The Altar’s Shadow

Free Story – Quick Summary: Jilted at the altar, Nicola plots meticulous revenge on her ex-fiancé, dismantling his life piece by piece before moving abroad to start anew.

Rating PG-13
Contains: Themes of Revenge and Manipulation, Implied Sexual Content (briefly)
Absence of Strong Language, Graphic Violence, or Overt Sexual Scenes

PROMPT: Left at the altar, you decide to seek revenge on your ex.

The church was silent, save for the faint rustle of my white dress against the pew. I sat alone, staring at wilting lilies on the altar. Two hundred guests had left an hour ago, their pitying whispers trailing like smoke. James, my fiancé—ex-fiancé—hadn’t shown. No call, no text, just a void where his vows should have been. The ring on my finger felt like a shackle. As I twisted it off, grief gave way to something sharper: rage.

I drove home, the veil crumpled in the passenger seat like a ghost. My phone buzzed with messages from friends, family, even the caterer, asking about refunds. I ignored them. James’s absence wasn’t a mistake; it was a choice. He’d planned this, left me to drown in humiliation while he slipped away. I pictured him laughing, maybe with someone else, and my hands gripped the wheel until my knuckles whitened. He wouldn’t get away with it.

That evening, in jeans and a hoodie, I poured wine and opened my laptop. Revenge wasn’t just a feeling—it was a plan, and I was meticulous. James was predictable, a creature of habit. His Instagram was private, but his friends’ accounts weren’t. A quick scroll revealed a photo posted three hours ago: James at a downtown bar, grinning with a beer, while I’d been crying in the bridal suite.

I mapped his life: the law firm where he was a junior partner, obsessed with status; the bar where he held court; the gym where he peacocked for clients. I dug deeper, pulling his LinkedIn, his firm’s website, even an old college blog still live on a forgotten server. Every detail was a thread, and I was weaving a net.

The next morning, I called my job at Whiting and Company, a theatre production company, confirming I’d use my two weeks of vacation. I’d booked the time for a honeymoon, but now it was mine. Our honeymoon was supposed to be us traveling across the East Coast beaches, going where life would take us. No plans or bookings. I should have seen this coming. How convenient that he didn’t pay upfront for the honeymoon.

I also revisited a job opportunity I’d declined for James. I worked in the Fortunata East Coast Actor’s Association division for Whiting. They were expanding internationally and planned to open another position in Aisama—Glendan, to be exact. James had refused to move across the ocean, and I’d stayed for him. No more. The listing was still open. I polished my resume, wrote a cover letter, and applied. Aisama was my future; revenge was my present.

Step one: reconnaissance. I parked across from James’s office at 8:47 a.m. He strolled in, suit crisp, smug as ever. He didn’t look like a man who’d jilted his bride. I snapped a timestamped photo, adding it to my file.

That night, I hit the bar, blending in with a baseball cap and glasses. James was there, laughing with work buddies, flirting with a woman at the counter. My stomach churned, but I stayed calm, noting her face, her purse, the way she leaned into him. She wasn’t the target—James was.

Over the next few days, I built a profile of his post-altar life. He worked late, partied hard, and crashed at his downtown loft, unchanged and arrogant. I started small: an anonymous tip to his firm’s HR, alleging he’d been drinking on the job—a lie to make him sweat. I hacked his gym membership with his reused passwords and canceled it, forcing him to reapply under scrutiny. Petty, maybe, but satisfying.

On day five, my plan sharpened. James’s firm was bidding on a major tech startup client, his ego tied to the win. I’d worked in contracting at Whiting and Company long enough to know how to sabotage without fingerprints. Using a burner email, I sent the startup’s CEO a dossier: timestamped bar photos suggesting James slacked during work hours, a forged expense report implying padded client dinners, and a vague note about “ethical concerns.” I didn’t need to prove anything—just plant doubt.

Day six brought a distraction. Lauriella Whiting, Whiting and Company’s CEO, called. She was a rare leader—driven but genuine. She was personally overseeing the company’s international expansion and even going back on tour to help establish it. It was rumored that she was going to step back and “retire” after things were settled, leaving each division as a possible startup company for the one in charge. There were to be three divisions outside of Fortunata. Aisama was one of them and the largest.

“Nicola,” she said, “Colin told me that you applied for the Aisama position. I also heard about you and James. I just wanted to check in with you. See how you are doing and why you changed your mind on the position.”

Colin Runder, her right-hand man, would oversee the international side of Whiting and Company. I had expected he would be the person to call me since he had asked about my interest in the position. He would be the Lauriella of the international sector, second only to Lauriella.

I exhaled. “Thanks for checking in. I’m okay, just reevaluating. I always wanted the Aisama position, but James wouldn’t move. Now I’m choosing me. I know I can do a good job. I speak Gallian and Sepharish. I’m decent at Viteliuan, and I can learn Tysk if needed.”

A pause. “You’re a fantastic at the Fortunata East Coast Actor’s Association, dependable. I just want to ensure this is right for you after everything. I don’t want you to get over to Glendan and regret it after a few weeks.”

“I’m sure,” I said firmly.

“Fair enough. We’ll schedule your final interview in two weeks. If you’re still set, the job’s yours. If not, no pressure.”

Two weeks. Perfect. I’d finish with James and start anew thousands of miles away.

By day seven, a mutual friend said James was “stressed.” The client deal was delayed, his boss asking questions. I smiled into my coffee, but it wasn’t enough. He’d humiliated me before everyone I loved. I wanted him to feel that sting.

I targeted his social life. James thrived on admiration, so I’d strip it away. Using fake dating app profiles—polished women just his type—I matched with him under three aliases, flirted, and set up dates I’d ghost, leaving him waiting at empty restaurants. I pictured his bruised ego, and it fueled me.

The woman from the bar, Claire, was trickier. A search of her purse’s logo led to her LinkedIn: a paralegal at a rival firm. I sent her an anonymous message with a stock photo of James with another woman, captioned, “He’s not who you think.” She stopped appearing at the bar. I told myself I was saving her from future heartbreak.

By day ten, James looked worn. From my car outside his loft, I saw his slumped shoulders, loosened tie. His firm had sidelined him, his friends grew distant—I’d leaked rumors to his buddies, a “concerned” email to his sister. Isolation hit harder than any punch.

The final blow was personal. Years ago, James confessed he’d cheated on his law school exams, paying a friend to take them. I’d kept his gloating emails. I anonymized them, scrubbed my name, and sent them to his firm’s ethics board. If they investigated, his career was done.

On day fourteen, I stopped. Sitting in my apartment, James’s file open on my laptop, I felt hollow. I’d dismantled his life—job, friends, pride—but the hole in my chest remained. Revenge hadn’t healed me. I closed the laptop, poured out my wine, and stared at the ring on my counter, a relic of a life I no longer wanted.

A week later, I heard James had left town, suspended by his firm, rumors swirling. I felt no triumph, just quiet. I sold the ring, aced the interview, and landed the Aisama job. At the airport, I deleted James’s file. Revenge had burned hot and fast, but it left only ashes. Boarding the plane to Glendan, I left the altar—and him—behind. Aisama was mine, and so was my future.

Grok’s Version

The church was silent, save for the faint rustle of my white dress against the pew as I sat, abandoned, staring at the lilies wilting on the altar. Two hundred guests had shuffled out an hour ago, their whispers of pity trailing like smoke. James, my fiancé—ex-fiancé—hadn’t shown. No call, no text, just a void where his vows should have been. The ring on my finger felt like a shackle now, and as I twisted it off, something darker than grief took root: rage.

I drove home, the veil crumpled in the passenger seat like a ghost. My phone buzzed with messages from friends, family, even the caterer asking about refunds. I ignored them. James’s absence wasn’t a mistake; it was a choice. He’d planned this, left me to drown in humiliation while he slipped away. I pictured him laughing, maybe with someone else, and my hands tightened on the wheel until my knuckles went white. He wouldn’t get away with it.

By evening, I was in my apartment, wedding dress traded for jeans and a hoodie. I poured a glass of wine and opened my laptop. Revenge wasn’t just a feeling—it was a project, and I was meticulous. James was a creature of habit, predictable to a fault. I started with his digital footprint. His Instagram was private, but his friends’ accounts weren’t. A quick scroll through tagged photos showed him at a bar downtown, posted three hours ago, while I’d been crying in the bridal suite. He was grinning, a beer in hand, as if my world hadn’t just collapsed.

I cross-referenced the bar’s location with his usual haunts. James was a junior partner at a law firm, obsessed with status, always chasing the next rung. His life revolved around three places: work, that bar, and the gym where he peacocked for clients. I dug deeper, pulling up his LinkedIn, his firm’s website, even his old college blog, still live on some forgotten server. Every detail was a thread, and I was weaving a net.

The next morning, I called in sick to my job at the marketing firm. I had two weeks of vacation saved, and I’d use every second. Step one was reconnaissance. I drove to his office, parking across the street. At 8:47 a.m., James strolled in, suit crisp, not a care in the world. He didn’t look like a man who’d jilted his bride. He looked smug. I snapped a photo, timestamped, and added it to my growing file.

That night, I hit the bar. I wore a baseball cap and glasses, blending into the crowd. James was there, holding court with his work buddies, his laugh cutting through the music. I ordered a soda and watched. He was flirting with a woman at the bar, leaning close, his hand brushing hers. My stomach churned, but I stayed calm. I noted her face, her purse, the way she laughed at his jokes. She wasn’t the point—James was.

Over the next few days, I built a profile of his life post-altar. He worked late, partied hard, and crashed at his loft downtown. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t changed his routines. Arrogant, I thought. Perfect. I started small, testing the waters. I sent an anonymous tip to his firm’s HR, alleging he’d been drinking on the job. It was a lie, but it’d make him sweat. I hacked his gym membership—child’s play with his reused passwords—and canceled it, forcing him to reapply under scrutiny. Petty, maybe, but each jab was a warm-up.

The real plan took shape on day five. James’s firm was bidding on a major client, a tech startup worth millions. His name was all over the pitch, his ego tied to the win. I’d worked in marketing long enough to know how to sabotage a deal without leaving fingerprints. I created a burner email and sent the startup’s CEO a dossier: screenshots of James’s late-night bar photos, time-stamped during work hours; a forged expense report suggesting he’d padded client dinners; and a vague but ominous note about “ethical concerns.” I didn’t need to prove anything—just plant doubt.

By day seven, I heard through a mutual friend that James was “stressed” at work. The client had delayed the deal, and his boss was asking questions. I smiled into my coffee. But it wasn’t enough. He’d humiliated me in front of everyone I loved. I wanted him to feel that sting.

I turned to his social life. James thrived on admiration, so I’d strip it away. I created fake profiles on dating apps, using photos of women just his type—polished, ambitious, out of his league. I matched with him under three different aliases, stringing him along with flirty messages, setting up dates he’d never make. Each time, I’d ghost him at the last second, leaving him waiting at empty restaurants. I imagined his confusion, his ego bruised, and it fueled me.

The woman from the bar was trickier. I’d seen her again, always at his side, and a quick search of her purse’s logo led me to her LinkedIn. Her name was Claire, a paralegal at a rival firm. I didn’t care if they were serious; she was collateral. I sent her an anonymous message from a burner account, attaching a photo of James with another woman—a stock image, but convincing. “He’s not who you think,” I wrote. Claire stopped showing up at the bar after that.

By day ten, James looked different. I watched him from my car outside his loft, his shoulders slumped, his tie loose. The firm had sidelined him on the client pitch, and his friends were colder, their group chats quieter. I’d leaked just enough—rumors to his buddies, a “concerned” email to his sister—to make him radioactive. Isolation was worse than any punch.

But I wasn’t done. The final blow was personal. James had a secret, one he’d confessed to me years ago: he’d cheated on his law school exams, paying a friend to take them. It was a buried sin, but I’d kept the emails he’d sent me, gloating about it. I anonymized them, scrubbed my name, and sent them to his firm’s ethics board. If they investigated, his career was over.

On day fourteen, I stopped. I sat in my apartment, the file on James open on my laptop, and felt… empty. I’d dismantled his life—his job, his friends, his pride—and yet the hole in my chest remained. Revenge hadn’t filled it. I closed the laptop and poured out the last of my wine. The ring sat on my counter, a relic of a life I didn’t want anymore.

A week later, I heard James had left town. The firm had suspended him, and the rumors had spread. I didn’t feel triumph, just quiet. I sold the ring, quit my job, and booked a ticket to Paris. I’d always wanted to go, but James had called it frivolous. Now, I was free.

Standing at the airport, I deleted the file on him. Revenge had been a fire, burning hot and fast, but it left only ashes. I boarded the plane, ready to build something new, something mine. The altar was behind me, and so was he.

Images by ChatGPT

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