He Gave Our Twelve-Year Tradition to Her

I grabbed the heavy plastic handle of the first suitcase.

"Don't do this," Ben said, stepping directly into my path. "Put the bags down."

"Move out of my way."

"I'm not moving." He planted his feet on the rug, blocking the bedroom door. "You are not walking out of here over a text message. I told you, she was crying. She needed a friend."

"She thanked you for the perfect date arrangement," I reminded him.

"That's just how Sasha talks! She's dramatic. She spent five years in France, everything is an exaggeration with her."

I let go of the handle and looked straight into his eyes. "You lied to me for hours. You faked a corporate dinner. You let me sit here thinking you were working yourself to the bone for our future."

"I made a mistake," he pleaded, reaching out.

I stepped back before his fingers could brush my arm.

"We didn't touch," Ben insisted, his voice rising, bouncing off the bedroom walls. "I swear to God, Liv. There was no physical contact. We sat in the dark, we watched the movie, and we went our separate ways. We are just friends."

"Get out of the doorway."

"No! We are getting married in two months. You do not get to blow up our lives because you're insecure."

I grabbed both suitcases, lowered my shoulder, and shoved past him. The hard plastic shell of the bag caught his knee.

"Ow! What is wrong with you?" he yelled, stumbling sideways.

I dragged the luggage down the hall. The wheels rattled aggressively over the hardwood floor.

"Liv!" he shouted from the bedroom. "If you walk out that door, I'm not coming after you!"

I reached the entryway, twisted the deadbolt, and pulled the front door open.

"We're just friends!" he screamed one last time.

I stepped into the corridor and slammed the door shut, locking his pathetic excuses inside.

Forty minutes later, the glass doors of the Grand Marquis Hotel parted.

The lobby was completely deserted, save for a young clerk tapping frantically at a frozen computer monitor behind the front desk.

I parked my luggage by a marble pillar and walked up to the counter.

"I need a room for the night," I said.

The clerk looked up, his face pale and stressed. "I am so sorry, ma'am. Our entire network crashed ten minutes ago. I can't process any credit cards or encode any keycards right now."

"How long until it's fixed?"

"IT says it could be hours."

I rested my hands flat against the cold marble counter. My fingers vibrated violently, a delayed reaction to the adrenaline leaving my system. I pressed down harder, trying to force the shaking to stop.

A man in a sharp charcoal suit emerged from the back office. His gold name tag read *Liam, Duty Manager*.

"Is there a problem, David?" Liam asked.

"System failure, sir. I can't check anyone in."

Liam glanced at the dark computer screen, then turned his attention to me. His gaze dropped immediately to my trembling hands. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't offer empty apologies.

"I'll handle this," Liam said. He reached into his suit jacket and placed a heavy brass key on the counter. "Suite 1402 is vacant. It is on the top floor, at the very end of the hall. It stays completely quiet. You won't be disturbed."

"I can't pay you right now. My cards won't swipe."

"We will sort the payment system tomorrow," Liam replied smoothly. "David, fetch a cup of the Earl Grey. Make sure it is hot."

"Right away, sir." The clerk hurried toward the lounge station.

Liam picked up the brass key and held it out to me. "For tonight, just rest. You look like you've had a very long evening."

"You have no idea."

David returned with a white paper cup, steam rising from the lid. Liam took it and handed it across the desk.

I wrapped my cold hands around the warm cardboard sleeve. The heat seeped into my skin, finally steadying the tremor in my fingers.

At eight o'clock the next morning, my phone vibrated off the hotel nightstand.

It hit the carpet with a dull thud.

I picked up the device. Thirty-two missed calls. Fourteen text messages.

I swiped the screen just as another call came through. Ben's name flashed in bright white letters. I pressed accept and brought the phone to my ear.

"Where are you?" he demanded.

"At a hotel."

"Which one? I'm coming to get you."

"No, you aren't."

"Liv, stop this right now," he sighed, the exasperation thick and heavy in his throat. "You made your point. You threw your tantrum. You punished me for trying to be a good friend."

"A good friend."

"Yes. And I apologized for lying about the dinner. What else do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything from you."

"Well, too bad, because we have the cake tasting at Sweet Flour at two o'clock today. My mother is expecting photos of the final design. She already paid the deposit."

"There won't be any photos."

"I am not canceling the tasting over a misunderstanding," he snapped. "I will be there at two. You better be there too, or you're going to look incredibly foolish in front of the vendors."

"I'll be there," I said.

"Good. I love you."

I ended the call.

He really believed this was just a fight. In his mind, I was throwing a fit over a movie ticket, and the wedding would proceed exactly as planned.

I walked over to the suite's small desk, opened my laptop, and found the bakery's vendor contract in my email. I hit print. The machine whirred to life, spitting out three pages of legal text.

I signed my name on the cancellation line.

At exactly two o'clock, I arrived at Sweet Flour.

The bell chimed overhead as I pushed open the heavy glass door. The rich scent of spun sugar and baking vanilla filled the air.

I reached into my leather tote, my fingers brushing against the folded cancellation agreement.

"Olivia!" the owner called from behind the pastry display. "Your fiancé is already in the back."

"Thanks, Mary," I replied.

I walked past the towering displays of fondant wedding toppers and tiered dummy cakes. The shop was narrow, leading to a private tasting area in the back.

In the far corner, tucked behind a large potted fiddle-leaf fig, Ben sat at a small round table draped in a white cloth.

He wasn't alone.

Sasha leaned across the table, her blonde hair brushing the pristine fabric.

She held a silver dessert fork in her right hand, balancing a large chunk of red velvet cake perfectly on the tines.

She pushed the fork forward, sliding the sweet frosting right past Ben's parted lips.