I've walked down the aisle with Tyler Andrus 99 times. And he had ditched me 99 times.

Every single time, just seconds before saying "I do", he'd bolt. He'd leave me standing there alone, humiliated, in front of everyone.

"Sharon, forgive me," he'd say after each disaster, "I was being impulsive. I swear, at our 100th wedding, I won't run."

But on our 100th wedding?

Just as we were about to exchange rings, he jumped into the ocean. He swam right to shore, where he kissed another woman in front of everyone.

Later, when he finally got tired of the game, we held our 101st wedding. This time, he surprised everyone by handcuffing himself and giving me the key.

"Babe, if I cuff myself," he smiled, "I can't run anymore."

I didn't even blink. I tossed the key straight into the trash.

"Your love? Your freedom? I don't want either anymore."

I'd already been a fool for 100 weddings.

The 101st time? That was finally my turn to disappear.

***

I stood at the front of the boat, watching Tyler cut through the waves in his sleek Sharkskin wetsuit.

His swimming form was beautiful—graceful, smooth, like a dolphin slicing through the sea.

As for me, I probably looked like a bad joke. A clumsy clown in comparison.

After 100 weddings, our families had long stopped caring. Embarrassed, angry, exhausted—they'd all backed out.

But the boat we'd rented today was packed with spectators.

They excitedly took photos, shot videos, and livestreamed Tyler's runaway groom drama across social media. Within minutes, it shot to the top of the trending list.

Ever since we broke the Guinness World Record two years ago by holding our 33rd wedding, Tyler and I have become a constant source of public fascination.

Every wedding after that only pushed the record higher.

The number of family and friends dwindled until not a single one showed up.

Meanwhile, influencers and vloggers kept piling in. At this point, even attending our wedding required a raffle ticket.

As expected, our 100th wedding ended in yet another disaster. The internet exploded again.

Within half an hour, millions of comments flooded in as netizens jumped into the debate, mocking and dissecting every detail.

"No way! I thought this one would work for sure. The 100th wedding? Come on, it's supposed to mean forever! But nope. It's just another show for this no-show groom."

"This guy's insane. He wore a wetsuit just to escape faster?! I'm betting next time he uses a helicopter."

"That poor bride… She's seriously too tragic!"

"Tragic? Please, this is performance art at this point."

"Performance art? Are you kidding? This whole thing is a PR stunt. They're probably not even married for real—just clout-chasing influencers ready to sell stuff."

"Haha, if he's not cast in Dancing with the Stars, I'm not watching!"

"Placing bets now! What's the escape strategy for the 101st wedding?"

Online, it was like a festival. People went wild.

And I, the so-called bride at the center of it all, just stood there. Calm. Detached. Like none of it had anything to do with me anymore.

Like they say—there's no magic, just practice.

Turns out, that applies to being ditched at your own wedding, too.

The first time Tyler ran off, I was shocked. Furious.

The second time? I broke down. Completely lost it.

By the third, I was crying like a total idiot.

By the 10th, I got blackout drunk and couldn't even stand.

By the 15th, the heartbreak had me questioning my entire life.

By the 70th, I was questioning the entire world.

At the 99th wedding, I got caught in a downpour and ended up with a nasty flu.

I drank antibiotics with alcohol—and almost died. They barely managed to save me in the ER.

At my hospital bedside, Tyler bawled his eyes out, swearing he'd change. He said he wouldn't hurt me again.

"I want to be your husband," he sobbed. "I don't want to be a widower, please..."

I can still hear his voice in my head. But just like clockwork, he vanished again at wedding number 100.

By now? I felt nothing.

Didn't even want to cry anymore. In fact, I almost laughed.

The diamond ring in my hand never got the chance to be exchanged. So I threw it—hard.

It sailed through the air in a graceful arc and sank to the bottom of the sea.

"Tyler, I'm done with you," I thought.

I came back from the yacht to an empty house. Quiet. Tyler still hadn't come home.

I started packing my things in silence. I was done. Even getting ready to quit my job.

We had met in college.

He's an only child, heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire.

I studied finance and worked for his company after graduation, handling all the accounting.

I stayed out of the spotlight, happy to support him from behind the scenes.

We built the company together. It thrived. But this relationship? It was falling apart.

Tyler thought I didn't know, but he had an alt account on Instagram.

I saw everything. Photos. Videos. He and Michelle Carlson were all over each other.

Every time he ditched our wedding, he had an excuse. "It's fun," he'd say.

He claimed the stress from work was too much, and that life moved too fast.

Running away from our weddings was his way of decompressing, of letting off steam—his version of stress relief.

"Sharon, you get it, right? Can't you just be a little more understanding?

"Men never really grow up. We're just big kids. If you love me, you should accept all of me.

"I'm going to be your husband eventually, anyway. Don't be so anxious. Let me enjoy my youth while it lasts.

"I just don't want to look back and realize my life was too boring. I want memories. Something wild to laugh about when I'm old."

But the truth? He wasn't escaping stress. He was running straight into the arms of Michelle, a wandering singer.

She had tattoos all over, talked like a thug, and even did jail time for fighting in bars.

And sure enough, by sunset that day, his alt account had a fresh update.

At the bar, Michelle—rocking heavy smoky eye makeup and a ripped mini skirt that barely covered half her butt—was grinding on Tyler, who looked just as ridiculous in his nose ring and punk-club getup.

He even wrote a dramatic caption to go with it.

"I ran away again. I know I hurt Sharon, but I can't help it. I don't want to lie about how I feel.

"I'm done playing the good boy. I've worn suits long enough. Is it wrong to want freedom? To be rebellious?

"Sharon's a great person, and she loves me, I know that. But she's dull. Being with her feels like I'm drowning in still water.

"Only with Michelle do I feel alive. With her, I finally remember what it means to live, and not just go through the motions."

So I'm the dull one, huh?

Maybe he's right. I am boring.

Every day, I deal with stacks of company paperwork, handling substantial amounts of money, sometimes six figures or more.

I have to be meticulous. Focused. There's no room for error—no space to relax.

Did he think I don't want to go out drinking, singing, dancing at clubs, or get spa treatments?

It's not that I don't want to. It's that I can't.

Being an adult means knowing how to prioritize. It means taking responsibility.

I once tried explaining all this to Tyler.

But it went in one ear and out the other. Then he complained about me on his alt account, saying that I was nagging him like some tragic soap opera character.

Forget it.

I unfollowed him.

After brushing my teeth and getting into bed, just as I turned off the lights, Tyler came stumbling in, reeking of alcohol.

"Sharon, I messed up again. I'm sorry. I just got carried away."

He always pulled this act after a runaway wedding, acting full of guilt, soft, and apologetic.

"Please don't be mad, okay?

"I swear next time, I'll stay. I really will marry you."

He crawled into bed next to me, trying to feel me up—same old tactic.

Whenever he played me emotionally, he tried to make up for it physically.

Thud!

I shoved him off the bed—hard. Too hard, apparently. He hit the floor with a thump.

"I'm tired," I said without looking at him.

"Ow! That hurt," he groaned from the floor.

I ignored him and picked up my phone to check flights.

That set him off. He jumped to his feet, eyes blazing.

"Sharon, can you stop being so petty? It was just a joke!

"What, you don't love me anymore?

"I've told you so many times—men need attention too! We're allowed to blow off steam sometimes!

"If you really love me, you'd accept all of me. So what's with the cold shoulder now?

"I'm gonna count to ten. If you're still acting like this, don't expect me to touch you for a month!

"One, two, three..."

He made a big show of it.

Usually, by the time he hit five, I'd cave and give in.

This time? I didn't even wait that long.

At three, I said calmly, "Tyler, let's break up."

"What? You want to break up?"

He froze and stared at me like I'd grown another head.

Then, after a few seconds, he burst out laughing.

"Sharon, come on. You're hilarious.

"Break up? Please. You love me way too much for that.

"Don't tell me you're pulling that basic chick move—using a breakup as leverage. That's not you.

"All right, enough. Quit messing around.

"Want another round? Fine—I'll go all night if that's what you want."

He leaned in again, grinning, and I stopped him, fingers on his lips.

"I'm not joking," I said quietly. "I mean it. We're done. I'll wrap up the company accounts and transfer everything cleanly. You can go hire a new CFO."

Tyler stopped smiling. He was pissed now.

"Sharon, enough with the games!

"This whole playing hard-to-get thing is so tired!

"Yeah, today's on me, fine—but this? This is too much!

"You're being completely unreasonable.

"Fine, we won't sleep together! Let's see who cracks first!"

He slammed the bedroom door and stormed off to the guest room. I went back to browsing flights.

I was exhausted—mentally, emotionally, and physically. The insane work hours were draining me.

But being with Tyler? That was what really wore me down.

I needed to get away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere to finally breathe.

Funny thing about people. The more tightly you cling, the more you suffer.

But once you let go, once you walk away from the emotional tug-of-war, you open the door to a whole new life.

But clearly, Tyler had no intention of letting go—he still wanted to keep playing his cat-and-mouse game of runaway weddings.

The next morning, the man who had probably never touched a frying pan in his life surprised me with a huge homemade breakfast.

"Sharon, I couldn't sleep last night," he said. "I stayed up thinking. I really looked at myself—and yeah, I've been selfish. I only cared about my own thrill, totally ignoring your feelings.

"This weekend, let's hold another wedding, okay? I swear I won't mess around this time. I'll behave—I'll be the loyal, steady groom you deserve.

"No more drama. I mean it. I swear on my life."

He was serious and sincere.

Coincidentally—or maybe fatefully—that same weekend was my flight to Hawaii to get away from everything.

Same date. I didn't know if it was a coincidence or fate.

Seeing that I didn't respond, he kept trying to persuade me.

"This would be our 101st wedding. That number's got meaning, right?

"One heart, one soul—101. It's fate. What could be more romantic than becoming legal spouses on our 101st wedding? Think of the symbolism!

"Maybe all those past runaways were just so we could reach this one perfect moment.

"It's destiny, Sharon. Everything happened exactly the way it was supposed to."

His eyes were sparkling, full of dreams about a future he clearly still believed in. Too bad he didn't notice the light in mine had long since gone out.

"Sure," I said. "Go ahead. You can plan it."

I'd already decided we were done. And when you're truly done with someone, you stop trying to fight.

I'd already been the fool 100 times—like some tragic romantic lead, stuck in an endless loop, always waiting for the groom who never showed up.

On this 101st wedding, it was my turn to run.

All the previous weddings—I planned them. Every detail.

But this time, Tyler went all out.

He rented a castle on the edge of town and said he wanted a medieval fairytale theme for our big day.

"There'll be flowers, doves, hot air balloons, and a live band!

"You'll dress as a count. I'll wear a royal outfit—it's gonna be so elegant.

"Warm, dreamy, romantic! We'll invite all the bloggers and influencers—they'll witness our love firsthand!"

He was practically glowing as he painted his vision of the wedding.

"You know the band, Echo Rush, right? They're the hottest rock band in the city—wild, edgy, trendy, totally next-level!

"With them performing live at our wedding, it'll feel like a full-on music festival!"

He wouldn't stop talking.

Michelle was the lead singer of Echo Rush.

The same woman he was messing around with behind my back. And Tyler still thought I had no clue.

"Sure, if that's what you want."

I glanced at my watch. "I've got to head back to the office—need to sort out a few accounting things. You handle the rest."

I'm not the kind of person who walks away without finishing things. There's still a lot to hand over before I leave.

Tyler pouted. "What a buzzkill," he huffed. "I'm over here all excited, and you're acting like such a wet blanket."

I ignored him and left the café. But when I got to the parking lot, I realized I'd left my phone on the table.

I turned around to grab it, only to catch him in the middle of a video call with Michelle. They were deep in conversation.

"What? Are you planning to crash the wedding? No, you can't do that!

"I promised Sharon—no more drama this time!"

"I'm really going to marry her this time, Mich," Tyler said, his voice heavy and low. "Don't shake me up again. I've already done enough damage to Sharon.

"I know I'm happy with you. I really am, but I have to face reality. It's time I walked into what they call the end of love—marriage."

Tyler said it with a bitter laugh.

"Ty, why can't I crash the wedding?

"You've already ditched her 100 times—why not make it 101?

"You've seriously never seen that movie? You're like the guy version of the dreamy princess, and I'm the girl version of the messed-up hero. I'll fight off the monster and take back the one I love!

"I'm charging in on a rainbow cloud—your fearless girl savior!

"Come on, wouldn't that be so fun? So wild?

"Picture it! I'm the wedding singer. Halfway through the set, I run off with the groom. You in a tux, me with my guitar, and we're sprinting across the lawn, hand in hand—racing toward freedom and love!

"It would be iconic. Like, art level iconic."

Michelle was pulling out all the stops.

"Stop," Tyler whispered, visibly trembling. "You're giving me goosebumps all over.

"Mich, you're like a drug. I know you're toxic, but I'm still addicted. Fine. I'll do it. I'll run away with you at the wedding.

"But this is it—the last runaway wedding, I swear! One final act of chaos, and then I'm settling down with Sharon. We're done with the drama.

"No more weddings, either. We'll just go sign the papers at City Hall and be done with it.

"Honestly, if we try to pull off one more ceremony, I'm afraid Sharon might actually lose her mind."

Exactly as I expected—Tyler put up a token protest, then gave in.

And together, he and Michelle started plotting his 101st wedding escape.

I didn't interrupt—didn't even bother retrieving my phone. I just walked away and left them to it.

Around noon, Tyler actually showed up at the office to bring back my phone.

He was once dedicated to the company. But ever since Michelle came into the picture, he barely showed up once every two weeks.

He probably figured it didn't matter—as long as I was still there running the numbers, things wouldn't fall apart.

"You left your phone at the café," he said casually. "Can't be so forgetful.

"Don't do that on Sunday, okay? What if you forget me on our big day?"

He chuckled, trying to sound playful.

I smiled faintly but didn't answer.

Because I wasn't going to lose him. I was going to leave him behind.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Time flew by. Before I knew it, it was Saturday night.

The wedding was scheduled for Sunday morning at the castle.

"I'm doing a bachelor party tonight," Tyler told me. "We'll meet at the castle at ten sharp tomorrow. Don't be late, okay?"

Sure, "bachelor party".

We both knew that meant an all-nighter with Michelle and her band of misfits.

"Don't worry," I said calmly. "I'm never late."

Sunday morning, 7:00 a.m. I got one last message from him.

"Already getting my makeup done—just wanted you to see the most handsome groom ever. Drive safe. I'll be waiting."

I stared at the screen. Then, without a word, I blocked his number. Deleted every contact and hailed a cab to the airport.

At 9:00 a.m., my plane shot into the sky.

At 10:00 a.m., Tyler stood at the gates of the castle, dressed to the nines—sharp tux, perfect hair, picture-ready smile.

Thousands of influencers were already swarming the place, cameras and mics in hand, breathless with anticipation.

They were all waiting for the bride, who had been ghosted 100 times, and betting on what outrageous stunt the groom would pull this time.