As the party filled up, Tom was the center of attention, laughing and clapping his friends on the back. He always had this easy charm that made everyone feel welcome. His parents, Jane and Michael, brought in a homemade pie, smiling broadly.
They hugged me and complimented the décor and pleasant atmosphere. My dearest friend Lisa followed right after them, arms full of gifts and her children in tow, adding to the happy chaos.
In the kitchen, I finally had time to put the mystery cake in the refrigerator. Curiosity got the better of me, and I lifted the lid just enough to have a peak. There was a picture on the cake, but it did not contain the customary happy birthday greeting. It appeared to be a screenshot of a text conversation, but I couldn’t make out any details.
“Need any help in here?” Lisa’s voice snapped me back to reality.
I quickly closed the cake box, plastering a smile on my face. “Just trying to make room for everything,” I replied, pushing the box into the fridge.
As we walked back to the living room, I shook off the uneasy feeling. It was probably just a quirky joke from Tom’s work friends, I thought. They always tried to outdo each other with humorous gifts.
The party buzzed with energy, everyone enjoying the food and music. Tom’s laughter mingled with the happy chatter of our friends and family. I moved through the crowd, refilling drinks and sharing laughs, my mind occasionally drifting back to the odd cake in the fridge.
I decided to wait until we were ready to cut it. After all, it was just a cake, and it wouldn’t spoil the night I had spent weeks planning. But deep down, I couldn’t shake the nagging thought that something was off.
The room was vibrant, filled with the warmth of close friends and family who had assembled to celebrate Tom’s birthday. As the clock approached cake time, I felt a rush of energy.
I excused myself and went back to the kitchen to get the cake. My hands remained steady, but my heart wasn’t. The previous dread had lodged in my stomach, a persistent reminder that anything might be wrong.
As I rolled the cake out on the cart, the visitors crowded around, raising their voices in a chorus of “Happy Birthday.” Tom’s face brightened with a broad smile, his eyes glittering in the light of the candles. Everyone shouted and clapped him on the back, eagerly anticipating the cake’s dramatic revelation.
I took a deep breath and lifted the cake box’s lid. The room was silent in an instant. All eyes were drawn to the cake, not because of its design or size, but because of the image on it—a screenshot of a text conversation between Tom and someone named Jenna. The texts were obvious and private, and no wife should ever have to read about her spouse.
Whispers cut through the silence. “What is that?” “Is this some kind of joke?”
Tom’s face drained of color. He looked from the cake to me, his mouth opening but no words coming out.
I found my voice, though it trembled. “Tom, what is this?” I asked loudly, the room echoing my question in their hushed murmurs.
“It’s not what it looks like, Ella,” Tom stammered, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape.
“Not what it looks like?” I repeated, my voice rising. “It looks like you’ve been cheating on me, Tom. With Jenna? Who is Jenna?”
The room was heavy with shock, Tom’s friends and family looking from him to me, unsure of where to stand or what to say. His mother covered her mouth with her hand, tears in her eyes.
“Ella, I can explain,” Tom said, reaching out to me. I stepped back, refusing his touch.
“Explain? In front of everyone? You owe me that much, don’t you?” I demanded, my hands shaking but my voice firm. The cake, once a symbol of celebration, now sat between us—a stark, sweet betrayal.
Tom looked around, the weight of the eyes on him too much to bear. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, but the words were hollow, lost in the larger echo of his deceit.
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