A Certain Mr. Rit Co Chapter 4

Chapter Four: A Feast of Consequences

The Aviary’s grand glass atrium, transformed for the reception, was a testament to controlled elegance—or so Ellie’s clipboard proclaimed. Long tables draped in champagne silk groaned under sculptural floral arrangements and tableware so minimalist it looked vaguely accusing. The air hummed with the aftermath of the ceremony, a giddy, disbelieving energy that no amount of curated ambiance could dampen. Guests traded photos of capybara-led processions and dove-adorned vows, their laughter a constant, bubbling soundtrack.

Ellie moved through the crowd like a ghost. Her professional psyche was in triage mode. The ceremony was a classified disaster, yet the clients were deliriously happy. It was a paradox that short-circuited her planning algorithms. Her only anchor now was the sanctity of the reception timeline. Dinner at 8:15 PM. Toasts at 9:00 PM. Cake cutting at 11:30 PM, followed by the grand midnight fireworks display to ring in the New Year—the Year of the Fire Horse, a fact the couple had whimsically insisted on incorporating.

“Team Lead, the amuse-bouche are doing exactly that—amusing mouths. Zero casualties,” crackled her headset. It was the first good news in hours.

The culinary experience was the one domain Ellie had surrendered, with profound relief, to a culinary artiste named Chef Laurent. A man with a temper as fiery as his signature sauce espagnole and the ego of a Renaissance pope, he ruled the temporary kitchens with a titanium fist. His menu was a masterpiece of edible pretension:

· First Act: A "Forest Floor Encounter" – a mushroom panna cotta with foraged moss (microgreens) and a "dewdrop" of truffle oil.
· Second Act: "Tempest in a Teacup" – a seared diver scallop in a sea foam emulsion, served on a chilled stone.
· Main Symphony: "The Fire Horse’s Gallop" – a duet of miso-glazed black cod and scarlet beet-poached venison, arranged on the plate to suggest, according to the menu, "primal energy and romantic destiny."
· Pre-Cake Palette Cleanser: A "Zen Snowfield" – yuzu sorbet in a hollowed-out ice globe.

It was, by all accounts, sublime. Even the most cynical guest was momentarily silenced by the flavors. Ellie allowed herself a sliver of hope. The disaster was contained. The animals—S;ren securely zipped, Benedict leashed to a discreet column near her station—were under control. Leo was… well, Leo was sampling the champagne pairings with the studious focus of a sommelier, keeping a respectful distance.

The toasts were heartfelt and hilarious, peppered with references to "unexpected avian guests" and "rodent ring-bearers." The cake was wheeled out at 11:25 PM, to a collective gasp. It was a towering architectural marvel of red velvet, its sides coated in a flawless, deep crimson buttercream that shimmered like lacquer. Running up its tiers were delicate, galloping fondant horses painted with edible gold leaf—tiny golden steeds celebrating the incoming year. It was fierce, romantic, and utterly stunning.

Ellie signaled the DJ. The opening chords of the couple’s chosen cake-cutting song filled the air. Astrid and Julian, hands clasped, approached the cake table, a giant, silver-plated knife waiting for them.

This was the redemption moment. A clean, beautiful, photograph-perfect ritual.

S;ren, from the depths of the bag at Leo’s feet, had other ideas. Perhaps it was the lingering, tantalizing scent of venison from the main course. Perhaps it was the sudden, intense spotlight on the crimson cake, a color known to stimulate feline curiosity. Or perhaps, having tasted the sweet nectar of chaos earlier, he was simply hungry for an encore.

With a serpentine wriggle, he nosed open the slightly imperfectly re-zipped compartment of the bag.

Phase One: The Great Escape. S;ren flowed to the floor, a grey shadow against the dark wood.

Phase Two: The Canine Complication. Benedict, ever vigilant, saw his tiny charge on the move. His tail thumped a warning against the column. Ellie, her eyes locked on the cake knife, missed it.

Phase Three: The Redirected Mission. S;ren’s path to the kitchen was blocked by a server with a towering tray of empty zen snowfield globes. He pivoted, his eyes now on the next most interesting thing: the shimmering, gold-adorned tower of red. He began a low, stalking approach towards the cake table.

Phase Four: The Loyal Intervention. Benedict whined, then let out a sharp, single bark: "ALERT!"

Julian, mid-laugh about "hoping the cake doesn’t have any surprise fillings," paused. Astrid followed his gaze.

S;ren, realizing he had an audience, froze two feet from the cake, his body low, his tail twitching with predatory intent.

"Don’t move, darling," Julian whispered theatrically to the cake. "Maybe he thinks the horses are real."

The crowd tittered nervously. Ellie’s blood ran cold. She took a step forward.

"Benedict, stay," Leo commanded, but it was too late. The dog, interpreting the tense scene as his kitten preparing to besiege a giant, red, horse-filled fortress, lunged to intercede.

His leash, secured to the column, reached its limit with a sickening twang. The column—a decorative, freestanding piece—wobbled violently. The large, potted orchid perched atop it teetered, then plunged.

It did not hit S;ren. It did not hit the cake.

It landed, with a spectacularly wet crash, directly onto the "Zen Snowfield" sorbet cart that a server was wheling away nearby. Icy shards, smashed glass bowls, and pale green yuzu slush erupted in a wave.

The server yelped and jumped back, releasing the cart. It careened, as if guided by the mischievous spirits of the Fire Horse year, on a direct collision course for the cake table.

Time slowed. Ellie saw the cart’s trajectory with horrific clarity. Astrid’s eyes went wide. Julian, in a move of pure instinct, grabbed his new wife and pulled her back.

The metal cart clipped the corner of the table. The towering, crimson masterpiece swayed. For a breathless second, it seemed it might hold. Then, with the graceful inevitability of a felled sequoia, it began its descent.

It did not fall flat. It spun, shearing through layers, before coming to rest on its side against the table leg. The impact was horrifyingly silent. A vast, abstract splatter of red velvet and crimson buttercream now decorated the floor, the tablecloth, and the lower half of the DJ’s booth. One fondant golden horse was launched into the air, landing with a soft plop in a guest’s half-finished glass of Pinot Noir.

The silence was absolute.

Then, from the back of the room, a tipsy, culturally confused uncle from Connecticut, remembering the couple’s earlier explanation of a Russian tradition, boomed out: "BITTER! The cake is too sweet! Make it less bitter!"

The room exploded. Not in anger, but in a fresh wave of hysterical, cathartic laughter. "GORKO! GORKO! GORKO!" the chant was taken up, joyously, by the entire crowd.

Astrid, speckled with microscopic flecks of red frosting, looked at the wreck of her $5,000 cake, then at Julian, whose tuxedo jacket now sported a dramatic swipe of crimson. She started laughing, tears streaming down her face. "Kiss me," she gasped, "before something else explodes!"

And he did, dipping her dramatically over the ruins of their dessert, to thunderous applause and cheers.

The fireworks at midnight were, by comparison, a model of orderly precision. Bursts of gold and scarlet—for the Fire Horse—lit up the sky beyond the glass dome, reflecting in a thousand panes. It was breathtaking.

At 12:30 AM, as the last guests collected their coats, Ellie received the final report. Her face, illuminated by the glow of her tablet, went pale.

"Team Lead," the coordinator said, voice tight. "The valet. There’s been an… incident. The couple’s vintage Rolls-Royce, the one for their getaway…"

"What. Happened." Ellie’s voice was a monotone.

"It seems… in the confusion after the cake… the capybara handler needed to transport Guava, who was feeling overstimulated. The only vehicle with a suitably temperate, enclosed space was…"

"Let me guess. The Rolls-Royce."

"Yes. And Guava, while being a profoundly peaceful creature, has… a prodigious digestive system when nervous. The interior is… consecrated. Deeply. They cannot possibly travel in it tonight."

And so, under a sky still hazy with the scent of gunpowder and celebration, Astrid Vanderbilt and Julian Price, the couple who had survived doves, dogs, capybaras, and cake-apocalypses, stood on the curb in their wedding finery. Julian scrolled through his phone with a look of profound bemusement.

"Darling," Astrid sighed, leaning into him, her deconstructed silk cloud-dress smudged with red. "I think we’re taking a taxi home."

Ellie watched from the shadows as a regular yellow cab, summoned from the New Year's chaos, pulled up. The driver’s eyes bulged at the sight of them. They climbed in, laughing, waving through the rear window like royalty in a decidedly un-gilded coach.

Leo materialized beside Ellie, S;ren once again a limp, sleeping weight in his arms. Benedict, exhausted, lay at their feet.

"A taxi," Leo said, his voice warm with amusement. "In the Year of the Fire Horse. It’s poetically… mundane. The perfect end to a perfectly imperfect day."

Ellie looked at the empty, capybara-blessed Rolls, the stained driveway, the last of the gold firework ash settling like strange snow on the Aviary’s roof. She had no clipboard entry for this.

She simply nodded, too tired for words. The blueprint was not just ashes. It had been baked into a catastrophic cake, eaten by laughter, and carried away in a taxi. And somehow, against all logic and professional standards, it had worked.