7.

~CAKE~

My mother is awake when I check on her, which means it has been a bad night.

She is propped against the headboard, coughing into a handkerchief that has seen better days. Her breathing sounds wrong. Like every inhale is something she has to bargain for.

“You took your meds?” I ask.

She nods. “An hour ago.”

I cross the room and straighten the blanket she keeps kicking down. She hates feeling trapped. I hate that she is trapped anyway.

“You should still be asleep,” I tell her.

She gives me a look. “Says the girl who came in at five this morning.”

Fair.

“Get a decent job baby, how do you get hurt for money? Break your ribs, cut your lips, bruise your eyes? They’re decent jobs, baby.”

“But mama I like this one, you know I do.” I sigh. And I heard a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” I say.

“I know that knock,” my mother says quietly.

I pause. Turning back to her. “What do you mean?”

“It should be your father’s friends from that night, they always knock like that.”

I do not answer her, I grab my jacket off the chair and head for the door.

The man standing outside is not one of the soldiers from before. This one is cleaner, whoever his dry cleaner is, deserves a fucking raise. His suit is well pressed, his hands folded neatly in front of him like he is here to sell me insurance and not deliver a threat.

“Miss Coogan,” he says. I do not invite him in.

“I’m not interested,” I reply.

“I’m here to take you somewhere.”

“No.”

He blinks once. Not surprised. “My boss was very clear.”

“Good for him.” I cross my arms. “You can tell him I said no.”

He looks past me, just enough to see into the apartment. Just enough to confirm what he needs to see.

“I’ll let him know,” he says, already stepping back.

The car pulls away without another word.

I lock the door and lean my forehead against it for half a second.

I drop to the couch, watching tv, until my phone rings fifteen minutes later.

Unknown number.

I already know who it is.

I answer anyway. “You don’t take rejection well.”

A low chuckle hums through the line. Amused. Annoyingly unbothered. “You sent my driver away.”

“You sent him to the wrong house,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Look outside.”

I turn my head toward the window.

Black cars. Too many of them. Parked neatly like they belong there.

A familiar logo on one door. The loan office.

Another car pulled in behind them. Housing agents.

Then a police vehicle.

My stomach drops.

“You see,” Nico says smoothly, “this is why contracts matter.”

“What contract?” I snap. “The paper only said I’m your wife.”

“It also said you respond when I call,” he replies. “Clause seven.”

I grit my teeth. “You did not send the bank to my house.”

“I did,” he says. “You failed to show. I followed the procedure.”

My mother coughs from the bedroom. I lower my voice. “You’re a bastard.”

Another laugh. “Are you getting into the damn vehicle or not, Cake. Or should they take your mother and your house. I do not have all day.”

“I wish I could punch your face, pretty boy.”

“I’ll take that as a no then.”

“No,” I blurted, panic clawing up my throat. “I’ll go.”

The line clicks dead.

I stand there for a second, shaking.

Then I move. I walk back into my mother’s room. She looked at me immediately, “Who was that?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just a friend. I’m going to check out a job with Eliana. I’ll be back.”

Her brows knit together. “You’re lying.”

“I always lie,” I say lightly. “Take your meds mama. Sleep. I’ll be home before dinner.”

I pull on my jacket, shove my feet into sneakers, twist my hair into a bun. When I step outside, the cars are already starting to leave the compound one by one, like this was all just a warning.

The driver from earlier is back.

I scoff under my breath. “The things people do for rich men.”

I slide into the car.

“Warehouse,” the driver says.

“Lucky me.”

The car stops in front of a rusted metal gate. Two men get out first. Then another two from the car behind us. All of them were built like they were assembled from spare parts and protein powder.

I step out and roll my shoulders.

“Do you people all shop at the same gym,” I mutter.

No response. Figures.

They walk me inside without touching me. That alone pisses me off. I hate when men assume I won’t fight. Or worse, when they assume I will and plan around it.

I clock exits. Two obvious ones. One less obvious. Good lighting. Bad acoustics.

Someone could die here easily.

A man gestures toward a metal chair near a desk. “Wait.”

“I’m great at waiting,” I say, already not sitting.

Five minutes pass.

Ten.

Twenty.

Just when my irritation is about to turn physical, engines growl outside.

The warehouse immediately went quiet. That alone tells me everything. Their King has arrived.

A sleek maroon Mercedes‑Maybach SL 680 Monogram glides into view. One vehicle in front, two behind. Perfect formation. Excessive. Dramatic. Completely unnecessary.

I raise a brow, taking in the absurdity. The car gleams like it just rolled out of a billionaire’s daydream. Its long hood, sculpted curves, and that impossibly low stance make me want to laugh. A rolling statement of wealth, power, and… ego.

I mutter under my breath, “There are rich people… and then there are wealthy people.”

The door opens.

Nico Vescari steps out like the world arranged itself for his convenience.

Dark suit. Black shirt. No tie. Calm like he did not just threaten my entire life an hour ago.

His gaze finds me immediately. “You kept me waiting,” I say.

“You sent my driver away,” he replies evenly. “We’re even.”

He gestures toward his car. “Come.”

I hesitate. Then walk behind him.

Getting into the car, his eyes trail over my face, my posture, His gaze lingers a second too long on my eyes.

“Hm,” he murmurs.

I stiffen before I can stop myself. “What.”

“You look different up close.”

“Careful,” I say. “That’s how men die.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Your attitude doesn’t match your name.”

I scoff. “Here we go.”

“Cake,” he continues, voice lazy. “Is soft, sweet and delicate. And that is not you.”

“Disappointed?”

“Fascinated.”

“Where are we going,” I ask.

“A boutique.”

I laugh. “You dragged me out of my house with police and loan sharks so we could play dress up?”

“It’s called preparation.”

“For a wedding with twelve people,” I snapped. “This isn’t some fairy tale.”

“No,” he agrees. “It is not a wedding of twelve people. It’s a statement.”

I cross my arms. “A statement to who.”

He does not answer immediately. Then he turns his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the edge of his expression.

“My name is Nico Vescari,” he says. “I always make statements.”

I snort. “Wow. That was very intimidating. Should I be shaking.”

“You should,” he replies calmly.

I open my mouth to deny it, then shut it again.

Annoying bastard.

“Trust me,” I say instead. “If this is about flexing power, I am not the right woman. I don’t scare easily.”

He looks back at me. Like he is cataloguing reactions instead of hearing words.

“This isn’t about fear,” he says. “It’s about visibility.”

“I am not a billboard.”

“You are going to be my wife.”

I laugh. “Contractually. Emotionally you can go fuck yourself.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. Gone as quickly as it appeared.

I feel it before I see it. His hand moved too fast, and before you know it, a gun was pressed to my temple.

I gasped, not moving.

“I dare you, say fuck me one more time,” he says quietly, “and no one will even know I put a bullet in each of your goddam fucking eyes.”

My pulse explodes in my ears. This is not posturing. This is clearly not intimidation.

This is a man who has done worse and slept fine after. And if he said he’ll blow my eyes out, he’ll blow my eyes out.

My mouth closes as every sarcastic remark dies on my tongue.

“Do I make myself clear?”

I nod once. Just once before the gun is pulled away and tucked behind him like it didn’t just threaten my existence.

Like my life was not just balanced on the pressure of his finger.

“Good,” he says, “Learn where the line is.”

I swallow, as the car keeps moving.

I stare straight ahead, hands clenched in my lap, my heart pounding like it wants to break out of my ribs.

I did not speak again, not because I am scared.

Because I finally understand something very important.

This man is not playing husband.

He is letting me live.