Being Left At The Altar Novels & Stories

The music swells as the groom is called to the altar. The seats are filled with strangers. Not a single member of my family is in attendance, which is perfect. Those old sons of bitches better stay buried in that mansion. Blood won’t save them if they stand in my way. Cowards. Hiding behind my father like rats fattened in the dark. As I near the altar, Alfredo and Maksim stand. Alfredo lifts his ornate cane in greeting. “Congratulations, Zver,” he says, grinning like a toad. “Didn’t think I’d live long enough to see a woman whip you hard enough to get hitched.”

“It’s going to be a beautiful day.” But it wasn’t. For Leana, the ceremony was a blur of white and gold, a beautiful lie set to the soundtrack of string quartets and sniffles. She stood at the altar as her mother’s maid of honor, feeling Ryan’s presence from the groom’s side like a constant, burning brand.

He put his hands in his pockets and kicked at the ground, his eyes following a small stone on the path. “I forgot you don't know about that either.” He looked up at me, his eyes full of hurt and his brow pinched to almost pain. “I was recently left at the altar.” “So you're not married?” I mentally slapped myself for being tactless as relief flooded my voice. I wasn't the other woman after all.

“Fine, just one chance. Nothing more.” A week later, Lyra stood at the altar, clad in the lacy white dress that her mother-in-law had picked out for her. Its sleeves were long and puffy, cinching at the waist, before its volume poured down freely. She was facing Alex, who was wearing a black designer suit. “Lyra Davis, do you take this man, Alex Wilson, to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold till death do you part?” Lyra's stomach churned with anxiety. Then she smiled at Alex. “I do.”

Just a few more steps down the aisle, and I would finally spend my lifetime with him. But as I stepped into the church, the music suddenly sounded different. My eyes landed on the altar, and the smile died on my face. Evan was standing there, looking annoyingly handsome in his tuxedo. But he wasn’t alone. He was holding another woman’s hand. A bride wearing the exact same custom designer dress as mine. I froze halfway down the aisle. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Maybe a manifestation of pre-wedding anxiety, so I closed my eyes and opened them again. She was still there. I couldn’t make myself move or run to them. Nor shout to stop the ceremony.

That thought shifts too easily into another. Adrian left me at the altar too. My throat tightens the instant I think of it. I imagined our wedding a hundred different ways. Light, flowers, music, people smiling at us as if our future was something worth celebrating. What I got instead was humiliation, grief, and the kind of heartbreak that left a bruise long after the moment itself was over.

Her dear sister, Hermosa, must still be completely in the dark, utterly unaware that Alexander's heart had already changed. *** The church was adorned with white lilies in every corner, their rich fragrance mingling with the sacred stillness of the space, creating an atmosphere of solemnity and grace. Guests, dressed in elegant attire, murmured softly among themselves, their faces brimming with well wishes and anticipation for the holy union. Alexander stood at the altar, his posture upright, his gaze fixed firmly on the church's entrance, where his bride would soon make her grand entrance. As he watched Hermosa walk down the aisle, a strange sense of disorientation overtook him.

I couldn’t be happier. I only have time to have breakfast with Jonathan, and I have to leave. I won’t see him until the evening. He has prepared everything for himself and made sure the rings are with Sophia, as Catherine will be the maid of honor. I kiss him and get ready to leave our house to meet my mother. Suddenly I turn back from the door, seized by a frightening idea, and look at him. “You’ll be there, won’t you?” “What do you mean?” “Will you be waiting for me at the altar?”

Seven years should count for something. Seven birthdays. Three apartments. We adopted. Endless business dinners where I smiled and translated his silence into charm. He steps past me. The fabric of my dress brushes his sleeve. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t look back. The quartet keeps playing. No one moves. I’m still standing at the altar. The priest clears his throat. Someone coughs. Then the whispers begin. “Oh my God” “Is it true?” “She’s pregnant?”

Apollo froze for a long moment until he realized a terrible fact—I had left. The mating ceremony wouldn't happen. He stood at the altar, holding the wedding gown like a lost child. It appeared he had ruined everything. The night before, after receiving my message, his expression had been gloomy.