The Reborn Boxing Bride Crashed the Wedding

I arrived at the wedding venue in my wedding dress to find an octagonal fighting ring set up in the center of the stage.

My fianc Holt pulled his childhood friend Chelsea over and handed me a pair of boxing gloves with a smile.

Lynette, this is a tradition from back home. The bride has to wrestle with the groomsmen in the ringit's for good luck. I specifically asked Chelsea to go up with you. Just go through the motions.

Looking at Chelsea, who always seemed so fragile and sickly, I didn't think twice and stepped into the ring.

But the next second, her expertly executed roundhouse kick knocked me out cold with a severe concussion.

When I woke up, I was paralyzed in a hospital bed.

Holt held Chelsea's hand as he said to me:

"The guests already sent so many wedding gifts. The wedding can't be without a bride. Chelsea is willing to take care of me in your place. You're so kindI'm sure you won't mind, right?"

Tormented by extreme humiliation and severe depression, I wheeled myself to the rooftop of the wedding suite and threw myself off.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back one month before the wedding.

I turned around and knocked on the door of the national Sanda champion training facility.

"Coach, if I train for one month, can I punch someone's head off?"

The coach looked me up and down, his gaze lingering for three seconds on my skinny arms and legs. He snorted with laughter.

"Punch someone's head off? With that tiny frame of yours, one slap would send you flying."

I didn't say a word. I just pulled out a stack of cash from my bag and slapped it on the table.

Fifty thousand dollars. My savings from two years of secret stashing.

The coach contemptuously pushed the money back.

"I don't need this pocket change."

But when I rolled up my sleeve to show him the bruises from when Holt had drunkenly beaten me, the coach simply picked up the liability waiver on his desk and pushed it toward me.

"Sign this. The facility takes no responsibility for any accidents during training."

"Including but not limited to fractures, concussions, and internal bleeding!"

I grabbed the pen and quickly signed my name.

The coach put away the agreement, and the smirk on his face instantly vanished.

"Alright, starting today, I'll train you at the intensity of a professional Sanda athlete before retirement."

"I don't know if you'll be able to punch someone's head off after a month, but you'll definitely want to punch your own head off after I'm done with you."

On the first day, my sparring partner threw me forty-seven times.

Every time my back slammed into the mat, scenes from my past life flashed before my eyes.

Chelsea's roundhouse kick had knocked me unconscious.

When I woke up, I was paralyzed in a hospital bed, tubes running through my entire body.

Holt stood at the foot of the bed holding Chelsea's hand, a troubled expression on his face.

"Lynette, the guests sent so many gifts. The wedding can't be without a bride. Chelsea is willing to take care of me in your place. You're so kindI'm sure you won't mind, right?"

Would I not mind?

He got a marriage license with Chelsea on the third day of my paralysis.

Using my money, living in my house.

Everyone praised Holt for being loyal and devoted, praised Chelsea for being kind and virtuous.

Not a single person asked whether a bride who'd been kicked into a severe concussion and paralyzed from the waist down could even survive.

Thinking of this, I climbed up from the mat and waved at my sparring partner.

"Again."

The sparring partner glanced at the coach.

The coach nodded.

"Go."

That night I lay on the hard bed in the facility dorm, covered in bruises.

My phone screen lit up.

Holt sent me a message on SnapChat.

"Lynette, just finished working overtime and eating. I'm keeping an eye on everything with the wedding planner. You just relax and wait to be the most beautiful bride."

I stared at the words "working overtime," then swiped to open Ins.

Chelsea had posted three minutes ago.

A selfie in a wedding dress. In the background, draped over the arm of a sofa, was a deep blue Herms tiethe birthday gift I'd given Holt last month.

The caption was just one line: "Only the favored one gets the privilege of trying on dresses."

I gripped my phone and opened SnapChat, sending Holt a voice message.

"Honey, you've worked so hard. I'm leaving everything with the wedding planner to you. I have complete faith in you."

Then I typed.

"By the way, honey, I found this limited edition haute couture wedding dress. There are only three in the world. The deposit is two hundred thousand. What do you think?"

"Isn't that a bit expensive? A regular wedding dress would look just as good."

"But I'm only getting married once in my life. And didn't you say you'd give me the most spectacular wedding in the city?"

Silence on the other end for nearly two minutes.

Finally, one word came back: "Fine."

The corner of my mouth twitched. I turned off my phone and rolled over to face the wall.

This wedding dress was a trendy short styleperfect for throwing punches!

Holt, oh Holt.

In my last life, you took my money, my house, and tried to take my life.

This time, I'll drain you dry first.

During the day at the office, I discussed wedding dress styles with colleagues and tasted wedding cake samples, playing the happy bride to perfection.

After work, I dove straight into the gym.

I'd put on my protective gear, strap on my gloves, and the mouth that had just been texting "honey" would be gritting its teeth counting reps as I pounded the punching bag.

The coach designed a special training regimen for me focused on defending against and countering roundhouse kicks.

"You said your opponent specializes in roundhouse kicks?"

"Yes."

"What level?"

"Underground fight club sparring partner."

The coach frowned.

"People from underground fight clubs have dirty leg techniques. They don't follow proper formthey kick straight for vital points."

He pulled up footage from an underground fight to show me.

"See that? They make a small hip movement before they kick. Very fast, less than 0.3 seconds."

"What you need to do is dodge sideways to deflect the force within those 0.3 seconds, then close in for infighting."

I nodded and practiced over and over.

When I backed a six-foot-tall muscular guy into a corner, he instinctively protected his groin.

The coach cursed him for being useless, but I saw the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth.

That evening, my best friend Sophie came to pick me up from the gym.

When she saw the black and blue marks all over my arms, her eyes immediately welled up.

"Lynette, have you lost your mind? Why are you torturing yourself like this?"

I took off my protective gear and twisted open a bottle of water, downing a couple of gulps.

"Look at what I investigated."

I handed her my phone.

On the screen were screenshots of transaction records sent by a private investigator.

Holt's online loans: eighty-three thousand dollars.

Sixty-two thousand of it spent on a Cartier bracelet. Recipient: Chelsea.

Sophie's eyes went wide.

"That bastard took out loans to buy Cartier for that woman? What has he ever bought you? For your birthday, a nine-dollar bouquet of baby's breath with free shipping! Call off the wedding, Lynette! Don't marry him!"

I shook my head and took back my phone.

"That's exactly why I can't call it off. I need to make him get on his knees and cough up everything he's swallowed."

Sophie looked at me, her expression changing.

"Lynette, I don't know exactly what you're planning to do, but whatever it is, I'm on your side."

I watched her leave, then bent down to continue hitting the punching bag.

Three days before the wedding, I received the investigator's final audio recording, captured in Holt's car.

The recording featured Chelsea's voice.

"Holt, after the wedding she'll be finished. That house in her name was bought with cash, right? When you transfer it to your name, we can move in together. Won't that be perfect?"

Holt laughed. "What's the rush? After we get her house and transfer out her savings, then the marriage will have been worth it."

Chelsea giggled. "Holt, you're so bad."

"Do you like it?"

"I love it."

The recording cut off there.

I sat on the bench in the gym locker room and listened to it three times.

My hands were steady enough to back up that recording to three different cloud storage accounts.

Then I transferred the final payment to the investigator with a note: Excellent work, exceeded expectations.

Two days before the wedding, Holt's mother came to my door.

She was carrying a bag of discounted fruit from the supermarket. She plopped down on my sofa, crossed her legs, and started issuing orders.

"Lynette, I want to discuss something with you."

"That wedding house of yours was bought in full before marriage, right? Look, after you and Holt get married, you'll be family. It looks bad for a family's house to have just one person's name on it."

"Add Holt's name to it. When relatives and friends see it, they'll think you two have such a good relationship."

I held my teacup without saying anything.

"Chelsea even said that after a couple gets married, the house should be shared. You can't be so selfish."

An outsider making decisions for me, and this mother-in-law thought it was perfectly natural.

I took a deep breath and squeezed out an obedient smile.

"Mom's right. Give me the property deed and I'll go to the housing authority tomorrow."

My mother-in-law's face lit up. She pulled the property deed out of her bag and handed it over.

Good grief, she even carried the property deed with her, just waiting for me to say those words.

I took the property deed and saw off my mother-in-law.

As soon as I closed the door, the smile vanished from my face.

I took the property deed straight to a real estate agency and put the house up for emergency sale.

The 3.8 million dollar house sold for 3.5 million.

Though I lost a bit, it was better than letting Holt swallow it whole.

The money arrived that same day. I transferred it all to a private overseas account.

In my past life, Holt had sold this house and didn't give me a single cent.

This life, he wouldn't touch a single brick.

When I got home, Holt had miraculously appeared in the kitchen, holding a bowl of dark liquid he handed to me.

"Lynette, you haven't been looking well these past couple days. I specially made you some calming soup. Drink it and get a good night's sleep tonight so you can be the most beautiful bride the day after tomorrow."

I took the bowl. A medicinal smell wafted up.

In my past life, he'd used this bowl of soup to make me sleep for a full ten hours the night before the wedding, giving Chelsea plenty of time to transform the wedding venue into a fighting ring.

I brought the bowl to my lips, pretending to drink. The instant he turned around, I spat it into a tissue, crumpled it up, and stuffed it in my pocket.

"Honey, it's delicious. Thank you."

A flash of satisfaction crossed Holt's eyes.

"Get to bed early. We still have rehearsal tomorrow."

He grabbed his jacket and left the bedroom, closing the guest room door to make a call.

I pressed myself against the wall and listened to a couple sentences.

"Chelsea, she drank it. She's sleeping like a dead pig. The day after tomorrow is foolproof."

The voice on the other end belonged to Chelsea: "Holt, should I kick her left temple first or her right temple the day after tomorrow?"

Holt laughed. "Whatever makes you happy. Either way, after you kick her, she'll spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair."

I retreated to my bedroom and locked the door.

I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and organized all the evidence I'd collected over these days into a PPT, arranged by timeline.

The title was four words: "The Groom's True Story."

I set up a timed playback program and linked it to the account for the wedding venue's projection screen.

After finishing all this, I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.

No. I was a blade unsheathed.

The wedding day.

Six in the morning. Sophie arrived right on time to help with my makeup.

She unwrapped that two-hundred-thousand-dollar limited edition haute couture wedding dress, held it up to me, and her hands trembled.

"Lynette... what are all these bruises on your arms..."

"Don't worry about it. Just help me apply extra thick concealer."

Sophie bit her lip and didn't ask again. She applied three layers of concealer, barely covering the bruises.

Despite the injuries, the muscle definition on the inside of my forearms was clearly visible.

With the dress on and the veil in place, I turned a half-circle in front of the mirror.

The woman in the mirror wore a form-fitting white short dress, like she was wearing white armor.

They are the same as the waste who was kicked to the point of shattering his skull and paralyzed in a wheelchair a month ago.

The Lynette from my past life had already died falling from the rooftop.

The one who came back to life had crawled out of hell.

At eight o'clock sharp, the wedding car arrived downstairs.

Holt wore a well-tailored black suit and stood by the car door waiting for me, his cheeks clean-shaven, his shoes polished to a shine.

When he saw me, his eyes brightened.

I smiled and took his arm, getting into the car.

Chelsea sat in the passenger seat wearing a bridesmaid dress, her hair in a low ponytail, light makeup on her face.

Seeing me get in the car, she turned around and forced out a weak smile.

"Lynette, you look so beautiful today."

Then she covered her mouth and coughed twice.

I smiled and squeezed her hand.

"Chelsea, thank you for your hard work today. You're not feeling well but you're still being my bridesmaid."

"It's no trouble. Being able to witness Lynette's happiness makes me happier than anyone."

Holt glanced at Chelsea in the rearview mirror. Chelsea looked back at him.

That glance was extremely quick, less than a second, but I clearly saw the smugness, excitement, and impatience in it.

The wedding car drove all the way to the Waldorf, the city's most upscale hotel.

Flower arches, red carpet, both sides lined with flower baskets sent by guests.

Holt got out first, came around to my side and opened the door, bending down in a gentlemanly gesture.

"Lynette, we're here."

I lifted my skirt and got out, taking his arm.

We walked through the corridor and pushed open the banquet hall doors. All the guests turned their heads in unison. Thunderous applause.

I scanned the venue.

The flowers, lighting, and table arrangements were all exactly as shown in the wedding plan.

Except in the center of the stage, where the champagne tower should have been, stood an octagonal fighting ring.

The ring was surrounded by protective ropes, the floor covered with thick blue wrestling mats. On the metal rack at the edge hung two pairs of brand new boxing gloves.

I pretended to be surprised and asked Holt.

"What is... this?"

Holt gently patted the back of my hand, his tone natural.

"Don't be nervous, Lynette. This is a tradition from back home. The bride has to wrestle with the groomsmen in the ringit's called sharing good fortune. It's just a traditional custom."

He stepped aside. Chelsea emerged from behind him, holding a pair of boxing gloves.

She still wore that same expression, her voice very soft.

"Lynette, Holt insisted I go up. I couldn't refuse. Don't worry, I'm so weak, I don't have the strength of even one of your fingers. Let's just go through the motions."

The relatives below, not understanding what was happening, started heckling.

"Go on! When in Rome!"

"Don't be shy, bride!"

"Chelsea's so tiny a breeze could knock her overwhat are you afraid of?"

The noise grew louder and louder.

Everyone was laughing, making a fuss. Not a single person thought there was anything wrong with this.

Just like in my past life.

I was silent for a full ten seconds, then raised my head and looked into Holt's eyes.

"Fine, I'll do it."

Holt froze.

I paused, then continued.

"But I have one condition. If anything unexpected happens in the ring, no one blames anyone. We sign a liability waiver."

I took a pre-prepared document from Sophie and spread it open in front of Holt.

Black text on white paper, the terms crystal clear.

"During the sparring match, both parties bear full responsibility for any personal injuries sustained. The other party is not liable for compensation and cannot pursue any legal responsibility."

Holt glanced down at it twice, unable to suppress the upward curve of his mouth.

In his view, I was digging my own grave.

Chelsea's eyes lit up. She snatched the pen and signed her name.

After she signed the agreement, I turned and handed the document to Sophie for safekeeping.

Then, in front of more than three hundred guests waiting to watch the show, I slowly put on my gloves and knee pads.