I never thought wedding cake magazines could make Alex this dramatic. And yet, here we were—two grown men sitting cross-legged on the couch, arguing over buttercream textures like it was a diplomatic crisis. Alex tapped a page for the ninth time in five minutes. “I like this one, but—ugh—I don’t know if the lace design is too much. Do you like lace?” “I like you not having an aneurysm,” I said, leaning back and brushing my fingers lightly along his shoulder. “Whichever one helps you sleep at night works for me.” Alex shot me a look that was ninety percent exasperation and ten percent soft. “You’re not helping.” “I’m easing your stress levels.” “You’re causing my stress levels.” I smirked. “Then we’re evenly responsible.” He was about to argue—because he always argued—when a scream cut the air in half. A real one. A sharp, terrified, gut-wrenching scream from upstairs. Marilyn. Alex froze. I was already on my feet, heart slamming hard enough to bruise bo
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