This story is about a M’sian woman who shares how her wedding was upstaged by some outrageous antics from her influencer bridesmaid.
I just married the love of my life in a dreamy wedding in Bali.
We had it at a cliffside resort in Uluwatu—golden sunset, ocean breeze, floral arch overlooking the sea. You know the Pinterest-perfect kind. Everything should’ve been magical.
Except I can’t stop thinking about my bridesmaid—let’s call her Priya—and how it felt like the whole wedding ended up revolving around her.
Now I’m wondering… Am I the a**hole for feeling like she totally stole my spotlight?
Priya was my best friend
Priya and I have been close friends since Form 4. We’ve seen each other through heartbreaks, jobs, toxic boyfriends, and too many clubbing sessions to count.
She’s always been the loud, fun, hot girl type—confident, dramatic, and naturally magnetic. People notice her when she walks into a room.
I’m the quieter one. I prefer one-on-one conversations, and just curling up at home with Netflix or a book.
For context, Priya works in digital marketing—but she’s been building her own personal brand on the side.
She’s always filming something, planning her grid, or chasing content ideas. She’s grown a decent IG following over the last two years, and her dream is to go full-time as an influencer.
I’ve always supported her hustle. I even helped shoot a few of her early reels, helped her write captions, brainstorm ideas.
I never imagined that my wedding would end up being the next backdrop for her content strategy.
Day One: Welcome Dinner
We had a casual welcome dinner for our 30 guests—a chance to unwind before the big day. I was nervous, excited, trying to soak it all in.
When Priya walked in, I was honestly relieved. She wore a dusty mauve maxi dress—simple, flowy, and actually matched the colour scheme I had in mind for the bridal party.
Her makeup was toned down too—no dramatic lashes, no glitter. Just soft shimmer and a nude lip. She even tied her hair back in a loose braid, which is rare for her. Usually, she loves volume.
And the best part? She didn’t go live. No IG stories, no camera shoved in anyone’s face. I remember smiling to myself, thinking, Okay, she gets it. She really is here for me.
But… things started shifting after a few drinks.
The resort had set up an open bar with signature cocktails. After her second lychee martini, I noticed Priya’s body language change. She got a bit more animated, a bit more Priya—if you know what I mean.
She started moving around the room like a hostess. Not in a bad way, just… confidently. Her laugh got louder. Her eyes sparkled more. And then she started getting really chatty with some of the male guests. Like really chatty.
I knew that version of her. The one that turns on the charm when she senses power. It’s in the way she leans in just a little too close when she meets that “man in finance”. The light hand on the arm. The full-body laugh at not-that-funny jokes. The kind of attention that turns heads—and not in a good way.
I noticed a few of the girlfriends and wives shift uncomfortably. One actually pulled her boyfriend away mid-convo. I caught the look on her face—tight-lipped and annoyed.
At that point, I wasn’t sure how to feel. Priya wasn’t doing anything wrong, technically. But I could feel the energy in the room changing. It definitely felt off.
Day Two: Pre-Wedding Brunch & Reels
Still, I told myself to let go of the night before. It was a wedding, after all. People drink, people flirt, people get carried away. It happens.
Plus, Priya had toned herself down and respected the vibe—I thought that meant she’d carry that energy into the rest of the weekend.
But turns out, her grace period was done.
The next morning was our pre-wedding brunch and content day. It was supposed to be soft, dreamy—white and earth-toned outfits, barefoot by the pool, mimosas in hand, all captured beautifully for memories and social media.
As my maid of honour, Priya was supposed to take charge of the schedule: coordinating the bridesmaids, prepping for the arrival of the photographer, making sure I didn’t lift a finger.
But from the start, she was distracted.
She’d set one thing up, then disappear to do her own thing. She put out name cards for the table settings—but forgot to actually place the menus. She asked someone to bring in the florals—but didn’t check where they should go.
Every time I turned around, she was either adjusting her tripod or roping in our mutual friend—her unofficial “gay best friend” for the trip—to take BTS videos of her walking through the resort like she was filming a Vogue travel diary.
She even asked the hotel staff if they could open up the closed-off pool deck just for her “personal brand shoot.” Not for the bridal party. Just for her.
I tried not to notice. I told myself, “Okay, she’s multitasking.” But it was clear her attention was split—half on me, half on herself. And it showed.
Another bridesmaid—my cousin, May—ended up having to step in. She was never supposed to be in charge, but suddenly she was the one updating me on what time the photographer would arrive, where the props were, which bridesmaid hadn’t shown up yet. She was running up and down the resort, relaying instructions, trying to make it all work.
At one point, she whispered to me, “I’ll handle it. Just enjoy your morning, okay?”
But how could I?
I could see Priya twirling in the courtyard for yet another video clip, completely oblivious. She didn’t even realise that May had taken over her job. Or maybe she did, and just didn’t care.
I didn’t say anything. Not yet. But a part of me started grieving the version of her I thought would show up for me.
This wasn’t just someone getting caught up in the moment. This was someone who had forgotten what the moment was even supposed to be about.
Wedding Day: My Actual Day
By the time the actual wedding day arrived, it was clear that May had fully stepped into the role of maid of honour. She and Priya had no choice but to work together, since everything needed to run smoothly—but the tension between them was obvious.
I could sense it. The way Priya gave short responses, how she’d silently redo things May had already done, or ask the same questions May had just answered.
There was this subtle vibe of “Why is she acting like she’s in charge?” but also zero acknowledgement that she had dropped the ball the day before.
To May’s credit, she never made it a thing. She just… carried on. If she felt anything, she hid it for my sake. And honestly, I was grateful for May.
Despite everything, the ceremony went well. I walked down the aisle without tripping, our vows made everyone tear up, and for that short golden hour, it really did feel like everything was in place.
But then came the speeches.
When Priya stood up, I braced myself. She looked radiant, holding her wine glass, smiling like she’d been waiting for her cue. And to be fair—she gave a decent speech. Emotional, a few inside jokes, a touching line about sisterhood.
If she had ended it there, it would’ve been perfect. But just when I thought she’d sit down, she added, “And as a special gift… I’d like to sing something for the beautiful couple.”
Before I could react, music started playing from the DJ’s laptop—Alicia Keys’ “If I Ain’t Got You.”
I blinked. It wasn’t planned. I didn’t even know she’d prepared a song. And when I turned to the side, I saw our gay friend—phone angled up, front camera rolling, perfectly positioned to catch her spotlight moment.
Her voice wasn’t bad. But the way she performed it—eyes closed, hand to heart, slow dramatic arm movements—it didn’t feel like it was for us. It felt like it was for her feed.
And of course, I had to smile. Clap. Look “touched.” Because what else could I do? Cause a scene during my own wedding?
So I swallowed the awkwardness and pretended it was sweet. Even though I knew exactly how this clip would look once it was edited with soft filters and uploaded: like she was the star of a wedding short film.
The After Party (a.k.a. The Real Debacle)
After dinner, the DJ transitioned into party mode. The dance floor opened, drinks flowed freely, and I thought—maybe now, finally, everyone can just have fun.
For a while, that’s exactly what happened.
Guests kicked off their heels. Aunties danced in a circle. My cousins were doing the Macarena ironically. It was chaotic and perfect.
Then Priya took over the floor.
At first, it was just her usual confidence. A few body waves, hair flips. But it escalated. She started dancing like she was in a music video—hips swaying, sensual spins, full-on choreography. The guys were clearly watching, and the women were clearly not impressed.
But the real turning point was Alan.
He’s a friend of my husband’s. Alan was in his early 30s and a successful startup founder. Priya’s type.
The thing about Alan is that he’s currently going through a messy divorce. We wanted Alan there so he wouldn’t be alone.
Apparently, neither did Priya.
I don’t know when they met or talked, but suddenly, it was club mode for them. Grinding. Hands on hips. Her back against his chest.
At my wedding. With older relatives sitting nearby. And children still running around with cupcakes.
I could feel the heat rising to my ears. My mother gave me a look. My husband’s aunt whispered something to his mum. Everyone saw it. Everyone.
And then—they left. Together. Holding hands.
Not in a subtle way. Not like they slipped away quietly. People noticed. People talked.
The Morning After
The next morning, reality hit me in the form of a very awkward conversation with my husband.
We were still half-asleep when he turned to me and said, gently, “Hey… your friend Priya. She knows Alan’s still married, right?”
I felt a sinking in my stomach. Not anger. Not even surprise. Just this overwhelming ugh.
I nodded slowly, not really sure how to respond. I tried to give Priya the benefit of the doubt.
“I think she’s just flirting with him, I don’t think she’s serious.”
But I knew what he meant. It wasn’t just about Alan—it was the optics. The timing. The place.
And that was only the beginning of the discomfort.
We headed to the hotel’s buffet breakfast where our parents and relatives were already seated. I walked in and at first it was a pleasant breakfast. Married jokes, congratulations. But then, my aunt pulled me aside and asked “Who is that girl? Your friend? Last night with that man… did you see?”
It had spread. At some point, Priya became a highlight. Not the wedding. Not the venue. Not my husband and I. Her.
“Who is she?” “How do you know her?” “Is she one of your husband’s friends?” “Is that the guy whose wife didn’t come?”
My face was hot with embarrassment. I just smiled and said, “She’s an old friend,” hoping it would end there. It didn’t.
And then—they came down.
Priya and Alan, walking into the restaurant like a couple on honeymoon. She wore one of those breezy boho dresses, hair loosely tied, laughing at something he said. He pulled out a chair for her. They sat. They flirted. She fed him a piece of pineapple like it was brunch in a Korean drama.
I wished I could disappear into my croissant.
We left before they finished eating. I couldn’t even look at my mum, or my in-laws. I felt like I was responsible for the circus, and I couldn’t stop it.
The Silent Departure
We were supposed to check out that day. Everyone was packing, saying their goodbyes, loading their bags into vans headed to the airport.
Everyone… except Priya.
She was nowhere to be seen.
She didn’t text. She didn’t show up in the lobby. And she certainly wasn’t on the flight home—the flight where she was supposed to sit next to me.
I tried texting her, but no blue ticks—she didn’t even open my messages.
Then, after we arrived back in Malaysia, when I finally turned on my phone in KLIA, I saw it: her Stories.
She was still in Uluwatu. Posting a reel of her swinging over a cliff. Another one of her walking along the beach in golden hour, sarong flowing like it was a movie set. Video after video.
Alan wasn’t in any of her shots, but they were clearly not selfies. Her videos weren’t taken on a tripod. Someone was behind the camera. Zooming in. Panning. Capturing the angles just right.
I didn’t need to guess who.
And Then… Silence
I didn’t hear from Priya for three whole days.
Not a peep—no “thanks for the wedding,” no “congrats again,” not even a quick “hey, staying back!”
Nothing. Just her Stories lighting up my phone. Riding pillion on a motorcycle, visting this temple, sunbathing at this beach—different outfits, bikinis, and locations in Bali.
Each post twisted the knife a little deeper.
Then, on the third day, my phone buzzed with her name.
The Message
“Hey babe! Sorry I went MIA—totally spontaneous Bali extension with your friend, Alan. We’ve been vibing hard—he’s amazing. Bali’s pure magic ✨ Your wedding was stunning, so happy for you guys! You good?”
That was it. No real sorry, no hint she’d ditched me mid-wedding-weekend, just that half-assed apology. I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, heart pounding.
Disappointment? Rage? Humiliation? All of it crashed over me—but underneath, a dull of course.
This was Priya now—my wedding just another set for her endless content reel, me a blurry extra in her spotlight.
Fallout
I didn’t let it slide this time.
I typed fast, hands shaking: “Are you serious? You bailed on me after my wedding for some guy and didn’t even tell me. And he’s still married, btw. What the hell, Priya?”
Her reply pinged back in minutes: “Whoa, chill! I didn’t mean to piss you off—it just happened! Alan and I have been vibing, and I figured you’d be happy for me. You’re not mad, right?”
“Mad? You made my wedding your runway, flirted with a married guy in front of my family, and ghosted me. I’m pissed off.”
She fired back: “Okay, he’s separated, not married. And I was still there for you! You’re acting like I ruined it—dramatic much?”
I snapped: “You danced all over Alan while my mum stared, ditched our flight, and now it’s all reels and no remorse. You don’t get it.”
Her next message took longer: “Wow, okay. Sorry you feel that way. I thought you’d be happy for me—this isn’t about you.”
That one hit like a slap. I didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
Two days later, in true influencer fashion, her recap reel dropped: “Bali Dreams 🧡”—set to a breathy “Golden Hour” cover. Cue shots of her spinning on a beach, wearing hot summer dresses, and eating brunch at swanky cafes—not one shot of me or the wedding.
Just her, glowing, like she’d been there for a solo vacay.
I didn’t unfollow, didn’t block—just muted her. My phone’s been quiet since, but my head’s not. My mum asked yesterday, “How’s that friend of yours?”
I shrugged, but inside, it’s a mess—anger, hurt, and this weird ache for the Priya I used to know.
So… Am I the a**hole?
Am I the asshole for thinking she hijacked my wedding? For expecting my best friend to show up for me, not turn it into her influencer launch party? Was I too harsh, blasting her over a few posts and a fling?
I don’t know. I didn’t scream at her in Bali, didn’t trash her online.
But that text fight left a bruise, and seeing her erase me from her “Bali story” stings more than I’ll admit.
Maybe I’m petty. Maybe she’s delusional. Either way, something’s broken—and I’m not sure who’s picking up the pieces.
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