I thought my fiancé, Aaron, was the perfect, God-fearing man. He cherished his leather-bound ESV Study Bible like a sacred artifact, always warning me not to touch it because it held his “personal notes and insights.” I admired his devotion and felt lucky—until one weekend shattered everything.

Aaron told me he was heading on a Christian camping trip with his cousins—prayers under the stars and all. I kissed him goodbye, believing I had the most faithful man alive. But two days later, while searching our basement for a toolbox, I tripped over his camping gear—untouched and forgotten. Right on top was his Bible.

Curiosity gnawed at me. Why would he leave it behind if he was supposedly reading and praying in the wilderness? I opened it, and an envelope fell out. Inside were love notes—not scriptures. “Last weekend was perfect. I miss your touch,” one read. A motel receipt confirmed the betrayal.

Shaking, I called the motel and asked who he stayed with. “Claire,” the clerk said casually. My stomach dropped. Claire—my best friend, my maid of honor, the woman helping me plan the wedding. The lies weren’t just his; they were hers too.

I called Claire. She denied it—until I mentioned the cabin, the motel, and the notes. Silence. Then she hung up. I started packing my things, fury and heartbreak tangling in my chest.

When Aaron returned, pleading and begging, I didn’t flinch. I simply held up the envelope and said, “You might want to pray—Claire’s husband deserves the truth too.” Then I walked out.