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My wedding day. My fiancé, Graham Whitmore, was in the garden, dancing with his best friend, Sloane. She was wearing a white gown. That was supposed to be my first dance. From the livestream in the bridal suite, I heard the guests cheering them on. I heard the wedding planner’s strained voice asking him when he was going to come for me. And I heard his easy laugh. “Let her wait. Sloane is my ‘practice bride.’” I killed the livestream, grabbed my tablet, and walked into the reception hall. The room went dead silent. “Congratulations, Graham. Congratulations, Sloane.” I caught the eye of the technician and signaled for him to switch the main screen from the wedding video to my tablet. On it was the wedding gift I’d prepared for the Whitmore Foundation: an exclusive licensing agreement for my personal patent. In front of every donor and board member, I tapped “Revoke.” A massive “Notice of License Termination” filled the screen. “First, I will not be signing the marriage license. The wedding is off.” “Second, effective immediately, my company is terminating all cooperation with the Whitmore Foundation.” They thought they’d ruined a wedding. They had no idea they’d just torpedoed the foundation’s eligibility for tens of millions in public funding. ... Silence. The moment I finished speaking, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the reception hall. Every trace of color drained from Graham’s face. His blue eyes were wide with shocked disbelief. His lips moved, but no sound came out. I had seen that same expression on his face just an hour ago. Only then, he had been smiling. It had been in the garden. The wedding emcee was holding a microphone, his voice booming as he worked the crowd. “Our groom looks a little nervous! Should we have him rehearse the first dance with the beautiful Sloane?” The guests let out a wave of good-natured laughter. Graham laughed too. He turned grac......

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My wedding day. My fiancé, Graham Whitmore, was in the garden, dancing with his best friend, Sloane. She was wearing a white gown. That was supposed to be my first dance. From the livestream in the bridal suite, I heard the guests cheering them on. I heard the wedding planner’s strained voice asking him when he was going to come for me. And I heard his easy laugh. “Let her wait. Sloane is my ‘practice bride.’” I killed the livestream, grabbed my tablet, and walked into the reception hall. The room went dead silent. “Congratulations, Graham. Congratulations, Sloane.” I caught the eye of the technician and signaled for him to switch the main screen from the wedding video to my tablet. On it was the wedding gift I’d prepared for the Whitmore Foundation: an exclusive licensing agreement for my personal patent. In front of every donor and board member, I tapped “Revoke.” A massive “Notice of License Termination” filled the screen. “First, I will not be signing the marriage license. The wedding is off.” “Second, effective immediately, my company is terminating all cooperation with the Whitmore Foundation.” They thought they’d ruined a wedding. They had no idea they’d just torpedoed the foundation’s eligibility for tens of millions in public funding. ... Silence. The moment I finished speaking, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the reception hall. Every trace of color drained from Graham’s face. His blue eyes were wide with shocked disbelief. His lips moved, but no sound came out. I had seen that same expression on his face just an hour ago. Only then, he had been smiling. It had been in the garden. The wedding emcee was holding a microphone, his voice booming as he worked the crowd. “Our groom looks a little nervous! Should we have him rehearse the first dance with the beautiful Sloane?” The guests let out a wave of good-natured laughter. Graham laughed too. He turned grac......

My wedding day. My fiancé, Graham Whitmore, was in the garden, dancing with his best friend, Sloane. She was wearing a white gown. That was supposed to be my first dance. From the livestream in the bridal suite, I heard the guests cheering them on. I heard the wedding planner’s strained voice asking him when he was going to come for me. And I heard his easy laugh. “Let her wait. Sloane is my ‘practice bride.’” I killed the livestream, grabbed my tablet, and walked into the reception hall. The room went dead silent. “Congratulations, Graham. Congratulations, Sloane.” I caught the eye of the technician and signaled for him to switch the main screen from the wedding video to my tablet. On it was the wedding gift I’d prepared for the Whitmore Foundation: an exclusive licensing agreement for my personal patent. In front of every donor and board member, I tapped “Revoke.” A massive “Notice of License Termination” filled the screen. “First, I will not be signing the marriage license. The wedding is off.” “Second, effective immediately, my company is terminating all cooperation with the Whitmore Foundation.” They thought they’d ruined a wedding. They had no idea they’d just torpedoed the foundation’s eligibility for tens of millions in public funding. ... Silence. The moment I finished speaking, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the reception hall. Every trace of color drained from Graham’s face. His blue eyes were wide with shocked disbelief. His lips moved, but no sound came out. I had seen that same expression on his face just an hour ago. Only then, he had been smiling. It had been in the garden. The wedding emcee was holding a microphone, his voice booming as he worked the crowd. “Our groom looks a little nervous! Should we have him rehearse the first dance with the beautiful Sloane?” The guests let out a wave of good-natured laughter. Graham laughed too. He turned grac......