It looked like a sisterly gesture of congratulations. The guests smiled. Sarah embraced me tightly. But the moment her arms went around me, I felt her trembling. She was vibrating with a terror so profound it was contagious.
“Sarah?” I whispered.
She didn’t pull back. She knelt down, pretending to adjust the long train of my gown, shielding her face from David and the guests.
Her hand gripped my ankle hard, bruising the skin. She leaned up, her lips brushing my ear. Her voice was devoid of any warmth; it was a hiss of pure, primal fear.
“Don’t cut the cake. Push it over. Right now. If you want to live through the night.”
My breath hitched. I pulled back slightly to look at her. I wanted to ask why, to call her crazy.
But then I looked past her. I caught David’s gaze.
He wasn’t looking at me with love. He wasn’t looking at Sarah. He was staring intently at his wristwatch, his jaw tight with impatience. As his eyes flicked back to the cake, a small, cold smile played on his lips—a smile of anticipation, like a hunter watching a trap snap shut.
He wasn’t waiting for a celebration. He was waiting for a result.
“Come on, darling,” David whispered, his voice dropping an octave, losing its public warmth. His hand on mine tightened, the pressure turning painful. “Cut deep. I can’t wait for you to try the first bite. The frosting is… special.”
His hand was hot and heavy. It wasn’t a caress; it was a shackle. I looked into his eyes again. The icy blue wasn’t beautiful anymore; it was dead, void of humanity, like a shark’s.
Sarah’s warning screamed in my head. Push it.
I didn’t think. I let instinct take the wheel.
Instead of pressing the knife down, I shifted my weight. I jammed my hip against the silver cart and shoved with everything I had.
CRASH.
The sound was cataclysmic. The seven-tier tower of cake teetered for a split second before collapsing onto the marble floor. Porcelain shattered. Heavy layers of sponge and cream exploded outward, splattering the front row of guests. Gold leaf and white frosting coated my pristine dress and David’s expensive tuxedo.
The room fell into a shocked, dead silence. The string quartet stopped mid-note.
David stood frozen. A glob of buttercream slid down his cheek. His mask of sophistication vanished instantly, replaced by a contortion of pure, unadulterated rage.
“You stupid bitch!” he roared, raising a hand as if to strike me right there on the stage.
Sarah didn’t wait. She kicked off her heels. She grabbed my wrist with a grip of iron.
“RUN!”
We bolted. Two sisters, barefoot, sprinting through the wreckage of a fairytale. We slipped on the frosting, scrambled over the debris, and dashed not toward the main exit, but toward the service entrance Sarah had scouted earlier.
“Stop them!” David screamed behind us. It wasn’t the voice of a groom. It was the command of a general.
We burst through the double doors into the kitchen, startling the chefs. Sarah didn’t slow down. She shoved a rack of pots and pans over behind us, creating a metallic barricade.
“Sarah, what is happening?!” I panted, hitching up my ruined dress.
“Just run!”
Behind us, the kitchen doors banged open.
