The Vows We Fake

Chapter 10: Ghosts And Tastings

Still reeling from my brief, silent encounter with Zane, I needed to distract myself so I went to the main ballroom to check out the layout sketches. I had barely opened a page before I heard echoing footsteps and Mr. Wade’s increasingly agitated voice.

“You’ve approved over budget floral designs, doubled the dessert costs, and insisted on imported linens. This isn’t what we discussed.”

I turned to him, slowly. I took a deep breath before I spoke. I was annoyed already, best not to let him get to me. “I’m doing what the client wants,” I said evenly.

“You’re getting carried away.”

“It isn’t my money, and neither is it yours. If the couple has a problem with it, they would come to me directly. I really don’t know why you are bothered.”

He pointed a finger at me. “Ms. Ibe, you’re overstepping.”

“Mr. Wade, you’re doing too much.”

He sneered. “This will backfire on you, I promise you that.”

Before I could respond, Zane appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Mr. Wade,” he said, his tone sharp. “If there’s a problem with my planner’s budget, take it up with me.”

Wade glanced at him, clearly flustered. “Of course, sir. I didn’t realize-”

Zane’s gaze never left mine. “She has full authority. I trust her judgment.”

The words knocked the wind out of me. I was stunned into silence.

Zane turned and walked away. I was shaken by his defense, mostly because I wasn’t expecting him to do so. And that made me a bit sad and uneasy. Zane wasn’t consistent with his defense. When with people like Mr. Wade, he was so quick to stand by me. When with Sera, however, it was as if his lips were stuck with glue. Why only defend me during selected times in the midst of selected people? It came off as indecisive.

If there was one thing that unnerved me, it was indecisiveness.

##

I was planning some notes about the wedding when I heard a knock on the door.

“Room service,” a muffled voice said.

I opened the door to find a young man with a tray of breakfast and a tight smile. “From Mr. Blackwood,” he said, putting out his hand.

I blinked. “Did he… say why?”

The man shook his head. “Just that you shouldn’t skip meals.”

The tray was heavy with fruits, freshly brewed coffee, and croissants that smelled like a Parisian bakery. And there was a perfumed note with Zane’s unmistakable handwriting.

Fuel up, Miss Ibe. We can’t have you fainting before the cake tasting.

I crushed the note in my fist.

The cake tasting was today.

God.

Zane was going to be there.

##

The venue’s tasting suite was a private, almost sacred place meant for choosing flavors of celebration. It was the kind of place that had a six-month waitlist and a chef who charged five figures for just buttercream.

Irony had a cruel sense of humor. Five years ago, Zane and I had walked this same path hand in hand, giddy with possibilities and brimming with ideas and suggestions. Now I walked it alone, clipboard clutched to my chest like a shield.

When I arrived, the head chef was already fussing over fondant samples and explaining ganache density. I pretended to listen to her. Believe me, I tried to pay attention. I smiled when necessary. I even nodded when I was supposed to.

But my attention was divided. I was watching the door.

And when Zane finally walked in, I felt my heart race pick up. He wore a grey suit this time, different from his usual black. No tie. His dark hair was slicked back. He held sunglasses in one hand.

“Oh,” he said when he saw me, with that perfectly neutral tone that meant anything but. “You’re early.”

“Some of us don’t thrive on dramatic entrances,” I replied, trying to make my voice sound unbothered when I was clearly not.

He was the one unbothered, slipping into the seat opposite mine. “You should try it sometime. Keeps people on their toes.”

“Some of us don’t need theatrics to be memorable,” I retorted.

His lips curved in a slight smirk. “Is that what you’re trying to be, Amara? Memorable?”

Amara.

I didn’t know what to say. I looked away from him and took in the decoration of the tasting room. Crisp white linens, delicate floral arrangements, lined up plates.Thankfully, the pastry chef came in, breaking the silence and bringing in the first sample on a silver tray.

“This one’s the vanilla chiffon with passion fruit curd and mascarpone frosting,” she said brightly, slicing it into two neat wedges.

My breath caught.

That flavor combo... it had been my idea. Five years ago, Zane had joked that passion fruit reminded him of the way I kissed—unexpected and addictive. So we had planned to use it for our wedding cake. That felt like eons ago, when there was no fiancée named Sera nor hospital rumors nor curated lies and written-out presences.

“Thank you, Karina,” I murmured to the chef, taking the plate with steady hands.

I barely had time to raise my fork before Zane spoke. “Passion fruit curd? That’s odd.” He picked up a fork and dug it into the chiffon. I waited with bated breath as he chewed it slowly. He then set the fork down with a clink. “Too sweet. It feels… desperate.”

My throat closed. “Excuse me?”

Zane glanced at me, expression blank. “The flavor profile. It’s overworked and lacks balance.”

I stared at him, my chest burning as it ached. I know he didn’t remember, but I hoped his tongue would remember what his mind failed to. I wasn’t expecting him to fawn over the desserts, but his dismissal was too harsh. Either way, he’d just gutted a memory and left it bleeding on the table.

Karina gave me an uncertain glance. I forced a nod for her to continue.

She brought the chocolate-chili truffle next. Oh, I loved a chocolate-chili truffle. It was my guilty pleasure and go-to when I was stressed. In the past, Zane had even learned to make it for me as long as it made me happy.

My heart was thrumming. Would he remember this one at least?

Zane was quick to taste it. The moment he took a bite of it, he winced. “Too bitter,” he said. “Reminds me of something… unpleasant.”

My chest became tight. “Your conscience?” I offered with as much cool I could muster, so he won’t notice how stiff I became.

His smirk only deepened as he looked at me. “You always did like that one, didn’t you? Chocolate-chili truffle. Your taste has always been odd.”

It took a few seconds for what he said to sink in, and I froze in my seat.

You always did like that one, didn’t you?

Zane remembered what I liked five years ago?!