When I cut into my wedding cake, I expected applause and laughter — but the moment the knife touched the frosting, the whole room went silent, as if everyone suddenly saw something I couldn’t.
I grew up in Louisiana, where every dinner turned into a comedy show and no one left the table without a little gossip and a lot of butter. My mama believed food could solve anything, and my sister Lacey believed she could. Me?
I just wanted peace. And Ethan.
He came into my life like a soft storm, polite, charming, always fixing things.
“You shouldn’t lift that box, darlin’,” he’d say, taking it from my hands like I was made of glass. I used to find it sweet.
Later, I’d call it a warning.
That morning, I was standing in the kitchen, pinning fabric swatches to a board. Mama sat at the counter sipping her chicory coffee, the air thick with humidity and the anticipation of Saturday.
Lacey scrolled on her phone, humming in that fake innocent way she did when she was up to something.
“White roses? Again?” she asked without looking up.
“They’re classic,” I said, sighing.
Mama chuckled.
“Lacey, you could turn a blessing into a complaint.”
“I just mean,” Lacey leaned her chin on her palm, “if you’re marrying the love of your life, shouldn’t it be more exciting than… beige?” She emphasized ‘love of your life’ with a strange, cold intensity.
I rolled my eyes. “You sound like Pinterest with a hangover.”
Ethan walked in just then, carrying a box of decorations. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair damp from the humidity.
“Morning, ladies,” he said with that easy smile that made Mama swoon.
“I brought the centerpieces.”
Mama clapped her hands. “Lord, this man’s got manners. I still can’t believe you caught him, honey.”
“He caught me,” I corrected gently.
But Lacey was quiet, eyes flicking up just long enough to meet his.
Something in that quick, shared glance made my stomach twist, though I brushed it off. We were family. She teased everyone.
Ethan started unpacking the vases, talking about how his cousin could DJ the reception for half price.
He always knew someone who “owed him a favor.” It made him sound generous, until you realized he was always collecting little debts.
“You’re stressing too much,” he said to me, touching my shoulder. “It’s gonna be perfect.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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