Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Marge’s mouth opens and closes several times, like a fish experiencing an existential crisis. Then she remembers I exist and pivots back to me, needing somewhere to discharge her remaining voltage.
“You’re still fired,” she spits, as if this pathetic power play could possibly matter in the shadow of whatever’s happening now.
“I’ll take care of her too,” Mr. Bavga adds, nodding at me like I’m a minor item on a very long to-do list. His eyes find mine, cold and assessing. “Come with me.”
Not a request. A command, delivered with the expectation of immediate compliance.
I stand frozen, mental sirens blaring. Every true crime podcast I’ve ever listened to is screaming in my head. This is how women end up as cautionary tales on Investigation Discovery.
But what’s my alternative? Stand here bleeding in an alley, jobless and soon-to-be homeless?
I follow him to the Lamborghini, each step a negotiation between dignity and survival. The car crouches at the curb like an alien spacecraft, all sharp angles and matte black malevolence.
I reach for where a door handle should be and find... nothing. Just smooth, uninterrupted surface. I pat the door like I’m frisking it for concealed weapons. Nothing. My fingers slide uselessly across the flawless finish while panic builds in my chest.
Great. I’m too stupid to enter a car. This is peak humiliation—bleeding, fired, covered in cake, and now defeated by precision automotive design.
Bagva’s sigh could freeze mercury. “Are you a princess, Little Miss Take?”
The nickname hits like a slap. There’s something in his tone—a baiting, a testing—that makes my skin prickle.
“I—I’m sorry, sir, I just—”
Sir? SIR? Did I actually just “sir” him like I’m auditioning for a role in Downtown Abbey’s dystopian reboot? The word hangs between us, embarrassing and submissive.
He reaches past me, his arm brushing mine—a casual invasion of personal space that feels deliberate. Something clicks beneath his touch, and the door lifts upward in a smooth, hydraulic motion, unfolding like the wing of some mechanical predator. The movement is so elegant and otherworldly that for a moment I forget my predicament, transfixed by this piece of automotive theater. It’s not just opening—it’s revealing itself, rising with the deliberate grace of a spaceship preparing for departure from a world it merely tolerates.
I slide into the seat, which embraces me with the aggressive ergonomics of something designed for speed, not comfort. The leather is butter-soft but unyielding, like sitting in the palm of a very expensive, very judgmental hand. The door sweeps down with the same theatrical grace with which it opened, a slow-motion guillotine of carbon fiber and precision engineering.
Bavga gets in beside me, and suddenly the car feels impossibly small.
The engine purrs to life with a sound that’s more predator than machine. We pull away from the curb with smooth, lethal acceleration.
And then... we stop.
Two seconds. That’s it. That’s the entire journey. We’ve pulled up in front of Bavga’s Restaurant.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
For a moment, I just stare straight ahead, processing.
This wasn’t transportation—this was a flex.
This little car ride was about control. About showing me that I go where he decides, when he decides, how he decides.
Message received, Mr. Bavga. Loud and clear.
He exits the car with fluid precision. I fumble with—well, nothing, because there are no handles in this alien transport pod. It opens, revealing Mr. Control-freak’s glaring green eyes, so intensely focused that I feel them like a physical touch against my skin.
“Your carriage ride is over now, Miss Take. Please follow me.” His voice is low and precise, each word measured out like ingredients in a dangerous recipe. There’s no question in his tone, no possibility of refusal. It’s a command dressed up in courtesy, and we both know it.
I get out. Or, try to. The car really is low to the ground—so much so that it feels like I’m unfolding myself from an origami puzzle. I’m not even big—like five-foot-five and a hundred and twenty-five pounds wet—but extracting myself from this sleek Italian spaceship requires a level of coordination I apparently don’t possess this morning.
My legs tangle briefly with the impossibly low door frame, and I have to brace one hand against the warm metal exterior to avoid tumbling onto the concrete. While Bavga can pour his six-foot-two frame out of the driver’s side with the effortless grace of mercury sliding across glass.
How does a man his size just glide out like water?
“This way,” he says, his voice clipped and impatient. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m following. He doesn’t need to. Where else would I go?
The restaurant looms before us. I’ve never been inside before—it’s so far beyond my pay grade it might as well be on Mars.
Up close, it’s pure control rendered in architecture: straight lines, dark glass, and doors that seem to measure you before they decide whether to open. A building that knows who owns it—and who doesn’t.