My guitar has always been my voice, my shield, my truest confession. It’s seen me through everything, from dive bar grime to the polished stages of dreams. But there was one gig, one beautiful, cursed wedding, where the music wasn’t the only thing played. It was where I saw something that ripped apart not just my belief in love, but everything I thought I knew about loyalty.
We were a struggling band, hungry for any gig, but especially one that paid enough to keep us afloat for a few months. When the call came for a high-end wedding, the kind with string lights draped through ancient trees and a budget that made my jaw drop, we practically tripped over ourselves saying yes. This wasn’t just a gig; it was our big break, our chance to play for people who mattered, who might actually listen.
The couple was something out of a magazine. She, ethereal in lace, radiating pure joy, her smile bright enough to outshine the June sun. He, handsome and attentive, his eyes seemingly fixed on her, a picture of adoration. Perfect. That’s what everyone said. That’s what I thought, too, as we set up our equipment under a canopy of white roses, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of expensive champagne.
A woman in her house | Source: Midjourney
The ceremony itself was stunning. Tears flowed freely as they exchanged vows, promises whispered against the gentle rustle of leaves. As a musician, I often feel a peculiar connection to these moments, a sense of honor in providing the soundtrack to such profound vulnerability. I saw their families, their friends, all beaming. I saw pure, unadulterated happiness. I felt a pang of something akin to envy, a longing for that kind of certainty, that absolute faith in another person.
Later, during the reception, we played our hearts out. The dance floor was packed. Laughter and music blended into a joyous symphony. The bride and groom danced, she twirling, he holding her close, occasionally kissing the top of her head. Truly meant to be, I thought, my fingers flying over the fretboard. It was everything a wedding should be.
But as the night wore on, something shifted. We’d finished our main set, and a DJ took over for a while, giving us a much-needed break. I wandered away from the controlled chaos of the stage, needing a moment of quiet, a chance to breathe the cool night air. I found a secluded pathway, dimly lit by fairy lights, leading to a small, ornamental pond. It was meant for quiet contemplation, perhaps a romantic stroll for tired guests.
That’s when I saw them.
They were partially hidden by a thick hedge, just far enough from the main reception area to feel safe, yet close enough for the music to still murmur around them. At first, I thought it was just two guests sharing a private moment, perhaps a little too much champagne. But then I recognized him. It was the groom.
A man standing in a crowded place | Source: Midjourney
My breath hitched. My heart started to pound, a frantic, off-beat drum solo in my chest. He wasn’t with his new wife. He was pressed against someone else, their bodies intertwined, hands urgent, a whispered laugh followed by a deep, undeniable kiss.
I froze, hidden in the shadows of an ancient oak, unable to move, unable to look away. A cold dread seeped into my bones. This can’t be happening. Not here. Not tonight. Not on their wedding day. The pure joy I’d witnessed just hours before, the sacred vows—it all felt like a lie, a performance. My music, too, felt tainted, an unwitting accomplice to this terrible secret.
I should have walked away. I should have turned around, pretended I saw nothing. But some morbid curiosity, some sick fascination with the unfolding tragedy, kept me rooted to the spot. I watched for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a minute or two. The other person’s back was to me, their hair a cascade of dark waves, their dress a shimmering emerald green. They were shorter than the bride, but their embrace with the groom was just as intense, perhaps even more so.
Finally, they pulled apart, the groom checking over his shoulder before he pressed one last, lingering kiss to the other person’s forehead. He said something, too soft for me to hear, but his tone was tender, intimate. He then slipped away, melting back towards the lights and laughter of the reception, a perfect picture of a happily married man returning to his bride.
The other person remained for a moment longer, running a hand through their dark hair, a small, knowing smile playing on their lips. They took a deep breath, composed themselves, and then followed, presumably to rejoin the party.
Small plants in a living room | Source: Pexels
I stood there for a long time after they were both gone, the music now a distant, mocking echo. My hands were shaking. My stomach churned. The beauty of the evening had evaporated, replaced by a bitter, sickening truth. The perfect wedding was a lie. I felt a profound sense of despair, not just for the bride, but for the sanctity of every promise ever made. How could he do that? How could anyone?
We played our final set, an autopilot performance driven by adrenaline and a growing sense of numb detachment. Every time the groom smiled at his wife, every time he wrapped an arm around her waist, I saw the other woman’s face, etched in my memory. I couldn’t bring myself to look at either of them directly. The money, the “big break” – it all felt worthless now, coated in deceit.
Days turned into weeks. The wedding gig faded into memory, or so I tried to tell myself. But the image of them, hidden by the hedge, haunted me. I tried to push it down, to forget the emerald dress, the dark hair. It wasn’t my business, I’d reason. I was just the musician.
But the image persisted.
Then, about a month later, something shattered.
My phone buzzed. It was a photo from that night, one of the candid shots the wedding photographer had sent our way, a gesture of thanks. It was a picture of our band playing, a dynamic shot of me mid-strum. And in the background, out of focus but unmistakable, was the reception area.
A man chopping vegetables | Source: Pexels
My eyes, however, weren’t on the band. They darted to the edge of the frame, to a group of guests laughing, their faces clear. And there she was. The woman in the emerald green dress. The same dark, wavy hair. Her profile unmistakable.
My blood ran cold. The phone nearly slipped from my trembling fingers. I zoomed in, my breath catching in my throat.
NO. IT COULDN’T BE.
The woman in the emerald dress, the one the groom had been kissing so passionately by the pond, was smiling broadly, her arm linked with someone else’s.
And that someone else was my best friend. My band’s manager. The person who’d introduced me to my first guitar, who’d encouraged my dream, who I’d trusted with my entire life.
SHE WAS THERE WITH HIM AT THE WEDDING.
My best friend, who was also a guest, who had helped us pack up our gear, who had shared celebratory drinks with us after the gig, talking about how beautiful the couple was.
SHE WAS THE OTHER WOMAN.
A woman holding a makeup palette | Source: Pexels
It wasn’t just a stranger. It wasn’t just a random act of infidelity I witnessed. It was a direct hit to my own life, a betrayal from someone I considered family. The perfect wedding wasn’t just a lie for the bride; it was a devastating revelation that cost me more than just a gig. It cost me my faith in people, my longest friendship, and the bitter knowledge that sometimes, the most beautiful music hides the darkest secrets. And I had been playing the soundtrack to my own heartbreak all along.
