I place the pastel-colored, macaron-shaped jewelry box in her hands, barely able to speak through the lump in my throat.
“Will you do me the honor—of standing beside me? Of holding me together, like you always have? Will you be my maid of honor?”
She gasps as she opens it. Tears pool in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she pulls out the ring.
It’s sterling silver, set with a deep pink tourmaline stone. The sides are shaped like a wrapped candy, and tucked on one side is a tiny silver casket.
Inside the band, engraved in soft cursive, are two simple words:Sugar Plague.
Her arms wrap tightly around me.
“You didn’t have to get me this gorgeous, perfect ring,” she chokes out. “I would’ve said yes.”
The next few months are packed—choosing reception food, finding a maid of honor dress that doesn’t make Ansel look like a cupcake, and making sure the best man’s tux doesn’t clash with the florals or his inflated ego.
Out of all the things I expected to argue about during wedding planning—napkin folds, seating charts, my refusal to do a garter toss—the cake wasn’t even on the list.
But here we are.
Who knew two people trying to decide on a cake could nearly call off the wedding?
Donovan wants something “classic.” Vanilla bean with vanilla buttercream. Just… cake. Plain, white cake with white frosting, probably decorated with the most boring flowers known to man. It’s the kind of cake that shows up in a wedding magazine next to a caption that readstimeless, which really just meansbland.
And yeah, we fought about it.
Because I? I wantlemon cake.Bright, tangy, layered with lemon curd, and wrapped in blackberry buttercream. The colors would be stunning—rich purples and soft yellows, a combination that looks like it costs a lot. Three tiers, delicate pastel flowers curling around the edges, mixed with dark calla lilies for contrast. Dramatic. Memorable. Ours.
On top? The cutest Mr. and Mrs. topper—not the cheap plastic kind, but the carved wood one I found on Etsy and bookmarked three months ago before Donovan even proposed.
His vision? A cake that looks like it belongs at a country club luncheon. My vision? A cake that makes people gasp when they walk into the room.
So yeah, I’m not backing down on this. I might not care about the seating chart or what kind of napkin fold we use, but I’ll be damned if I end up with a wedding cake that looks like it was ordered by a man who’s only ever used white paint.
This is my wedding too. And it’s not going to be boring.
The next morning, I wake up to an empty, cold bed. Groggy, I wipe the sleep from my eyes.
Donovan didn’t even sleep here last night.
I sit up and slip my feet into my slippers, wrapping mySlay Muffinrobe around me. My feet drag against the floor as I shuffle toward the living room.
He’s not on the couch. Not in the kitchen.
I glance at the front door—and notice his keys and riding gear are gone.
No missed calls. No texts. Even when we’re fighting, it’s not like Donovan to leave without letting me know where he’s going.
I call his phone, straight to voicemail.
ME:Where are you? Have you been gone all night?
I hit send and wait, pacing the living room like it’ll answer back. After forty-five minutes, I’m pretty sure the hardwood floors are permanently marked with worry.
The front door bursts open, and Ansel rushes inside, wide-eyed. “Stella, what happened?”
I’m not crying. Not yet. But my voice breaks.
“Ansel, I don’t know. We had this stupid fight about stupid fucking cake, and I woke up this morning to a bed he never even slept in.”
