Chapter 3 - The Taste of Vanilla
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The ceremony was a blur of recited vows, flashing cameras, and Grant's flawless, charismatic smile. If I hadn't known the truth, I would have thought I was the luckiest woman on earth. But every time he squeezed my hand, I felt the cold, hard calculation behind his touch.
The reception was held in the grand ballroom of the flagship Vance Hotel. Two hundred of the city's most elite residents were in attendance. The champagne flowed like water, and the music swelled.
Finally, it was time for the cake cutting.
It was a masterpiece—a towering, four-tier confection of vanilla sponge, delicate buttercream, and intricate, hand-crafted sugar roses. Grant stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist, playing the role of the devoted husband for the cameras.
We sliced the first piece together. The crowd cheered. I picked up a small fork, intending to feed him a delicate bite.
The first piece of wedding cake never reached my mouth.
Without warning, Grant’s hand shot out. He grabbed the back of my neck with a grip so violent and sudden it sent a shockwave of pain down my spine. Before I could even register what was happening, he forcefully drove my face directly into three tiers of thick buttercream.
He didn't just push me; he held me down. He pressed my face into the cake with a brutal, punishing force.
For one stunned, suffocating second, the entire world went dark. I smelled overpowering vanilla and the sharp tang of spilled champagne. Thick, heavy frosting filled my nose and eyelashes. I struggled, my hands pressing against the table to push myself up, but his grip on my neck was like a vice.
The two hundred guests collectively gasped. The sound of silverware dropping echoed through the room.
And then, the laughter started.
It wasn't everyone, but it was enough. Grant’s groomsmen, led by Kyle, howled with raucous, malicious laughter. Kyle was standing just feet away, holding his phone up, actively livestreaming the entire assault to his followers.
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Through the sickening squelch of frosting, I heard the sound of clapping. I managed to turn my head just a fraction.
Grant’s mother, Eleanor, was standing near the head table. She wasn't rushing forward to help me. She was clapping her hands together, a smug, delighted smile on her face, exactly as if her son had just performed a clever, highly entertaining party trick.
