Chapter One: A Frosted Disaster
The cake was supposed to be the star of the show, not me. Three tiers of almond sponge with raspberry filling, frosted in blush ombré so delicate I’d nearly wept finishing it at four in the morning, though honestly, that might’ve just been exhaustion staging a protest. Thirty-two hours of work, one panic attack, and two bandaged fingers later, I had dusted the entire surface with shimmer powder and kissed it with a touch of edible glitter so it gleamed under the ballroom chandeliers like a jewel box. The bride gasped when she saw it. That gasp was supposed to be my standing ovation. But weddings have a way of going from fairy tale to horror story in under five minutes.
First came the groom. Poor, queasy, maybe lovesick groom—or so everyone thought. The truth was messier, and I had a front row seat.
Word reached me in fragments while I was trying to keep buttercream from sliding in the humidity. The bride had been careless, or maybe brazen, and Liam Archer, her groom, found out she’d been cheating. Not rumor-has-it cheating. Not vague suspicion. Actual, caught red-handed, couldn’t-squirm-out-of-it cheating. I even caught the way his eyes burned across the ballroom when she laughed too easily with someone else, and the tight-lipped exchange that followed before he disappeared to the bar.
By the time I saw him again, the man was pale with fury, whiskey glass glued to his hand, jaw tight enough to cut glass. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t nervous. He was heartbroken and humiliated, and instead of handling it with dignity like a man of his stature, he handled it like a man who’d just had the ground ripped out from under him: he drank.
And then he looked at me.
Not for the first time, either. I’d seen that look before, months ago at the cake tasting, when he’d leaned forward to sample raspberry filling and let his gaze linger on me longer than was appropriate. He’d become a regular at the bakery after that, always under some flimsy excuse about needing muffins for the office or testing flavors for future events. I knew the truth. He liked my cakes. And maybe, God help me, he liked me.
And I wasn’t immune. I’d been half in love with him since that first tasting. Every visit just made it worse: the easy charm, the way he teased me when I got flour on my cheek, the quiet attention he gave when I rambled about buttercream ratios like it was a state secret. It was a crush I’d kept locked up tight. Until that night.
So when he strode toward me, tuxedo sharp, eyes blazing with clarity, and declared that he couldn’t marry someone who’d already betrayed him but maybe, just maybe, he could marry me instead? My brain should’ve screamed no. But my heart had been whispering yes for months, and the rush of adrenaline made the whisper loud enough to spill out.
The crowd thought it was a stunt, a reality show twist, latching onto the drama of a jilted groom making a spectacle. I thought it was a joke too, at least at first. But then Liam’s hand was wrapped around mine, his voice cutting through the roar of gossip, and suddenly I wasn’t just the cake decorator anymore. I was the bride.
🧁⌨️🧁 🧁⌨️🧁 🧁⌨️🧁
Before we could blink, Maya, the wedding planner, and I were in full scramble mode to get me ready. One minute I was a cake decorator with frosting on my cheek, the next I was being stuffed into a borrowed gown and having a veil pinned into my hair. Maya fussed with my curls, the planner adjusted the train, and when the photographer snapped a set of first look photos, Liam’s expression made my stomach flip, like his brain had short circuited at the sight of me, as if time stopped and he forgot how to breathe. For a split second, I almost forgot the insanity of it all.
The ceremony itself went by in a blur of vows and applause that didn’t make sense. Inside my head I was cracking jokes about whether this counted legally, whether I was living inside the plot of a very poorly thought out romantic comedy, and whether I should start Googling annulment lawyers on my phone mid-kiss. Outwardly, though, I just smiled like I hadn’t lost my mind entirely.
By the time the reception rolled around, everyone was buzzing, and the best man, Ethan, Liam’s oldest friend and college roommate, finally got his moment. He clinked his glass, swayed just enough to remind everyone of the open bar, and launched into a toast.
“Tonight I was supposed to talk about Liam and his bride,” he began, blinking at me like he was still adjusting to the sudden swap. “So, uh, congratulations to Liam and… what’s your name again?” The crowd laughed as I muttered, “Chloe,” and he grinned. “Right. Chloe. The cake genius who apparently also makes a decent emergency wife.”
He misquoted Rumi, something about love being the bridge between you and everything, before segueing into a story about their dorm days, where Liam supposedly tried to impress girls by baking brownies that came out like roof tiles. “Safe to say, Chloe, you’ve already improved his baking street cred just by existing,” Ethan said.
Then, with a sloppy kind of sincerity, he lifted his glass higher. “Here’s to Liam and Chloe. May your life together be messy but sweet, your fights short, your laughs long, and your sex life so good you forget why you were fighting in the first place.”
The crowd actually cheered. It wasn’t graceful, but it was perfect for the chaos of the night, and for a second, it almost felt like any other wedding, if you ignored the part where the bride had been swapped mid-day.
And then came the string quartet catastrophe. They half-heartedly squeaked out an off-key cover of Don’t Stop Believin’ that the bartender swore the maid of honor, who had planned the number for the original bride, had slipped them a crisp hundred to dedicate the song to her glory days. However, another bridesmaid whispered it was revenge: the bride had once stolen her prom date, and now it was time for drunken musical payback. Either way, hearing a violin try, and fail, to channel Journey was the kind of auditory crime you can’t unhear. The chandeliers trembled. The guests sang along, belting drunkenly, as if karaoke night had broken out in designer gowns. The gossip spiraled. Maya, my influencer intern, breathlessly reported that the maid of honor had already posted a TikTok of herself mouthing the lyrics while pointing at the chaos on the dance floor, as if to underline how far the night had veered from the original plan, and how Liam had somehow traded up in the process. Half the bridal party said it was a jab at the bride who bailed but everyone agreed Liam had clearly traded up. Either way, the video was racking up views faster than my reels about piping roses. #JourneyGate had officially been born. Gus shook his head and muttered, “If Mozart could see this, he’d rise from the grave just to slap someone.”
🧁⌨️🧁 🧁⌨️🧁 🧁⌨️🧁
Just before leaving the venue Liam kissed me, the crowd erupted. Not a polite brush of his lips for polite society. Not a stage peck. This was a full-on, burn-your-name-into-history kind of kiss. His mouth was firm, confident, champagne-sweet, tongue teasing mine until my knees buckled. The crowd roared. I hated how much I wanted more. By the time I pulled back for air, I half expected TMZ to burst through the doors.
Fast forward: frosting in my hair, wine on my dress, and a marriage certificate that may or may not be legal folded in my clutch. I was in the back of Liam Archer’s sleek black car, trying very hard not to hyperventilate. City lights smeared across the tinted glass. The leather smelled rich and expensive, like the inside of a luxury store I couldn’t afford to even look at. Liam lounged beside me like he was on a casual Uber ride.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll sort it in the morning. Annulment, quick and painless.” I wanted to agree. I really did. But then his hand brushed mine on the leather seat, and my body leaned into him before my brain caught up. And then his mouth caught mine again.
This kiss wasn’t for the cameras and crowd. This was raw, private, and devastating. I moaned against him, heat curling low in my belly. His fingers tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp. He slid his tongue deeper, claiming me with a hunger that made me tremble. My thighs pressed together instinctively, trying to ease the ache building between them.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my lips, voice rough with restraint. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to make a mess of you right here. I’ve wanted to do this since the cake tasting, wanted to taste more than your frosting, Chloe. Wanted to spread you out and see how sweet you really are.”
I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t.
Instead, I climbed onto his lap, dress hiking high as I pressed against the unmistakable hardness beneath his trousers. He groaned, low and rough, hands gripping my hips, guiding me to grind against him until sparks danced behind my eyelids. His chest rose hard against mine, his breath hot against my ear.
“You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this,” he growled. “Every time I came into your bakery, I thought about pulling you over the counter and fucking you senseless. Thought about frosting smeared across your skin, about licking every bit off you. Now you’re here on my lap, and you’re mine.”
“Quality control,” I panted, rocking against him shamelessly.
He laughed, dark and wicked, before dragging his mouth down my throat. His teeth grazed my skin, then his tongue soothed the sting. I gasped, clutching his shoulders, grinding harder, chasing that delicious friction until my body shook with need.
If I die in this car, I thought, please let someone delete my browser history and empty my nightstand before my mom finds any of it.
Heat built sharp and fast. His hand slid under my skirt, thumb teasing the edge of my panties before pushing them aside. I cried out when his fingers slid against me, slick and needy, and he swallowed the sound with another kiss. He slowed me when I tried to rush, forcing me to savor every drag, every circle, every careful slide. The control in his touch made me writhe, and the raw focus in his eyes, like I was the only thing in his universe, burned through me until I came undone. The sight of his mouth curving in satisfaction nearly finished me all over again.
It was reckless. Wild. The kind of encounter you don’t casually walk away from. When release hit, it ripped through me in a hot, electric wave, leaving me trembling in his arms, breathless, my nails biting into his shoulders.
He held me against his chest, lips brushing my hairline, body still hard and wanting beneath me. His hand rubbed slow circles against my back, as if calming me down was more important than chasing his own need.
“Annulment, huh?” I whispered, voice unsteady.
His chuckle was low, dangerous. “We’ll see. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”
And I knew, even then, that nothing about this was going to be simple.
Recipe: Disaster-Proof Almond Raspberry Cake
Because sometimes a mess is just the beginning of something unforgettable.
Ingredients
♀2 1/2 cups almond flour
♀1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
♀2 tsp baking powder
♀1/2 tsp salt
♀1 cup unsalted butter, softened
♀2 cups granulated sugar
♀4 large eggs
♀1 tsp almond extract
♀1 tsp vanilla extract
♀1 cup whole milk
♀1 1/2 cups fresh raspberries (or raspberry jam for filling)
♀Buttercream frosting, tinted blush pink
♀Edible shimmer dust and glitter for finishing
Instructions
1.Preheat oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease and flour three 8-inch round cake pans.
2.In a bowl, whisk together almond flour, all-purpose flour, baking powder, and salt.
3.In a large mixing bowl, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating well. Stir in almond and vanilla extracts.
4.Gradually add dry ingredients, alternating with milk, beginning and ending with dry mixture. Mix until just combined.
5.Divide batter evenly among prepared pans. Bake 25–30 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool completely.
6.Spread raspberry jam or fresh raspberries between each cake layer. Frost entire cake with blush-tinted buttercream.
7.Dust the surface with edible shimmer and a sprinkle of edible glitter.
Serve with a smile—because even wedding disasters taste better with cake.
