I wasn’t upset about the money—it was the principle.

“Something’s wrong,” I told Will, showing him the messages. “They’re acting strange. All of them.”

He listened carefully before asking, “Can you show me their pictures?”

The moment he saw them, his face went pale, his hands trembling.

“Will? What’s wrong?”

“No… This can’t be right.”

My stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”

“Twelve years ago, my father died in a car accident. A drunk driving incident.”

I knew this story. He had told me about the crash that shattered his family—how the driver and passengers had never faced real consequences.

My heart pounded. “Will—”

“It’s them,” he whispered.

“Emma was driving. Rachel and Tara were in the car.”

I stared at him, unable to process what I was hearing.

“They saw my picture and panicked,” he continued. “They couldn’t face me… or you.”

Shaking, I sent a message: “Is it true? Were you in the accident that killed Will’s father?”

Hours later, Emma responded: “How did you find out?”

Rachel wrote: “We’ve regretted it every single day.”

Tara admitted: “We never thought you’d meet him. What are the chances? We’re so sorry, Lucy.”

I read their messages, feeling sick.

The wedding went on without them. It was beautiful, yet bittersweet.

As I stood before Will, saying my vows, I realized something: some friendships aren’t meant to last forever.