The wedding cake sits on my work counter, one entire tier completely destroyed where I dropped the piping bag. Buttercream smeared across what was supposed to be a pristine cascade of hand-piped roses. Hours of work reduced to something that looks like it survived a natural disaster.
I press my palms flat against the cool marble surface and count to ten. Then twenty. Then I give up on numbers entirely and grab my phone to call the bride, because there's no salvaging this mess in time for the noon pickup.
The conversation goes about as well as expected. She's understanding, which somehow makes it worse. She suggests we downsize to two tiers instead of three, and I promise her a full refund on the top layer plus a complimentary dessert table for her reception. By the time I hang up, my customer service smile has calcified into something that probably looks more like a grimace.
I turn back to the ruined cake and seriously consider throwing the entire thing in the trash. But waste makes my skin crawl, so instead I carefully salvage what I can, scraping the good portions into a container for the food bank pickup tomorrow.
The steak sits in my commercial fridge like an accusation.
Forty-five days dry-aged. Prime wagyu. The marbling is genuinely obscene, fat running through the deep red muscle in delicate white rivers that probably cost more per pound than my rent. I know this because I looked it up on my phone while the bride was processing her disappointment, because apparently self-flagellation is my new hobby.
It's beautiful.
I hate that it's beautiful.
I hate that he clearly put thought into this, that somewhere in his massive, bone-saw-wielding skull, he genuinely believed this was an appropriate gesture. A peace offering. A courtship gift, if the internet search results about Orc cultural practices are even remotely accurate.
The search history on my phone now includes phrases like "Orc mating rituals" and "traditional meat offerings significance," which is definitely not how I planned to spend my morning.
I should throw it away.
I should absolutely, one hundred percent throw this obscenely expensive piece of meat directly into the dumpster and be done with it.
Instead, I carefully wrap it in butcher paper—because of course he provided butcher paper, the show-off—and tuck it into the back of my personal fridge. For later. When I'm less furious and more capable of appreciating fine food without wanting to hurl it at someone's head.
By the time I finish reconstructing a passable two-tier version of the wedding cake, it's nearly ten AM. My back achesfrom hunching over the piping work, and I have buttercream under my fingernails despite three rounds of hand-washing.
The bone saw starts up again at 10:07.
I know the exact time because I'm watching the clock when the grinding shriek tears through my kitchen, rattling the mixing bowls on their shelf and sending a fresh wave of rage straight up my spine.
He said he'd be more careful.
He promised.
I set down my piping bag with extraordinary care, smoothing my apron with hands that definitely aren't shaking from fury. The industrial fan I ordered on express delivery yesterday sits in its box by the back door, and I've never been more grateful for same-day shipping in my entire life.
It takes me twenty minutes to assemble, another ten to position it at the perfect angle facing the shared ventilation grate that connects our two shops. The thing is massive, the kind of high-powered commercial unit designed to move serious air volume in restaurant kitchens.
I drag a fifty-pound bag of bread flour over, position it directly in the fan's path, and cut a small corner off the bag.
When I flip the switch, the results are immediately, spectacularly satisfying.
A white cloud of flour billows up and out, caught by the powerful blast of air and channeled directly toward the vent. Within seconds, a fine powder is coating everything within a six-foot radius, including me. I watch the white fog disappear into the ventilation system and smile.
Then I connect my phone to the portable Bluetooth speaker I usually reserve for wedding receptions, pull up my most aggressively cheerful pop playlist, and crank the volume to maximum.
The opening synth beats of a particularly bouncy dance track explode into the alley, and I feel a savage satisfaction bloom as I imagine Lanek trying to concentrate on butchering with this particular audio assault rattling his workspace.
I leave it running and march back inside to finish the wedding cake.
The first sign that my retaliation might have worked a little too well comes forty minutes later when Mrs. Ling from the dry cleaners stops by to ask if everything is okay, because apparently my speaker is loud enough to be heard three shops down.
I dial it back slightly, just enough to avoid an actual noise complaint, and return to piping delicate sugar pearls along the cake's bottom tier.
The bone saw has been suspiciously quiet since I started my assault.
Good.
