Chapter 1 – Beneath the Lemon Frosting
My heels echoed through the empty hotel corridor as I tried not to think about GM's rules. One more night... another round of fake smiles, flashing cameras, and ribbon-tied compliments. But honestly, I had one goal.
Lemon cake.
Yes. That simple.
My dress clung to my body — the deep crimson, slit-up-the-thigh velvet one GM had chosen for me. I'd thrown a leather blazer over it, my hands deep in the pockets as I walked, but the clicking of my heels just wouldn't shut up. I was getting anxious. So I took them off. Held them in my hand. Two sharp YSL heels swinging like weapons of freedom as I tiptoed.
That night, the Vincenzo Group was hosting a charity gala in Russia. And we —Ever After— were the glittering guests of honor. But amidst all that gold and silk, the most precious thing was quietly waiting on a shelf in the back kitchen.
A slice of lemon cake.
The kitchen was white—tiles, counters, silverware clinking in the distance. But I, in my black combat boots and blood-red dress, felt like I was walking on another wavelength entirely. I found it quickly: golden cream, a sprinkle of lemon zest... a soft, sugary rebellion.
I hopped up onto the counter. My legs swung as I stabbed my fork into the cake. One bite, and I was ten years old again, sneaking ice cream behind my mother's back. I smiled.
"This is what triggered all the cameras? Lemon cake?"
I flinched.
That voice... cold, controlled, and vibrating with the kind of weight that makes your spine shiver.
I turned my head. He was standing at the door. In a sleek black suit.
Salvatore Čehov.
I tried to pretend I didn't know who he was — but my heart wasn't buying it.
"Oh god," I said, mouth full. "You're not... a waiter, are you?"
He didn't smile. I still tried to be playful.
"I mean... you're a bit too sharp. And... a little too terrifying."
He stepped closer. No sound. Just presence.
"Someone like you... being this alone, this unguarded — isn't that what's terrifying?"
I took another bite of cake, deadpan. "Honestly? The frosting on this is scarier than you. And... definitely sweeter."
He didn't laugh. But I caught a flicker in his eyes. Just a spark.
Then his gaze dropped. To my bare feet.
"You'll catch a cold," he said. And then... he knelt.
My eyes widened.
He kneeled in front of me.
Without a word, he took the heels from my hands. His fingers brushed my ankle — his touch cool, deliberate. He slipped on one heel. Then the other. He placed my feet gently on the ground, like I was made of glass.
My heart sank into my stomach. The cake might as well have vanished. Because for the first time, someone put shoes on me without causing me pain.
He stood. Our eyes met.
"Your name is Wendy. You're the centerpiece of your group. The most watched girl in this room. Why do you treat it like it's a joke?"
"Because if I take it seriously... I'll be scared."
I didn't look away. Then smiled, gently.
"But with someone like you near me... I think I'm a little less scared."
His gaze didn't move. His voice dropped lower.
"If someone like me is near you... the only thing you should be scared of — is me."
I fell silent.
"Should I take that as a threat," I asked, voice softer now, "or... protection?"
He tilted his head, the barest smile on his lips.
"Whichever you prefer."
And he turned. Vanished into the darkness of the kitchen like he'd never been there. Leaving behind nothing but a breath of cold air… and lemon.
I was still sitting on that counter. Heels on. Cake in hand. But my heart?
My heart was somewhere else entirely.