My Fiancé Cheated On Our Wedding Day — So I Married His Worst Nightmare

Part 1

Blood looks surprisingly dull on white silk.

That was the first thing I realized when the chaos started.

Ten minutes earlier, I was standing in a supply closet listening to my fiancé grunt against my maid of honor.

Now, I was standing at the altar with a man whose name was whispered in alleys and boardrooms with equal terror.

I didn’t marry for love.

I married for revenge, a canceled debt, and because I had absolutely nothing left to lose.

Sweat prickled at the nape of my neck trapped beneath layers of stiff tulle and suffocating lace.

The bridal suite in the basement smelled of aerosol hairspray, stale lilies, and the sour tang of anxiety.

My dress, a ten-thousand dollar monstrosity my future mother-in-law had bullied me into buying, weighed at least twenty pounds.

The boning in the corset dug into my ribs with every shallow breath.

I hated it.

I hated the scratch of the sequins, the tight pinch of my satin heels, and the persistent throb behind my left eye.

My mother had chirped at me to wait ten more minutes before fluttering out to manage the caterers.

I was completely alone.

The silence of the basement room was thick, broken only by the hum of the ancient air conditioning unit rattling in the window.

I needed a glass of water.

More than that, I needed Tyler.

He had a way of grounding me, a steady hand on my shoulder that usually quieted the frantic buzzing in my skull.

I hoisted the heavy skirts, the fabric rustling like dry leaves, and slipped out of the suite.

The hallway was dim, the fluorescent lights buzzing with a sickly yellow glow.

I turned the corner toward the groomsmen’s dressing room.

I didn’t hear words at first.

I heard the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

I stopped.

My breath caught in my throat with a dry, ragged snag.

The sound was coming from the janitor’s closet, a heavy wooden door left cracked open by an inch.

I didn’t want to look.

My brain, primitive and desperate, screamed at me to turn around, to go back to the smell of stale lilies, and pretend the hallway was empty.

But my feet, encased in those agonizing satin heels, moved forward.

I leaned closer to the crack in the door.

The air seeping out of the closet hit my face.

It was warm.

It smelled of bleach, damp mop strings, and Tyler’s signature cologne.

It was a sharp, woody scent mixed with bergamot.

Beneath it, cloying and cheap, was the undeniable artificial strawberry of Heather’s body lotion.

Heather.

My maid of honor.

Tyler.

A voice whimpered from inside the dark room.

It was a high, thin sound.

Tyler panted, telling her to wait.

His voice, the voice that had whispered vows to me in the dark, the voice that had promised forever over a plate of cold pasta three years ago.

I didn’t gasp.

I didn’t burst through the door screaming.

The movies lie to you about betrayal.

There is no soaring orchestral music, no dramatic collapse to the floor.

Instead, my stomach churned with violent, sudden nausea.

Saliva flooded my mouth, hot and metallic.

My vision narrowed to the scuffed linoleum floor, a dirty beige tile with a black scuff mark shaped like a crescent moon.

I felt distinctly, profoundly stupid.

I pressed my hand against the cold plaster wall to steady myself.

The rough texture of the paint scraped against my palm.

I could hear the rustle of clothing, the metallic clink of a belt buckle hitting the aluminum bucket inside the closet.

Heather whispered that they had to go, breathless and frantic.

She said I would be looking for him.

Tyler muttered to let me wait.

I backed away from the door.

My heels were completely silent on the linoleum.

I didn’t run.

I walked methodically, putting one foot in front of the other, back to the bridal suite.

I closed the door behind me and locked it with a sharp, heavy click.

I walked over to the full-length mirror.

Megan, the beautiful bride.

My lipstick was a perfect, muted rose.

My hair was pinned in an intricate, unyielding twist.

I looked exactly like the woman I was supposed to be.

Yet, I felt entirely hollowed out.

A gutted fish left on a wooden dock.

A single tear spilled over, hot and stinging, dragging a thick black line of waterproof mascara down my cheek.

I didn’t wipe it away.

I let it ruin the makeup.

I let it stain the pristine surface of the facade.

Someone knocked on the door, calling my name and telling me it was time.

I stared at the mirror for five more seconds.

The nausea ebbed, replaced by a cold, settling numbness.

It was a heavy, dark thing anchoring me to the floor.

I grabbed a tissue, spat on it, and aggressively scrubbed the black streak from my cheek.

It left a raw, red smear behind.

I unlocked the door and prepared for my wedding.

The organ music swelled, a suffocating, booming vibration that rattled the stained glass windows of the church.

My father linked his arm through mine.

He was sweating, his hand clammy through the thin fabric of his rented tuxedo.

He smiled at me, a tight, nervous thing.

He whispered that I looked beautiful.

I tasted bile at the back of my throat as I thanked him.

The heavy oak doors opened.

Two hundred faces turned toward me.

Two hundred sets of eyes judging, smiling, expecting a perfect show.

The air in the sanctuary was stifling, thick with the scent of burning wax, expensive perfumes, and the collective body heat of the crowd.

I looked down the long aisle.

The red carpet looked like a tongue rolling out to swallow me whole.

At the end of it stood Tyler.

His tuxedo fit him perfectly.

His sandy hair was swept back.

He smiled when he saw me, a soft, practiced expression of awe.

It was the same smile he used when he managed to close a difficult sale at the dealership.

Next to him, a few feet away, stood Heather.

Her blush pink dress clung to her hips.

Her lips were slightly swollen.

She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I walked.

Every step sent a jolt of pain up my calves from the shoes, but I welcomed it.

The physical pain kept me tethered.

It kept me from floating away into the vaulted rafters.

When I reached the altar, my father kissed my cheek and handed me over.

Tyler reached for my hands.

His fingers were warm and felt slightly damp.

He whispered that I was shaking as he stepped close.

The smell of bergamot and wood smoke hit me, mingling sickeningly with a faint lingering trace of artificial strawberry.

He told me I looked perfect.

I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

I saw the slight asymmetry of his jaw, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, the way his pupils were slightly dilated with adrenaline.

He was a stranger, a pathetic, lying stranger.

The priest began to speak.

His voice droned on, a monotonous hum of scripture and duty.

I didn’t hear a word of it.

I was hyper-fixated on the microphone clipped to the priest’s lapel.

The priest asked if anyone could show just cause why we may not lawfully be joined together.

He paused.

It was a ceremonial pause, a fraction of a second meant for dramatic effect before moving on.

Nobody ever speaks.

I pulled my hands out of Tyler’s grip.

My skin felt instantly cold where his warmth had been.

I announced that I had a cause.

My voice wasn’t loud, but in the cavernous silence of the church, it cracked like a whip.

The organist, who had been softly playing a background chord, slipped and hit a dissonant jarring note.

Tyler blinked.

His practiced smile faltered, melting into a mask of pure confusion.

He asked what I was doing.

I turned toward the congregation.

The faces were no longer smiling.

They were a sea of wide, shocked eyes.

I looked at Heather.

The color drained from her face so fast, she looked like a corpse in a pink dress.

I told the room that he was sleeping with the maid of honor.

I leaned slightly toward the priest’s lapel microphone.

The speakers overhead popped with static, amplifying my words to a booming decree.

I told them it happened in the janitor’s closet about fifteen minutes ago.

I suggested they smell her cheap strawberry lotion if they wanted to verify.

A collective gasp sucked the oxygen from the room.

Somewhere in the third row, Tyler’s mother let out a strangled, high-pitched noise.

Tyler hissed at me, asking if I was insane, grabbing my wrist.

His grip was tight and bruising.

The facade was entirely gone now, replaced by a panicked, ugly scowl.

I told him to let go of me, my voice dead calm.

He spat that I was ruining everything, his face turning a mottled, furious red.

Before I could rip my arm away, before the murmurs of the crowd could erupt into full chaos, a sound cut through the tension.

The heavy oak doors at the back of the church slammed open with a violent, echoing crack.

The men who walked in didn’t look like wedding guests.

They wore dark, meticulously tailored suits and moved with a heavy, fluid grace.

But it was the man in the front who sucked all the air out of the room.

He was a nightmare in a tailored midnight blue suit, and he was looking right at the groom.