11.

~CAKE~

Eliana is humming off-key while my hands soak in warm water, and I’m staring at my reflection like it might give me answers if I glare hard enough.

“Stop looking at yourself like that,” she says. “You’re going to scare the nail tech.”

“I’m not glaring,” I mutter. “I’m thinking.”

“That’s worse.”

I glance at her. She’s perched on the salon chair beside me, legs crossed with her phone in hand, hair wrapped in foil like she’s auditioning to be a baked potato. Her outfit is like always, soft and expensive-looking. She had on cream trousers, fitted brown top, and gold hoops. She was effortless, as always.

I look down at myself instead. I was in Nico’s clothes. He had sent a text message informing me of my hair and nail appointment and ordered me to wear something from yesterday.

So here I am, in a short skirt that sits just high enough to make me aware of every movement. A plain white top tucked in, cinched with a slim brown belt. White sandals. White hairband pulling my curls back from my face.

I hate that they all fitted perfectly.

I hate that I didn’t have to think about it this morning.

“You’ve been quiet since yesterday,” Eliana says, lowering her voice. “Like… quieter than normal. One moment you were free and spirited on the dance floor, the next you were quiet.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is when it’s you.”

I sigh. “I just didn’t and haven't picked a dress.”

Her head snaps toward me. “You didn’t what?”

“I couldn’t decide,” I say quickly. “They all felt wrong.”

She stares at me like I’ve just confessed to a crime. “Cake. Your wedding is in two days.”

“Technically,” I say, “it’s his wedding. I just have to show up.”

She laughs. “God, he really said that, didn’t he?”

“Not really, he just implied it.”

“And you didn’t slap him?”

“I thought about it.”

She grins. “Progress.”

The nail tech asks me what color I want. I pick something neutral. My fingers don’t feel like they belong to someone getting married anyway.

Eliana leans closer. “So. Since we’re here. And since you’re apparently marrying a man who thinks weddings assemble themselves—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“—can I just ask,” she continues, “what the hell possessed you to say yes?”

I shrug. “You’re asking like you weren’t there Elianna! Poor life choices, how was I supposed to pay him back his money? Either that or he kills my mother.”

She snorts. “Romantic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” she says softly. “That’s what scares me.”

Silence settles between us, then she grins again. “Okay. New topic. Javier.”

I groan. “Please don’t.”

“Oh no,” she says. “We are absolutely talking about how my bodyguard lost his mind last night.”

I lift a brow. “You mean when he stormed into the club like someone had insulted his ancestors?”

“He was smoking from the ears,” she says, laughing. “I swear I saw steam.”

“You love getting on his nerves don’t you? You did try to suffocate him with your thighs.”

“I tripped!”

“You climbed him.”

“He walked me out like a misbehaving child,” she says. “Did you see his face?”

“Yes. He looked like he was deciding whether to quit or kill someone.”

“Me,” she says proudly.

We both laugh, “If you like him, you know you two are cute together.”

She scoffs, “Please, I can’t stand him, and he also can’t stand me. He calls me a spoiled brat and I can’t be with such a man who is egoistical and full of himself. And even if something like that were to happen between us, my father will kill him.” She lets out a breath.

“Can’t wait for a new bodyguard to be reassigned to me,”

“I wonder what business your daddy does that requires so much security,”

“I guess we’ll never know,” she says, sighing.

Her father never tells her stuff, he’s distant and only responds to her when she wants something, if Elianna doesn’t want something she can’t see the father.

So she always has to want something to be able to see her father, hence Javier calling her a spoiled brat.

“Eliana,” I say, suddenly. “Will you be my maid of honor?”

She freezes. “What.”

“I know it’s contractual and weird and rushed,” I say quickly. “But I don’t have anyone else, and you’re my person and—”

She screams, actually screams as the entire salon goes silent.

“Yes!” she shouts. “Of course yes! You didn’t even need to ask, are you insane?”

She lunges for me, careful of the foils, grabbing my hands. “I’m going to cry. I’m crying.”

“Please don’t,” I say. “I just got my lashes done.”

She sniffles. “I hate you.”

My phone vibrates before I can respond. It was an unknown number, I recognized it.

I hesitate before answering, “Belva,” Luke says. “Are you still breathing?”

Luke was an acquaintance, he calls when the money is big and when he can make big cuts out of it.

“Depends,” I say. “How much?”

“Five hundred grand.”

I don’t even blink. “When.”

“Tonight.”

“Got you,” I hung up.

Eliana is staring at me. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You don’t have to,” she says. “Absolutely not. Cake, you’re getting married in two days.”

“I owe money.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“I already did.”

She grabs my arm. “You cannot show up to that altar bruised.”

“I’ll be careful.”

She scoffs. “You always say that.”

Javier says nothing as we make the entire trip to the other side of town just for the fight. Looking over at the dashboard, the time reads 20:30.

Great, just enough time. We park a few blocks away.

I changed in the backseat, putting on my mask, gym shorts, and an oversized jacket. I hand Eliana my skirt and top like they’re something fragile.

“Bet on me,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Always.”

The underground arena smells like sweat and money and bad decisions.

The crowd roars when my name is announced. “Belva! The woman who knocked out Iron Fists!”

My opponent is small, and compact. Her stance is tight.

The bell rings.

She doesn’t rush me.

That’s the first thing I notice.

Most fighters come in wild, hungry for a quick win, but she stays light on her feet, her eyes locked on my chest instead of my face. Smart. She’s reading my breath, my balance.

I circle left. She mirrors me. She feints first—quick step forward, testing distance. I don’t bite.

Then she moves.

Her fist snaps out of nowhere, knuckles cracking against my cheekbone before I can shift fully back. White flashes behind my eyes. The taste of iron floods my mouth instantly.

“Fuck,” I mutter, grinning through it.

Good.

I answer with a hook to her ribs, feeling the give of muscle beneath my glove. She exhales sharply but doesn’t stumble. Tough. She drives her knee up into my thigh, hard enough to make my leg buckle for half a second.

I plant my foot anyway and shove her back with my shoulder. She slides, regains balance, and comes at me again.

We trade.

Fists. Elbows. Short brutal strikes meant to hurt, not show off.

She catches me across the jaw again. My head snaps to the side. I taste blood, feel it warm as it spills down my chin. The crowd roars louder, feeding on it.

I spit.

She smirks.

I rush her.

She ducks under my swing and slams her forearm into my ribs. Once. Twice. The third one lands deeper, stealing air from my lungs in a sharp, humiliating gasp.

I stagger back.

She doesn’t let up.

A kick to my calf sends a jolt of fire straight up my leg. Another punch clips my eyebrow, splitting skin. My vision blurs on one side, sweat and blood mixing.

“Go Belva!” I hear Eliana scream somewhere in the noise.

I breathe through my teeth.

Think Cake, think.

She shifts her weight too far forward when she throws the next punch. Just a fraction. Just enough.

I catch her wrist, twist, and drive my elbow into her shoulder. She cries out this time. I follow with a knee to her stomach, feeling her fold slightly.

She recovers fast—too fast—headbutting me square in the nose.

Stars explode behind my eyes.

We lock up, foreheads pressed together, both breathing hard, sweat dripping down our faces. Her eyes are wild. Mine probably are too.

“You’re good,” she snarls.

“So are you,” I rasp back.

We break.

My ribs scream every time I move too fast. My thigh feels like it’s on fire. My face throbs in time with my heartbeat.

Then she makes her mistake. She charges, straight at me.

I pivot on instinct, ignoring the protest in my leg, and swing my body with the motion. My heel connects with the side of her head.

There’s a sickening crack. Her body drops like the strings have been cut.

Silence hits first, then the arena detonates.

The referee is on her instantly, counting, but I already know. She’s out cold.

I stagger back, chest heaving, arms heavy at my sides. Blood drips onto the mat. Sweat stings my eyes.

When they raise my hand, the roar hits me full force.

I lift my other arm, rolling my shoulders, feeding the crowd like I always do. It’s automatic. It’s survival, and it's a habit.

Inside, everything hurts.

I raise my arms, feeding off it, then exiting the arena to collect my money.

Six hundred grand.

I’m almost out when a hand grabs my wrist and slams me back.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

I don’t need to look.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” I snapped. “And you didn’t say no fighting. You said you’d brief me after the wedding about fighting in your ring. Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”

He releases instantly, his eyes sweep my face.

“You will not show up to that altar looking like this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’ve got it handled. Goodnight, Mr. Vescari.”

I salute him and run.

Eliana and Javier are waiting. “Let’s go,” I say, wiping blood from my lip.