Chapter Twenty-Four Fighting Flowers and Hiccups
Linda
LINDA HAD DREAMED of her wedding since she was little.
Which was a bold-faced lie. Linda had once used Barbies to reenact gladiator matches and assumed she’d probably marry herself out of sheer convenience, tax benefits, or because no one else would remember to feed her on weekends.
Now she was planning an actual wedding. With Rhys.
It was different. It was warm. It was real .
And also—a complete disaster.
“I swear to god, if these smug peonies look at me one more time, I will commit floricide,” Linda snapped, holding two sample bouquets like she was about to duel someone at dawn. “Roses are too obvious, lilies are one passive-aggressive sigh away from a funeral, and these anemones are judging me in Latin.”
Rhys, ever the calm to her chaos, looked up from the RSVP disaster zone on the dining table. “You’re yelling at plants again, love.”
“I am fighting for our aesthetic, Rhys.”
“You said you didn’t want an aesthetic.”
“I didn’t want Pinterest’s aesthetic. We deserve better. Something moody. Romantic. A little unhinged. Like a gothic cottagecore apocalypse.”
Rhys blinked. “So…thistles and minor key string quartets?”
“ Yes. ”
He put his pen down and came to wrap his arms around her from behind. “We can have whatever flowers you want. I’ll find a botanist willing to dye hydrangeas with espresso and blood if that’s what it takes.”
Linda melted a little. She hated him. And by hated, she meant adored with the heat of a thousand microwaves she’d threatened to sue .
But still.
Nothing could have prepared them for what happened next.
Because exactly thirty minutes before the cake tasting—a time sacred, revered, and blocked off on all calendars in glitter ink—Linda realized something horrifying.
“The ring,” she said.
Rhys looked up from his tea, already sensing doom. “What about it?”
“It’s missing.”
The air shifted.
They tore through the apartment like it owed them money. Through drawers, through Rhys’s gym bag, through the freezer (just in case), through the laundry basket, through the depths of Linda’s purse where lip balm and mints went to die.
Nothing.
And then.
In the quiet stillness of heartbreak, came a sound.
A burp.
A soft, syrupy, self-satisfied burp.
Linda turned like a horror movie protagonist .
Sir Stumps-a-Lot was sitting squarely in the middle of the rug.
Looking smug.
Looking round.
Looking suspiciously... jinglier than usual.
“No,” Linda whispered.
“He wouldn’t,” Rhys said, already reaching for his phone.
Sir Stumps yawned. Stretched. And then hiccupped.
Clink.
Linda’s mouth dropped open. “He ATE it.”
“I mean, there’s a chance it was just near him when he hiccuped.”
“We are not hedging this. Call the vet. Cancel the cake tasting. We are at DEFCON 1. DEFCON DIAMOND.”
Rhys was already dialing.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot blinked slowly, like a corgi pope in judgmental repose.
“I can’t believe this,” Linda said, collapsing into a chair with her head in her hands. “I swore I wasn’t going to be that bride. And now my dog is going to poop out my future.”
Rhys crouched in front of her, phone cradled to his ear, the world’s most patient fiancé. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Worst-case scenario? We delay the wedding one week and our ring bearer gets X-rays.”
“I’m not putting that in the vows.”
“I would.”
“You would .”
Rhys leaned forward and kissed her knee. “We’ll get through this. Together.”
Sir Stumps let out another burp.
Linda narrowed her eyes at the dog. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Rhys laughed softly. “Don’t worry. If he passes the ring, I’ll propose again. Right there. Probably with gloves on.”
“You’re a menace,” she muttered.
“I love you too.”
And somewhere, deep in his corgi soul, Sir Stumps-a-Lot smirked.
Because in the end, he was still the ring bearer.
Just… internally.