Chapter 11: Ghosts And Lavender
1194 Words
You always did like that one, didn’t you?
He remembered?!?
Zane noticed the effect his statement had on me but he didn’t remark on it. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, cool as ever. “Sorry. Did I hit a nerve? Or am I misremembering?”
The chef laughed nervously, as if we were joking. Laughing was too much for me, so I calmed myself down and forced a tight smile.
“Don’t worry,” Zane murmured under his breath, just low enough for only me to hear. “We’ll find something you can stomach.”
I didn’t reply him. The silence drew out.
“They brought in the new pastry chef from Tuscany,” Karina offered, breaking the silence. “Said he’s a genius with lavender crème brûlée.”
“Lavender,” I murmured, more to myself than her. That had been my idea, once. The softest details, the little things that Zane used to say made him feel like he could breathe. This was torture. Reliving the past dessert by dessert, and having Zane dismiss them all? Why did I suggest this menu anyway?
“Lavender crème brûlée?” Zane tsked. “That’s a bold risk for a public event. Not everyone wants dessert that tastes like perfume.”
My annoyance was bubbling. He was getting on my nerves. “At least try it before dismissing it.”
He didn’t respond. Only took one bite… and he grimaced.
“Too floral. Overdone.”
I stared at him. Was he doing this on purpose? I jammed my lips to prevent them from trembling, or worse, from lashing out at him.
He turned to Karina. “What’s next?”
Next came the chocolate ganache, a dense, luxurious slice infused with espresso. Another memory. My birthday, the year I turned twenty-one. Zane had baked me a version of it himself, flour on his nose, dark eyes soft for once.
He tried that one too. “Too bitter. Next.”
I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. My hand trembled as I reached for the lemon poppy seed. He beat me to it.
“Dry. Soulless,” he said.
“You’ve had three bites,” I snapped, finally meeting his gaze. “Are you here to contribute or just tear everything down?”
His lips tilted, but it wasn’t amusement. It was something darker. “Relax, Ms. Ibe. You’re very sensitive for a planner.”
Ms. Ibe.
God. I wanted to stab him in the eye with my fork.
It was as if every dish I’d once loved had been put on display… and rejected. Not on accident.
And yet, he never looked angry. Never accused. Just polite, distant critiques. As if none of it (none of me or us or our memories) meant anything. Plus that slight smirk on his face… almost as if the whole situation was humorous.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I smiled tightly, pretending nothing was wrong. But inside, my chest was burning.
“This menu was carefully selected,” I said slowly.
“Based on sentiment?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Planning a wedding requires logic, not emotion.”
He was taunting me. But I couldn’t call him out. It’s too public. The staff were already whispering. And the chef… poor Karina. She was sweating under the blasting air conditioner. She tried her best.
I walked over to the chef. “Let’s move to the second round, please.”
But Zane wasn’t done.
He pointed at the profiterole. “And this? Do you honestly think people still serve mint and chocolate together without it tasting like toothpaste?”
A few staff members exchanged glances. One woman walked over and touched Zane’s arm gently. “Maybe you should sit, sir. The lights seem harsh today.”
Zane's jaw ticked. “Fine,” he says tightly. “I’ll observe.”
He took a seat, my seat, the one I was using. Just casually assumed the space as if he owns it. My jaw clenched as I moved to the opposite end of the table.
The staff hovered around him like he’s made of glass. One offered him water, another adjusted the lighting, murmuring something about migraines. They were treating him like he’s fragile, like any wrong word could break him.
That’s when I realized: they’re not just protecting him. They’re hiding something from him.
I pressed my fingers to my temple. This whole situation was giving me a headache.
Karina awkwardly excused herself with a promise to bring more options later, leaving us alone.
Silence. For almost a minute
“You seem determined to hate everything I love,” I said, before I could stop myself.
Zane looked at me for a long moment. “It’s a wedding, Ms. Ibe. Not a therapy session.”
I can’t do this. I stood abruptly. “Excuse me.”
He shook his head and signaled to my seat with his finger. “We’re not done talking.”
I sat back down.
“You’re not usually this... combative,” Zane said, leaning against the edge of the table.
“You’re not usually this cruel.”
His eyes glinted. “So you say. Though according to Sera, I was always a little... difficult.”
There it was again. The refusal to acknowledge what we once were. It was a push-pull. I was tired of guessing if he remembered me or not. I clenched the clipboard until the metal clip bit into my palm.
“Do you remember me at all?” I asked, voice low.
Zane tilted his head to the left. “Should I?”
I pinched my lips together. “We worked together before. Briefly.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “You’re the whistleblower.”
His tone was light, but I felt the air shift. Goosebumps crawled up my skin.
“There were articles. Lawsuits. Drama,” he added. “You caused quite the stir. It was you, right?”
I searched his face for… anything. Any hint of remembrance. “That’s all you remember about me?”
Zane shook his head. “No, not me. The Internet. That’s all the Internet remembers.”
Karina came back with a platter, cutting short our conversation. I forced myself to look away from Zane. In a sense, it was best that our conversation ended. His words were like daggers straight to my heart. What hurt even more than the memory loss was all the polished lies that have been fed to Zane. And I had to pretend that none of it mattered.
The tasting continued in slow torture. Every flavor I picked, Zane shot down. Every cake I once dreamed of having at our wedding, he dismissed with a cool, bored detachment. I was drained to my bone.
When the tasting was over, I rose from my seat. “Thank you,” I told the team, making my tone as pleasant as ever. “We’ll confirm final selections by next week.” I grabbed my stuff and was about to leave when I felt fingers close around my wrist.
Zane’s voice was a low hum in my ear. “I’ll walk you out.”
- Writer
