We finish breakfast in comfortable silence, and I'm thinking about what to do with the day—maybe another drive through the mountains, or a swim in the pool, or just staying here on the terrace with him—when he stands abruptly.
"I need to show you something I found," he says. "Wait here."
He disappears inside, leaving me curious and slightly confused. A minute later he returns carrying something white and carefully wrapped.
My heart stops when I recognize what it is.
The top tier of my wedding cake.
"You kept it?" I ask, laughing.
He sets it on the table between us. "I meant to throw it away and then forgot about it. What do you want to do with this damn inedible cake?"
I look at the cake, then at him, then back at the cake.
An idea forms—absolutely ridiculous, completely cathartic, and exactly what I need.
"Come with me," I say, standing and picking up the wrapped tier. "And bring champagne if you have any."
His eyebrows raise. "Champagne?"
"Wedding champagne specifically. Didn’t you steal a few bottles for spite?"
Understanding dawns in his expression, followed by something that might be delight. "I might have a few bottles."
"Fantastic. Go get one."
I carry the cake outside into the garden. Renato follows with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. When I reach an open area of grass with a good view of the lake, I stop.
"What are we doing?" he asks, though I can see he's already guessing.
I unwrap the cake carefully, then look up at him with a smile that feels wild and free and absolutely perfect.
"We're destroying my wedding cake," I say.
Then I throw the cake on the ground. It hits with a satisfying splat, the carefully preserved frosting cracking, white fondant and buttercream spreading across the grass.
For a moment, I just look at it. This symbol of everything that was wrong about that day. The forced marriage. The business transaction. The complete absence of choice.
Then I lift my bare foot and stomp down hard.
The cake explodes under my heel, frosting and sponge squishing up around my foot. And I start laughing.
Not polite laughter. Not careful laughter. Wild, hysterical, absolutely gleeful laughter as I stomp the cake again and again, destroying it completely, grinding it into the grass with savage satisfaction.
Renato watches me with this expression of complete adoration, making no move to stop me, just letting me have this moment of ridiculous, cathartic destruction.
When the cake is completely obliterated—nothing but frosting and crumbs mashed into the lawn—I'm breathing hard and laughing so hard my sides hurt and covered in white buttercream up to my knees.
"Feel better now?" he asks, his voice warm with affection.
"Much better." I wipe frosting off my leg. "Now open that champagne."
He doesn't bother with glasses. Just pops the cork—it flies across the garden—and hands me the bottle.
I take a long drink straight from it, the bubbles sharp and perfect on my tongue. This champagne was meant for toasting a marriage I never wanted. Now I'm drinking it to celebrate its destruction.
I pass the bottle back to Renato, and he drinks too, his eyes never leaving my face.
