He Gave Me a Used Condom at the Altar

A tall shadow stretched across the Persian rug, swallowing the light pooling around my feet.

I spun around, dropping my phone to my side.

Silas stood in the doorway of the adjoining vestry. He held a brass master key in his left hand. As the church's sound engineer, he had access to every room in the building.

"You locked the main door," Silas said. "You forgot the side entrance."

"Get out, Silas," I demanded. "I don't have time for an audience."

He didn't move. Instead, he crossed the room, closing the distance between us. He extended a small paper cup toward me. Steam curled from the rim.

"Drink," he ordered.

"I don't want water."

"Your hands are shaking," he pointed out. "Take the cup, Aria."

I snatched the cup from his grip. The warmth seeped through the thin cardboard, contrasting sharply with the cold dread running through my veins.

Silas's dark eyes dropped to the glowing screen of my phone. I hadn't locked the device. The raw HTML code of the university forum glared against the dark mode background. After watching the security footage of Chloe and Julian, I had dug into the old campus server, searching for the exact date their private messages began.

"You're digging up the past," Silas noted, his tone flat. "Trying to find out how long they've been playing you?"

"It's none of your business," I snapped.

"It became my business the second your groom brought a biohazard to the altar," Silas countered. He checked his silver wristwatch. "You have exactly ten minutes before the organist starts the bridal march again. Julian is pacing a hole in the hallway carpet."

"Let him pace."

Silas tilted his head. "Are you still going to marry him?"

"I am going to destroy him," I said.

"Good," Silas replied. "But you're missing the biggest lie."

I frowned, gripping the warm paper cup tighter. "What lie?"

Silas took a step closer. His imposing frame blocked the stained-glass light. "Are you really going to marry the man who can't even remember which hand he used to smash open the storage room door back then?"

The question hit me like a physical blow.

The old chemistry building. Sophomore year. Someone had shoved me into the basement storage room and thrown the heavy deadbolt. Trapped in the pitch-black space, choking on years of accumulated dust and mold, I had felt my chest seize as a severe asthma attack closed my throat. I had pounded on the reinforced glass window of the door until my knuckles bled.

Then, someone had swung a heavy fire axe into the steel frame. The hinges shattered. A pair of strong arms pulled me out, wrapping a heavy varsity jacket around my collapsing frame.

Julian had claimed it was him.

"Julian said he used his left hand," I whispered, the memory rushing back. "He said he bruised his knuckles hacking the door open."

Silas watched my face. "Did you ever see a scar on his left hand?"

"No," I answered, my voice trembling. "I asked him about it once. He told me he used a special scar cream and it healed perfectly."

Silas let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "A perfect heal from a shattered steel doorframe? That's a medical miracle."

"He had the jacket," I argued, though the defense tasted like ash in my mouth. "He brought me to the campus clinic."

"He found you on the grass outside the building," Silas corrected.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

Silas shifted his stance. He raised his right hand to adjust the collar of his black dress shirt.

The movement exposed the back of his hand to the harsh overhead light.

A faded, crescent-shaped scar sat stark against his olive skin. The jagged edges perfectly matched the shape of a torn metal doorframe.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I took a half-step backward. My heavy silk skirt caught on the heel of my shoe, throwing me off balance.

Silas reached out instantly, his hand gripping my elbow to steady me. His thumb brushed against my bare skin.

I stared at the scar.

"It was you," I breathed out. "You broke the door."

Silas didn't drop his gaze. "I pulled you out. I wrapped my jacket around your shoulders. You were unconscious. I ran to the main road to flag down the paramedics because the cell towers were jammed."

"And Julian?"

"When I came back with the medics, Julian was kneeling next to you on the grass," Silas explained. "He was holding your hand. He told the EMTs he broke the door. He took the credit."

"He wore your jacket?" I asked, my voice cracking.

"He found it on the ground where I dropped it," Silas said. "When I got back, he was wearing it. He told the police he wrapped you in it before carrying you out."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I yelled, shoving his hand away. "Why did you let him lie for seven years?"

"I tried to correct him," Silas replied, his jaw tightening. "The campus police told me to back off. Julian had enough money and influence back then to make a scholarship kid look like a liar. He told the cops I was just a bystander trying to get my fifteen minutes of fame. They believed him."

"You should have come to me," I insisted.

"Would you have believed me over the guy you thought saved your life?" Silas asked, his voice hardening. "You woke up, saw his face, and decided he was your hero. I didn't have the pedigree to compete with him. So I let him have the credit."

"He stole your jacket," I said, the absurdity of the situation making me dizzy.

"He stole a lot more than that," Silas replied.

The puzzle pieces snapped together with brutal force.

Julian hadn't just cheated on me with my best friend. He had built our entire relationship on a stolen rescue. He manufactured a debt of gratitude I had spent the last seven years trying to repay.

Every compromise. Every time I backed down from an argument. Every time I ignored Chloe's snide comments because Julian told me I was being overly sensitive.

It was all built on a massive, calculated lie.

"Ten minutes," I muttered.

"Nine, now," Silas corrected. "Julian is going to start banging on that door any second. He needs you back on that altar to secure his promotion at your father's company."

"My father created that VP position specifically for him," I said, disgust twisting my stomach. "Julian told me he earned it."

"He earned nothing," Silas stated. "He took it. Just like he took the credit for the fire."

"He is never stepping foot in my father's company again," I vowed.

I set the paper cup on the vanity table. The water sloshed over the rim, pooling around the base of my discarded bouquet.

I picked up my phone.

The university forum code still glowed on the screen. I swiped it away.

The security app reappeared. The paused video of Julian and Chloe froze on the display. Chloe straddling his lap on my gray velvet sofa. Julian laughing about leaving a wrapper in my ring box.

"What are you doing?" Silas asked.

"Fixing my mistakes," I answered.

I tapped the top right corner of the screen. The church's media control panel popped up. As the bride, the pastor had given me the Wi-Fi password and network access to cast our childhood photo montage during the reception.

The sanctuary's massive drop-down screen—the one hanging directly above the altar—was linked to the exact same network.

"You have access to the main projector," Silas realized, a dark smirk playing on his lips.

"I do," I confirmed.

I selected the video file from the security app. A prompt flashed on the screen.

*Connect to Sanctuary Projector 1?*

Heavy fists pounded against the thick oak door of the bridal suite.

"Aria!" Julian shouted from the hallway. "Your five minutes are up! Open this door right now!"

"He sounds impatient," Silas noted.

"He has no idea what impatient looks like," I replied.

"Are you ready to blow up your life?" Silas asked.

I looked at the crescent scar on his hand, then at the locked door, and finally down at the glowing confirmation button on my screen.

I pressed the screen casting confirmation button.

"I'm not getting married," I said. "I want them dead."