When my brother’s icy fiancée suddenly acted like my best friend after his proposal, I sensed trouble. I declined her maid-of-honor request—but then vendors started calling to confirm wedding plans. She’d used my name behind my back… and that was just the start.
I’m no professional planner, but everyone turns to me for events that shine.
Weddings, baby showers, anniversary dinners—I’ve done them all.
Earlier this year, I planned my boyfriend’s sister’s wedding. Bridesmaid? Yes. Also coordinating vendors and choosing linens at 2 a.m.? Absolutely.
But being the go-to for celebrations comes with a catch: there’s always someone who doesn’t value your effort.
For me, that was my brother’s girlfriend, Sarah.
From the start, Sarah gave me that fake, syrupy smile. You know the one.
She’d toss out snide remarks like, “You really go overboard for these little parties, huh?” Or my favorite: “Not everything needs to be a Pinterest masterpiece.”
She never thanked me for the holidays or birthdays I hosted. Just backhanded compliments.
“The decorations were… bold,” she’d say, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I’d probably keep it simpler, but that’s just me.”
Every encounter left me feeling stung, like I’d been coated in sugar and rolled in shards.
Then Liam proposed.
The second that ring hit her finger, Sarah transformed overnight.
Suddenly, she was calling every other day, tagging me in “maid of honor inspo” on Instagram like we’d been planning her wedding since childhood.
“Oh my gosh, this centerpiece is perfect!” she’d gush over the phone. “I’m sending you a screenshot.”
It was strange and disorienting, but I thought maybe she was trying to bond since we’d be family.
A week into her charm offensive, Sarah’s real motive slipped out.
“I want you to be my maid of honor,” she said at one of our new, frequent coffee dates. “And I’d love for you to help plan the wedding. You have such great taste. It’ll be stunning.”
I nearly choked on my latte.
We weren’t close. We barely got through family dinners. Yet there she was, batting her eyes like we were lifelong friends.
“Sarah, that’s kind,” I said, keeping my voice even. “But I’m swamped for the next six months. I can’t give your wedding or maid-of-honor duties the time they need. I’d love to be a bridesmaid, though.”
Her smile froze, then cracked.
“Well,” she said, her tone sharp, “you planned your cousin’s wedding. And your boyfriend’s sister’s.”
“I know, but those were different. I really can’t take on another planning project.”
Her eyes turned cold, calculating. “I see.”
After that, Sarah went silent. No more texts about color schemes or venues. No more Instagram tags or Pinterest boards.
I assumed she’d moved on, maybe asked a real friend to be maid of honor.
I was wrong.
Two weeks ago, Marcus, a hotel coordinator I often work with, called.
“Hey! Confirming your wedding details. Everything set for the spring date?”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“Your wedding? Sarah said you were planning it and booked through us. She mentioned you’d follow up on the headcount.”
“Marcus,” I said slowly, “I’m not getting married. And I’m not planning Sarah’s wedding.”
Silence. Then confusion.
His voice turned cautious: “That’s strange. She used your name when she called. Asked for a 25 percent discount because of our past work.”
“Twenty-five percent?” I felt dizzy.
The pieces started falling into place, and it wasn’t pretty.
I made calls.
Every vendor I’d worked with—the florist with the stunning cascades, the photographer who nailed my cousin’s sunset shots, the bakery with the amazing red velvet cakes.
Sarah had contacted them all, used my name for discounts, and said I’d finalize details.
Some even had me listed as the official planner.
I didn’t bother with pleasantries when I called her.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Oh, hi,” she said, calm as ever. “What’s wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong. You’ve been using my name with vendors. Getting discounts. Booking appointments. Without my permission.”
She laughed. “It’s not a big deal. You weren’t helping, so it’s the least you could do.”
“The least I could do? Sarah, you lied to people. You used my reputation—”
“Your reputation’s fine. It’s just a few calls.”
She genuinely didn’t get it.
This woman had impersonated me, leveraged my professional relationships, and thought it was nothing.
“You can’t use my name without permission,” I said, struggling to stay calm. “Especially not to scam discounts and make people think I’m planning your wedding when I said I couldn’t.”
“Scam?” Her voice sharpened. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
We argued for 20 minutes.
Her acting like I was overreacting, me explaining why identity theft—because that’s what this was—wasn’t okay.
Finally, I called her out.
“You’re acting like an entitled bridezilla, Sarah!”
She hung up.
Ten minutes later, Liam called.
“Drop this,” he said, no preamble. “Sarah’s upset, and you’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“Liam, she used my name without permission. She lied to vendors—”
“The vendors will sort it out. You’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting? She impersonated me!”
“She’s stressed about the wedding. Let it go.”
That’s when I knew I couldn’t let this slide.
This wasn’t about pettiness or grudges. It was about respect, boundaries, and Sarah dragging my reputation through the mud.
A week later, the final blow came.
Mom told me—Sarah couldn’t even say it herself—that I’d been uninvited from the wedding.
Not just dropped from the bridal party. Completely cut from the guest list.
“She doesn’t want negativity on her big day,” Mom said carefully, like she was handling dynamite. “Maybe it’s best to let things cool off.”
Negativity. Right. Because defending yourself against identity theft is negativity.
All I’d done was politely tell vendors I wasn’t planning Sarah’s wedding, calling it a “misunderstanding.”
But now, I was done playing nice.
I contacted every vendor she’d reached out to, plus a few she hadn’t yet. I explained everything—the impersonation, the lies, the disrespect for my professional boundaries.
Here’s the thing about relationships in any industry: reputation matters.
I’d worked with these vendors for years. Paid on time, referred business, treated them with respect.
They all agreed to blacklist Sarah.
One by one, every vendor she’d tried to book through my connections shut her out.
Her dream wedding fell apart.
Her backup wedding is at a suburban chain hotel. No five-tier cake with hand-piped roses—just a thawed-out sheet cake from the grocery store.
No professional photographer for golden-hour shots—just Uncle Bob with his iPhone.
The family group chat’s been chaos since. Half think I went too far. Half think Sarah got what she deserved.
Liam’s barely talking to me. Mom’s trying to mediate.
But me? I’m at peace.
Sipping my coffee, scrolling through Sarah’s wedding posts on Instagram. The dated hotel ballroom with its tacky wallpaper and harsh lighting. The sad grocery store flowers. The cake that looks like it’s from a gas station.
And I smile.
Because here’s what I learned: when you treat people like stepping stones, don’t be surprised when they stop letting you walk all over them.
