Forty days before my wedding, I found out my fiancé was cheating. We had the dress, the tickets, even matching luggage—and he was on Tinder telling women we were “poly.” We were not.
So I got petty. While he showered, I swapped all his Tinder photos with mine, rewrote his bio, flipped his settings to men, and even paid the fee so he could see the hundreds of likes rolling in—for me. When he opened the app, he went pale. I sipped my wine and told him to pack. Wedding canceled. Dogs stayed with me.
Then came the real twist. One of those “matches” messaged me—not to flirt, but to warn me. He was our wedding photographer. He’d caught my ex trying to transfer our deposit to another couple. That’s how I discovered he’d planned to recycle our wedding for someone else.
From there, I found other women he’d lied to—seven of us in a group chat called “Not Poly At All.” We pieced together dates, lies, even money he borrowed. One guy joined too, with spreadsheets of what he’d stolen.
I used my honeymoon week to rebuild instead of collapse. Changed the locks. Canceled accounts. Took the dogs, the house, and my peace. My sister drove me to Big Sur anyway, where the photographer turned my wedding day into a vow to myself: I won’t shrink to fit someone else’s story.
A year later, I’m steady, free, and surrounded by people who showed up when he didn’t. My ex lost me, the women, his lies, and even his borrowed gear.
My pettiest revenge was Tinder. But my real revenge? Living well without him.
