Chapter 3 — The Wedding Favor Fiasco

Emma

The box sat on the counter, pristine and innocent, a white ribbon tied around its middle like a bow on a weaponized gift. Tess stood across from me in my kitchen, her electric-blue stilettos tapping against the tile with the rhythm of impending mischief. The sound seemed to echo in the room, where half-unpacked boxes of unused wedding décor loomed in the corners like silent witnesses to my humiliation. Through the window, the city skyline glimmered faintly in the morning haze, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing inside.

“This,” Tess announced, gesturing to the box as though it held the secret to eternal happiness—or at least eternal revenge, “is going to be epic. Trust me.”

Epic. The word hung in the air, heavy with possibility. Petty, maybe. Hilarious, possibly. But more than anything, it felt... risky.

“Tess, are you sure about this?” I asked, eyeing the box like it might sprout legs, sprint to Ryan’s mother’s doorstep, and announce, “Emma’s still bitter!”

Tess rolled her eyes, the light catching her pixie cut as she leaned forward. “Emma, sweetie, when have I ever steered you wrong?”

I gave her a look. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

She ignored me, plucking one of the handwritten notes from the counter. “‘Sometimes you need a reminder that not everything is as sweet as it looks. Enjoy the candy,’” she recited with a flourish, then held it out to me like a winning lottery ticket.

I sighed, taking the note from her hand and reading it again. The words stared back at me, smug and self-assured.

“It’s so obvious, Tess. They’ll know it’s from me.”

“Of course they’ll know it’s from you. That’s the point!” she said, throwing her hands up as if I’d just declared cupcakes overrated. “This isn’t about subtlety, Emma. It’s about reclaiming your power.”

I looked at the box again. The little jars of honey inside, each labeled with “E R, Sweet Beginnings” in elegant gold script, had once felt like a symbol of love and optimism. Now they felt like the punchline to a cruel joke. A bad one.

I bit my lip. “And if this backfires?”

Tess grinned, the kind of grin that made you wonder if she’d ever gotten away with murder. “Backfire? Honey, this is going to hit its target so perfectly, Cupid himself will be taking notes.”

Despite my reservations, I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. Tess had a way of making even my worst ideas sound like genius plans.

---

The next morning, I stood by the door, box in hand, my stomach doing somersaults. The kitchen around me felt like a museum of heartbreak, from the half-unpacked centerpieces to Ryan’s favorite mug, which still sat on the counter as if daring me to throw it out. My sweaty palms gripped the ribbon tightly, and my heartbeat was so loud I half-expected the neighbors to complain.

I paced, glancing at the clock every few seconds. The thought of sending this box filled me with a mix of exhilaration and dread. Part of me could imagine Ryan opening it, his perfect composure cracking just slightly. Another part of me imagined his mother swooping in like some kind of social media hawk, dissecting every detail for her flock of followers.

The doorbell rang, and I froze. After a deep breath, I opened the door to the courier.

“Ma’am?” he said, holding out his hand.

I hesitated, my fingers lingering on the ribbon. What if this was a mistake? What if I was feeding the very humiliation I wanted to escape? My breath hitched, and for a moment, I considered slamming the door shut and pretending none of this had ever happened.

But then Tess’s voice echoed in my mind: “This isn’t about them. This is about you.”

I let go.

---

Two days later, I was sitting at my desk, pretending to focus on a design proposal for a new client, when my phone buzzed with a notification.

Calloway Estate.

The name alone sent a chill down my spine. Slowly, as if the act of opening the app might unleash some ancient curse, I unlocked my phone.

The post was a photo of one of the honey jars, its label prominently featuring the “E R” monogram. The jar sat on a gleaming marble countertop, sunlight streaming in as if it were the star of some high-end ad campaign. The caption read:

“Even the sweetest things can leave a bitter taste. A reminder to always choose elegance over pettiness. #RiseAbove #GraceUnderFire #ClassAct”

My stomach dropped. My face burned as I scrolled through the comments, a mix of polite sympathy and not-so-subtle jabs.

“Well, that’s one way to get attention,” one read.

“Yikes. Someone’s still bitter,” said another.

I dropped my phone onto the desk, burying my face in my hands. My chest tightened, and tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. The humiliation was overwhelming—a physical weight pressing down on me.

“Tess,” I muttered under my breath.

As if summoned by the sheer force of my exasperation, my phone rang. Tess’s name flashed on the screen.

“Please tell me you’ve seen it,” she said, her voice vibrating with a mix of horror and fascination.

“Oh, I’ve seen it,” I replied. “You want to explain how this happened? Because I’m pretty sure that box was supposed to go to Ryan, not his mother.”

“Okay, first of all,” Tess began, “how did she even get her hands on it? Does she have his mail bugged or something?”

“Probably forwarded to her house,” I said dryly.

Tess let out a low whistle. “That’s... disturbing. But also kind of impressive, in a scary, overbearing-mother-in-law way.”

“This isn’t funny, Tess,” I snapped. “Now the entire internet thinks I’m some vindictive ex-bride who can’t let go.”

“Correction,” Tess said, her tone far too chipper for my liking. “The entire internet thinks you’re a witty, vindictive ex-bride who can’t let go. And honestly? I think you’re coming out of this looking pretty badass.”

I groaned, leaning back in my chair. “Tess, I didn’t want badass. I wanted closure. Now I just feel... humiliated. Again.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. When Tess spoke again, her voice was softer. “Emma, listen. I know this didn’t go the way we planned. But you’ve got to stop thinking about what other people think of you—especially the Calloways. This isn’t about them. This is about you.”

Her words landed with a quiet weight. She was right, of course. I’d spent so much of my relationship with Ryan trying to fit into his family’s polished world that I’d lost sight of who I was. Maybe this fiasco was a sign it was time to stop caring about their opinions altogether.

“Fine,” I said finally. “But no more revenge schemes. At least not for a while.”

“Deal,” Tess said. “But for the record, I still think the honey jar thing was brilliant.”

I laughed despite myself. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible but fabulous,” she replied. “Now, go do something that actually makes you happy for once. And call me if you need backup. Or wine.”

“Thanks, Tess,” I said, meaning it.

After we hung up, I sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the half-finished design proposal on my screen. My gaze wandered to the vintage fountain pen sitting beside me, its black-and-gold barrel gleaming faintly in the light.

I picked it up, my fingers tracing the intricate engravings. Slowly, I uncapped it and pressed the nib to the paper. The ink flowed freely, and as lines, curves, and flourishes began to take shape, I felt something flicker inside me—a spark.

For the first time in weeks, I felt just a little bit like myself again.