Chapter 28 - Stella
Stella
We spend the next few hours on the back of Grimm—Donovan's black Honda Rebel—the engine purring beneath us like it knows our secrets.
My arms rest loosely on his thighs now, not around his waist like they used to. After a few rides with Donovan, I’ve finally stopped feeling like I need to cling for dear life. I trust him. Trust the curve of the road under his hands, the hum of the bike between us.
We coast through the hills until Devil’s Cove comes into view, the sky overhead a wash of golden haze and late-afternoon blues.
Ansel and Theo are meeting us there—and honestly, I’m surprised he’s stayed this long.
I figured he’d be a one-weekend-and-done kind of guy.
Guess Ansel’s chaos is harder to quit than she thinks.
We pull into the cracked parking lot of the Last Stop, and Donovan kills the engine. The tavern looks the same as always—faded wood, chipped neon, and the faint smell of salt and smoke lingering in the air.
Inside, it’s dim and loud. Ansel and Theo are already at the bar, deep in whatever heated conversation has her arms waving like she’s conducting a symphony of sass.
“She’s mid-tirade,” I say, pointing.
Donovan grins. “Bet it’s about tequila”
Sure enough, as we get closer, I catch the tail end of Ansel’s rant.
“Whiskey is trash juice, Theo. It tastes like regret and poor choices. Tequila is the superior drink, and I will die on that hill.”
Theo raises his glass in surrender. “You also said that about mezcal last week.”
Ansel ignores him, turning to me. “Back me up here, Stell. Tequila supremacy, right?”
I hesitate. Because the truth?
I only drink tequila because she does.
I just shake my head and sit at the bar. I order a locally brewed beer and enjoy the company I have.
Huxley comes over, talking to Donovan and me like we all go way back. We start discussing potential wedding dates. There are already a few in the books—okay, more than a few. Most of the spring is packed.
Ansel slips off her barstool, her fingers grazing along Theo’s shoulders as she walks toward me. She leans her head on my shoulder, peering over into the date book.
“OH, APRIL 25TH,” she shouts with excitement.
“Ansel, what’s so great about April 25th?” I ask.
She giggles. “It’s not too hot, not too cold. All you need is a light jacket.”
She’s bent over laughing, and Donovan and I just look at each other, confused.
Theo spins on the stool to face us. “Ansel, did you really just quote Miss Congeniality?”
“Yessssss,” she squeals, clapping her hands together. “See? I knew I liked you for a reason!” She walks back to Theo and kisses him, pushing him playfully against the bar top.
“Fuck it. Huxley, can you put Donovan and me down for Friday, April 25th?” I slide my credit card over to pay the deposit.
Donovan grabs the card and replaces it with his.
“Donovan, don’t. You know my parents said they’re covering everything.” I try to snatch it back from him.
“Your name came from them, but the life you build with it? I want that to be with me,” he says, voice low as he leans in, kissing me softly.
“Okay, fine. You win.” I smile, giving in—just a little.
Once we wrap up at the bar, we make our way to The Devil’s Cliff Hotel. It’s coastal-chic perfection—grand, gorgeous, and perfect for family accommodations.
We block the rooms we’ll need, place the deposit, and grab keys for our room for the next two nights. Theo and Ansel are right next door.
After a quick nap, we get dressed and head out to explore the town.
Ansel and I spend hours in every adorable boutique, buying dresses, shoes, and laughing until our sides hurt. The guys trail behind us, content to talk and hold our bags.
Eventually, we wander into a jewelry store tucked quietly into a side alley. Ansel is instantly drawn to a case of dainty anklets and quirky earrings, already trying to convince Theo she “needs” six of them.
I slip over to the counter to pick up the order I placed. It’s wrapped perfectly.
Donovan saunters over, arms circling my waist from behind.
“It’s for Ansel,” I whisper. “I’m asking her to be my maid of honor.”
He looks down at the box in my hands and smiles. “You know that girl is like the sister you never had. She’d say yes no matter what.”
“I know. But I wanted it to be fun.”
Up front, Ansel calls out, “What did you get, Slay Muffin?”
“Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” I tease, sticking my tongue out at her.
She starts to chase me down the street toward the beach. My feet hit the sand, laughter in the air as she closes the gap.
She finally tackles me, sending us both tumbling into the dunes. We sit up, breathless and laughing, watching the perfect North Carolina sunset.
My head rests on her shoulder.
“Ansel…”
I swallow hard, blinking up at her through tears.
“My sugar plague. My favorite chaos. My chosen everything.”
I place the pastel-colored, macaron-shaped jewelry box in her hands, barely able to speak through the lump in my throat.
“Will you do me the honor—of standing beside me? Of holding me together, like you always have? Will you be my maid of honor?”
She gasps as she opens it. Tears pool in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she pulls out the ring.
It’s sterling silver, set with a deep pink tourmaline stone. The sides are shaped like a wrapped candy, and tucked on one side is a tiny silver casket.
Inside the band, engraved in soft cursive, are two simple words: Sugar Plague.
Her arms wrap tightly around me.
“You didn’t have to get me this gorgeous, perfect ring,” she chokes out. “I would’ve said yes.”
The next few months are packed—choosing reception food, finding a maid of honor dress that doesn’t make Ansel look like a cupcake, and making sure the best man’s tux doesn’t clash with the florals or his inflated ego.
Out of all the things I expected to argue about during wedding planning—napkin folds, seating charts, my refusal to do a garter toss—the cake wasn’t even on the list.
But here we are.
Who knew two people trying to decide on a cake could nearly call off the wedding?
Donovan wants something “classic.” Vanilla bean with vanilla buttercream.
Just… cake. Plain, white cake with white frosting, probably decorated with the most boring flowers known to man.
It’s the kind of cake that shows up in a wedding magazine next to a caption that reads timeless, which really just means bland.
And yeah, we fought about it.
Because I? I want lemon cake. Bright, tangy, layered with lemon curd, and wrapped in blackberry buttercream.
The colors would be stunning—rich purples and soft yellows, a combination that looks like it costs a lot.
Three tiers, delicate pastel flowers curling around the edges, mixed with dark calla lilies for contrast. Dramatic. Memorable. Ours.
On top? The cutest Mr. and Mrs. topper—not the cheap plastic kind, but the carved wood one I found on Etsy and bookmarked three months ago before Donovan even proposed.
His vision? A cake that looks like it belongs at a country club luncheon. My vision? A cake that makes people gasp when they walk into the room.
So yeah, I’m not backing down on this. I might not care about the seating chart or what kind of napkin fold we use, but I’ll be damned if I end up with a wedding cake that looks like it was ordered by a man who’s only ever used white paint.
This is my wedding too. And it’s not going to be boring.
The next morning, I wake up to an empty, cold bed. Groggy, I wipe the sleep from my eyes.
Donovan didn’t even sleep here last night.
I sit up and slip my feet into my slippers, wrapping my Slay Muffin robe around me. My feet drag against the floor as I shuffle toward the living room.
He’s not on the couch. Not in the kitchen.
I glance at the front door—and notice his keys and riding gear are gone.
No missed calls. No texts. Even when we’re fighting, it’s not like Donovan to leave without letting me know where he’s going.
I call his phone, straight to voicemail.
ME: Where are you? Have you been gone all night?
I hit send and wait, pacing the living room like it’ll answer back. After forty-five minutes, I’m pretty sure the hardwood floors are permanently marked with worry.
The front door bursts open, and Ansel rushes inside, wide-eyed. “Stella, what happened?”
I’m not crying. Not yet. But my voice breaks.
“Ansel, I don’t know. We had this stupid fight about stupid fucking cake, and I woke up this morning to a bed he never even slept in.”
I try to hold it together long enough to explain.
“His motorcycle gear is gone. His phone goes straight to voicemail. He hasn’t even read the text I sent him.”
The tears spill over, snot mixing in, and I wipe it on the sleeve of my robe. Ansel doesn’t flinch—she just pulls me into her arms.
“Stella, honey. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. Donovan wouldn’t be this mad over some fucking cake.”
“But—” I hiccup. “But why didn’t he come home?”
Ansel gently shifts me into her lap, cradling me like I’m breakable.
And then the door opens.
Donovan strolls inside like nothing happened. He sets his backpack on the ground, drops his keys on the entryway table, and hangs his helmet on the peg next to mine.
We both turn to him.
He freezes.
“Stella, baby,” he says, his voice suddenly full of concern. “What happened? Is everything okay?”
He rushes toward me, squatting down to pull me from Ansel’s arms.
The tears start and don’t subside. I am clinging to Donovan like he might disappear if my grip loosens. I don’t speak; I just cry.
The tears start—and don’t stop.
Clinging to Donovan as if I let go, he might vanish completely.
His arms tighten around me, and I can feel the confusion radiating off him.
“Ansel,” he says, his voice hardening. “Can you tell me what I’m missing here? Why is my fiancée crying like someone died?”
Ansel steps forward, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“I don’t know, fucker. Where the hell were you this morning?”
She doesn’t wait for him to answer.
“Better question—where the fuck did you sleep last night? Because you sure as hell weren’t on the couch when I left.”
Her voice is sharp, controlled, but the rage underneath it is palpable. She’s not just angry—she's ready.
Donovan blinks. “What—what are you talking about? I went for a ride. That’s all.”
He just went for a ride?
That’s all?
I know I’m not crazy. His side of the bed was untouched. Cold. Still perfectly made, like he never came home.
The ache in my chest twists into something sharper—anger tangled with self-loathing. I shove off his chest and stand, hands shaking, voice unsteady with fury.
“Do. Not. Try to gaslight me, Donovan.”
My fists curl tight at my sides.
“You did not just go for a ride. I’m not fucking stupid. You didn’t sleep in our bed last night.”
I step closer to him, eyes locked on his face, daring him to lie to me again.
“Ansel said you weren’t on the couch either. She leaves early on Fridays, and you weren’t here.”
I cross my arms slowly, the movement deliberate. Controlled. Even if I feel like I’m unraveling inside.
“Want to try again?”
He takes one large step back, creating space between us. His hands drag through his too-long hair, pushing it from his face like that will somehow give him the words.
“Fine,” he says. “I slept at my apartment last night. After the cake fight… I just thought we both needed space. To cool off.”
I stare at him. Dumbfounded.
“Your apartment?” My voice is quiet, stunned. “Donovan… this is your apartment. This is your home.”
And just like that, the confusion is gone—replaced by pure, boiling rage.
“Wait—you still have your apartment?”
It hits me all at once. The lies are in the silence. The secret he never bothered to tell me.
“You’re telling me you’re having your cake and eating it too?” I hiss. “You wanted to live with me, so you moved in. You wanted to marry me—and now we’re months away from that happening.”
I turn away, shaking. My feet carry me to the living room window—the one place in this apartment that usually calms me down.
The view is breathtaking. But the drop below it?
Unforgiving.
I press my hand to the glass and breathe in slowly.
“Are you having second thoughts, Donovan?” I whisper. “If this isn’t what you want… if I’m not what you want anymore—just say it.”
My voice is barely audible. Fragile, but firm.
“Don’t promise me forever if you’re ready to burn it to ash.”