t just sweet; it’s a dish best served with a stain that will never, ever wash out.
The Golden Handcuffs: The First Little Ask
The phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, its screen lighting up with a picture of Jessica and me from ten years ago, all sun-bleached hair and cheap sunglasses. My son, Leo, didn’t look up from his furious scribbling of a dragon at the kitchen table. My husband, Tom, glanced over from the sink where he was washing dishes.
“It’s Jess,” I said, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “She’s probably going to tell me.”
“Tell you what?” Tom asked, his voice muffled by the running water.
“He proposed. I have a psychic feeling.” I swiped to answer, putting it on speaker. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You have some news?”
Jessica’s shriek was pure, uncut joy. “Oh my god, Maya, how did you know? He did it! Last night, at the botanical gardens! We’re engaged!”
A genuine smile spread across my face. This was it. The moment we’d been talking about since we were kids, passing notes in class about our dream weddings. “Jess, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!” I could hear the emotion in my own voice, a real, uncomplicated happiness for my oldest friend.
“We have to do lunch tomorrow. Just us. My treat,” she said, her voice giddy. “We have so much to talk about. So, so much.”
The next day, sitting across from her at our favorite downtown bistro, the diamond on her finger caught the light and sent a tiny rainbow dancing across the tablecloth. She was radiant, lost in the glow of her own future. She told me the whole story—the fairy lights, the surprise, the tears. I listened, rapt.
Then she leaned forward, her eyes serious. “Maya. You know you’re more than a friend. You’re my sister. There’s no one else I would even consider.” She took a breath. “Will you be my Maid of Honor?”
Tears welled in my eyes. “Of course,” I whispered. “Of course, Jess. Anything.”
She clapped her hands together. “Perfect! I knew it! Okay, first order of business.” She pulled out her phone, her thumb tapping expertly across the screen. She turned it to face me. The screen showed a model in a bridesmaid dress. It was a beautiful, floor-length gown in a very specific shade of dusty sage silk. It was also, according to the little numbers at the bottom of the screen, $550.
My smile felt suddenly fragile. “Wow, Jess. That’s… gorgeous.”
“I know, right? I want everything to feel high-end and cohesive. The silk photographs so well. I’m sending the link to everyone tonight. The order has to be placed in two weeks to guarantee the dye lot matches.” She beamed, completely oblivious to the sudden knot in my stomach. “It’s just the first step to making everything perfect.”
The Bridal Bible
Two days later, the email arrived. The subject line was cheerful, adorned with ring and champagne emojis: “Our Wedding Journey Begins! XO, The Future Mrs. Albright!”
I clicked it open while waiting for a client to approve a logo design. My work as a freelance graphic designer meant my income ebbed and flowed, and this month was definitely an ebb. Tom and I had just agreed to tighten our belts so we could afford to get the roof fixed before winter.
Attached to the email was a PDF file: Jessica’s Bridal Bible_Final_v1.pdf. It was twenty-two pages long.
I scrolled through it, my initial amusement curdling into a low-grade dread. It wasn’t a guide; it was a military-grade operations manual. There was a mandatory attendance policy for a list of events that spanned the next ten months. Monthly “Bridal Brunches” for planning. Three separate dress fittings, all on weekdays. A weekend-long “DIY décor workshop.” A series of dance lessons to learn a choreographed routine for the reception.
Each event was marked “non-negotiable.” The tone was a bizarre mix of corporate HR memo and summer camp counselor. “Let’s all commit to making this the most magical time of Jessica’s life! Punctuality is a sign of respect!”
Tom came into my home office, holding two mugs of coffee. He set one on my desk and glanced at my screen. “What’s that?”
“The scripture,” I said, my voice flat. I scrolled down to a section titled “Financial Commitment.” It outlined expected contributions for the bridal shower, the bachelorette party, and a group wedding gift, with a suggested minimum of $200 for each. It didn’t include the dress, alterations, shoes, or travel.
“Is she serious?” Tom leaned in, his eyebrows shooting up. “A DIY workshop? You don’t even own a glue gun.”
“I do now, apparently,” I muttered. “She also wants us to learn a full dance routine to a Bruno Mars song.”
He whistled, a low, soft sound. “This is more than a wedding. This is a part-time job that you pay for.” He looked at me, his expression softening. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “She’s my best friend, Tom. Since we were seven. How can I say no? How do you say no to your best friend’s dream?”
A One-Sided Poll
The bridesmaid group chat, christened “Jess’s I Do Crew,” had been silent for a few days, a nervous quiet after the Bridal Bible had been deployed. Then, one Tuesday morning, it lit up.
It was Jessica. “Okay ladies! Time for the most fun part! Let’s pick a bachelorette destination! I made a poll! Can’t wait to see what we decide! 🎉”
Below the message was a poll with four options: A quiet spa weekend in the mountains, a wine-tasting trip to Sonoma, a relaxing beach trip to Florida, or a wild weekend in Nashville.
I immediately voted for the spa weekend. It sounded calm. It sounded relatively affordable. A few of the other girls, Sarah and Emily, voted for wine tasting. Within an hour, the quiet, cheaper options were in the lead.
Then, a new message from Jessica appeared, completely ignoring the results. “OMG it’s so fun seeing everyone vote! I was just chatting with my mom and she said Nashville is AMAZING in the spring! The honky-tonks, the music… it would be an absolute blast! I’m getting so excited just thinking about it!”
An hour later, another message. “Okay, I’ve been looking at Airbnbs in Nashville and found the CUTEST place. It’s a 4-day minimum, but totally worth it. It’s looking like the total per person for the house and activities will be around $1,500. That’s not including flights, of course. I can go ahead and book it if everyone is on board! Let me know!”
A picture of a massive, sterile-looking rental home with a rooftop hot tub appeared. No one replied. The silence in the chat was deafening. The poll, with Nashville sitting at a single vote (presumably Jessica’s), was a monument to our collective powerlessness.
I stared at the number. $1,500. Plus flights. Plus the dress. Plus the other hundred things. I opened my banking app. The number staring back at me was significantly smaller.
Before I could even figure out how to phrase a gentle, diplomatic question about the budget, Jessica sent one last message. “Silence is consent, girls! Just booked it! NASHVILLE HERE WE COME! Get your cowboy boots ready! EEEEEK!”
A Destination Far, Far Away
We were on our first mandatory Zoom call, a “Bridal Brunch” where we were all supposed to have mimosas. It was 10 AM on a Sunday. I had a lukewarm coffee and a headache. Leo was watching cartoons in the other room, the volume just a little too loud.
Jessica was in her element, screen-sharing color palettes and floral arrangements. She talked for forty-five minutes straight, outlining her vision. It was less a conversation and more a corporate presentation. The other bridesmaids—Sarah, Emily, and Lauren—had their cameras on, smiling and nodding with the glazed-over expressions of hostages.
“And the vibe is just so important,” Jessica was saying. “It has to be an escape. It has to feel like a real getaway for everyone.”
“The flower arrangements you picked are beautiful, Jess,” Sarah offered, her voice bright and forced.
“Aren’t they?” Jessica glowed. “They’ll look stunning with the ocean in the background.”
I frowned. Our city wasn’t on the ocean. Maybe she meant for a photo backdrop.
“Okay, I think that’s everything for today,” Jessica said, finally seeming to wind down. My shoulders relaxed. I could almost taste freedom. “Thank you all for being so amazing and supportive. It means the world.”
She paused, a dramatic flair she’d perfected in high school drama club. “Oh, and one last little piece of super exciting news! To really lock in that ‘getaway’ vibe we were just talking about, and to make it a truly unforgettable experience for everyone…”
She took a deep breath, her smile so wide it looked painful.
“We’ve decided to have the wedding… in Cancún!”
The silence on the Zoom call was absolute. I could hear the faint sound of Leo’s cartoons in the background. My brain felt like it had short-circuited. Cancún. Mexico. International flights. Hotel. Time off work Tom and I didn’t have.
“You’ll all have about six months to save up and book everything!” she added brightly, as if she were offering us a gift. “Okay, love you all! Bye!”
Her face vanished from the screen, leaving the four of us staring at each other’s stunned, pixelated faces before the meeting abruptly ended. I was left staring at my own reflection in the blank screen.
The Cost of a Smile: A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed
A week later, the first casualty. Chloe, a bridesmaid I only knew peripherally, posted a long, apologetic message in the group chat. She explained that with student loans and a new mortgage, she simply couldn’t afford the trip to Cancún on top of everything else. She was heartbroken but had to be realistic. She wished Jessica all the happiness in the world.
It was a graceful, honest exit.
Jessica’s reply came ten minutes later, a public execution in text form. “So sorry to hear that, Chloe. It’s a shame when people can’t prioritize the truly important moments in life. I guess this is when you find out who your real friends are. We’ll miss you (I guess).”
The cruelty was so stark it made me gasp. The chat went dead. The message was clear: dissent would not be tolerated. Surrender your savings or be branded a traitor.
A few weeks later, I sat at my desk, staring at the United Airlines booking page for Nashville. My main client’s project had been pushed back, which meant the invoice I was counting on wouldn’t be paid for another month. The flight was $480. I typed in my credit card number. Declined.
A hot flush of shame crawled up my neck. I tried again. Declined. Insufficient funds.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I had two choices: tell Jessica I couldn’t come and face public humiliation, or do the unthinkable. I logged into my bank account and transferred the money from our joint savings—the money earmarked for our leaking roof and Leo’s summer camp.
I booked the flight. The confirmation email felt like a judgment. Tom found me an hour later, still sitting in my office chair, staring at the wall.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
I just shook my head, unable to speak. He saw the airline confirmation on my screen. He didn’t say “I told you so.” He just put a hand on my shoulder, a solid, grounding weight in the middle of my freefall.
The VIP Treatment
Nashville was a blur of neon lights, deafening music, and the smell of stale beer. The forced fun was exhausting. On our last night, Jessica insisted we go to a trendy rooftop club where the line snaked around the block.
“I have a contact,” she declared, tapping on her phone. “We are not waiting in that.”
Her contact got us past the velvet rope and to a cramped table near the DJ booth. The music was so loud you could feel it in your teeth. After an hour of shouting over the bass, Jessica flagged down a waitress.
“We need a real table,” she yelled. “One of the VIP booths.”
The waitress looked skeptical. “Those have a two-thousand-dollar minimum, ma’am.”
Jessica didn’t blink. “Fine.” She turned to us, her eyes wild with excitement. “My treat, girls! My bachelorette!” We all protested, saying it was too much, but she waved us off.
When the bill came at 2 a.m., she stared at it for a moment, her brow furrowed. Then she looked at me. “Maya, sweetie, can you put this on your card? My bank sometimes flags big out-of-state charges. Everyone can just Venmo you their share tomorrow. It’ll be easier to split.”
My blood ran cold. “Jess, I… I don’t think I have that kind of room on my card.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she laughed, a little too loud. She grabbed my wallet from my purse, pulled out my Visa, and handed it to the waitress before I could react. “Just run this one. It’ll be fine.”
The waitress returned a few minutes later with the receipt. I signed it, my hand shaking. Two thousand dollars. It was more than I made in a month. The other girls were already drunk and dancing, oblivious. In that moment, under the flashing strobes, I had never felt so alone.
The Crafting Commandment
The following Saturday, I was supposed to drive two hours to my parents’ house. My dad was having a small barbecue to celebrate his retirement. It was the only weekend that worked for everyone for months. I’d been looking forward to it, to a day of easy conversation and my mom’s potato salad.
Then my phone buzzed. It was a calendar alert from Jessica. “Mandatory Favor Assembly Party! 10 a.m. – 6 p.m. at my parents’ house! Be there or be square! 😉”
I had completely forgotten. It was one of the dozens of non-negotiable events from the Bible. I called her immediately.
“Hey, Jess,” I started, trying to sound casual. “I just saw the alert for the crafting party. I am so sorry, but I totally forgot that’s my dad’s retirement party. I have to go to that.”
The line was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was clipped and cold. “Maya. There are two hundred wedding favors to assemble. Two hundred. I can’t do that by myself.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry. I can come over for a few hours in the evening to help catch up?” I offered, already feeling guilty.
“No,” she said, her voice sharp as glass. “The party is today. The other girls are all coming. I need my Maid of Honor here, Maya. I would think my wedding would be a priority for you. Especially after everything.”
Especially after everything. The unspoken threat hung in the air. After I paid for Nashville. After I’d agreed to Cancún. After everything she was demanding.
“My dad…” I started, but my voice trailed off.
“I’m sure your dad will understand,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I need you here.”
I ended the call and sank onto the edge of my bed. I called my dad. The disappointment in his voice was a physical weight. “It’s okay, sweetie,” he said, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay at all. I spent eight hours in Jessica’s parents’ basement, tying tiny ribbons on two hundred tiny boxes of stale almonds, the smell of hot glue burning my nostrils and my heart.
The Unpaid Promotion
After the last favor was assembled, and the other girls had fled with relieved goodbyes, Jessica pulled me aside in the driveway. She looked exhausted but triumphant.
“You were a lifesaver today,” she said, which felt like a slap in the face. “I need to ask you a huge favor, though.”
I braced myself.
“So, my photographer is amazing, but his flight package for Cancún is insane. He can’t get there in time for the rehearsal dinner on the beach. It’s a whole thing with the resort.” She looked at me, her eyes wide and pleading. “You’re so good with your phone camera. You have that portrait mode thing, right?”
I nodded slowly, my stomach twisting. I knew what was coming.
“I need you to be the official photographer for the rehearsal. The dinner, the speeches, all the candid moments on the beach. Just so we don’t miss anything.”
I stared at her, speechless. She wanted me to work. At her rehearsal dinner. The one I was supposed to be enjoying as her Maid of Honor.
“Don’t worry,” she added with a reassuring pat on my arm, completely misreading my silence. “You can still do your Maid of Honor speech and everything. You’ll just have to be… multitasking.”
The Final Invoice: Smile for the Camera
The sand in Cancún was as white as sugar, the water a shade of turquoise that didn’t look real. The rehearsal dinner was set up under a canopy of twinkling lights on the beach, a perfect picture from a travel magazine. A picture I was tasked with capturing.
While the other guests sipped champagne and mingled, I was on my feet, phone in hand. “Jessica, laugh with your aunt!” “Mark, can you put your arm around her?” “Everyone look at me and pretend you’re having the best time!”
My own bridesmaid dress, the sage green silk I’d had to get altered with my last hundred dollars, felt tight across my shoulders. A constant, restrictive reminder of my role here. I hadn’t had a bite to eat. I hadn’t had a real conversation. I was staff.
When it was time for speeches, I handed my phone to a confused-looking cousin of the groom. “Just hit the red button.”
I stood up, my hands trembling slightly, and read the speech I’d written. It was full of memories of us as kids, of shared secrets and lifelong friendship. The words felt hollow now, like I was talking about someone else, a ghost of a friend I used to have. As I spoke, I saw Jessica wasn’t even looking at me. She was busy showing someone a picture on her own phone.
I finished and sat down to scattered applause. My plate of food was cold.
Later, the groom, Mark, already several beers in, slung a heavy arm around my shoulders. “Give it up for Maya!” he slurred loudly to the table. “Our MVP! Hardest working, and cheapest, member of the wedding staff!”
A few people at the table chuckled. Jessica, sitting right next to him, just beamed, taking it as a compliment to her resourcefulness. She didn’t defend me. She didn’t even seem to notice the sting of his words. In that moment, watching her smile as I was being mocked, I felt something inside me finally, irrevocably, break.
The Honeymoon Tax
Back in my sterile, air-conditioned hotel room, the silence was a relief. I kicked off my heels and sank onto the edge of the bed. My feet throbbed. My head ached. I pulled out my phone, intending to just scroll mindlessly through social media, to numb out for a few minutes.
Out of habit, I opened my banking app. I just wanted to see the damage from the hotel minibar I knew I’d be raiding.
My eyes scanned the list of recent transactions. The hotel charge. An overpriced airport sandwich. And then, a charge that made my breath catch in my throat.
A $300 charge from a website called “Honeymoon Wishes.”
I didn’t recognize it. I clicked for details. The merchant was a honeymoon registry fund. The charge was processed two days ago. I hadn’t authorized it. I hadn’t even visited the website.
My hands started to shake. This couldn’t be a mistake. It was too specific. I pulled up my text messages and typed with trembling fingers.
Me: Hey, weird question. I have a $300 charge on my card from a honeymoon fund website. Do you know what that could be?
I stared at the three pulsing dots as she typed her reply. A minute later, it came through.
Jessica: Oh that! Silly me, I forgot to tell you! I just put you down for the Maid of Honor contribution we talked about. You gave me your card info for the Nashville split anyway so I just used that to make it easy! So much easier this way! See you tomorrow! ❤️
I read the message twice. Three times. The Maid of Honor contribution we talked about. We had never talked about it. She had listed a “suggested contribution” in her twenty-two-page manifesto, but we had never, ever spoken about it. She had saved my credit card information and used it, without my permission, to steal three hundred dollars from me.
It wasn’t a favor. It wasn’t an ask. It was theft.
A Quiet Decision
I stood up and walked into the bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me was a stranger. Her eyes were hollow, her smile was gone. She looked tired. She looked used up.
For ten months, I had been justifying, excusing, and enduring. She’s stressed. It’s her one big day. Our friendship is worth more than money. I had repeated these mantras until they lost all meaning.
She hadn’t just taken my money. She had taken my time with my family. She had taken my dignity. She had stood by and smiled while her future husband called me cheap labor. And then she had reached into my bank account and helped herself.
The rage I had been suppressing for so long didn’t feel hot anymore. It felt cold. It was a calm, clarifying, crystalline certainty. The debate was over. The friendship was a fiction I could no longer afford to maintain.
My gaze drifted from my own reflection to my suitcase, lying open on the luggage rack. The corner of the sage green bridesmaid dress was sticking out. That $550 piece of silk. A symbol of the first lie, the first little ask that had started this avalanche.
I walked out of the bathroom with a strange sense of purpose. I knelt on the floor and pulled the dress from the suitcase. I laid it out carefully on the cool tile, smoothing the wrinkles from the skirt. It looked like a body outline.
Then, I reached into my toiletry bag. I pulled out the small pair of sewing scissors I always packed for emergencies. And next to it, a travel-sized bottle of whitening mouthwash. It wasn’t bleach, but its main ingredient was hydrogen peroxide. It would do the job.
The Point of No Return
I held the small bottle in my hand. The weight of it felt significant, like a weapon. This was the point of no return.
A tiny, flickering voice of reason tried to surface. This is insane, Maya. This is a crazy thing to do. Just walk away. Leave in the morning. Don’t go to the wedding.
But I knew I couldn’t. Walking away was a quiet surrender. It would let her win. She would just tell everyone I was flaky, that I was the one who was a bad friend. She would spin the story, make herself the victim, and I would be Chloe 2.0. The narrative would be hers.
No. The consequence had to be as public as the humiliation. It had to be as visual as her perfect aesthetic. It had to be something she couldn’t spin. Something that would stain her perfect day as permanently as she had stained our friendship.
I unscrewed the cap on the mouthwash. The faint, minty, chemical smell filled the air. I looked at the dress one last time, a monument to a friendship that was already dead. I just had to sign the death certificate.
About the Author
