I always thought my fiancé, Aaron, was the perfect Christian man. His prized possession was a leather-bound Bible he guarded like treasure, calling it “sacred” and too personal for me to touch. I thought it was just his deep faith — but it was actually hiding his darkest secret.

One weekend, he said he was going on a camping trip with his cousins to “pray under the stars.” I kissed him goodbye, believing I was with the most devoted man alive. But the next day, while looking for tools in the basement, I found all his camping gear — untouched. And on top of it sat his sacred Bible.

Shaking, I opened it. An envelope slipped out. Inside were love notes covered in lipstick kisses. “Last weekend was perfect… meet me at the cabin soon.” One even had a motel receipt tucked inside.

When I called the motel, the clerk cheerfully confirmed he’d stayed there — with a woman named Claire. My Claire. My best friend. My maid of honor.

The puzzle pieces snapped together: their inside jokes, her “drop-bys,” her weekend getaways that always matched his “camping trips.”

I called her, and when I confronted her, she hung up. Later, Aaron came rushing through the door, begging to explain. I held up the envelope and whispered, “I haven’t called Claire’s husband yet… but I will.”

His double life collapsed in an instant. And as much as it hurt, I walked away that night, thankful I’d discovered the truth before our vows.