There’s the cake, three tiers high, a plastic bride and groom on the top. I’d be the one cutting that cake later if the bastard hadn’t dumped me for Miss Botox-lips.
I spy the plate through the skylight – an heirloom he said he’d eat from on our wedding day. I tip the bottle, letting the poisonous drops fall and look on horrified as the head chef pushes Calvin’s fancy plate out of the way, replacing it with the wedding cake.
There are over 500 guests coming to the reception shortly. I shut the skylight, cold dread filling me.