“I’ll cover it,” he says, not looking up from his screen.
Marge’s rant stumbles to a halt like it hit an invisible wall. Three words, delivered with the emotional investment of someone ordering printer paper.
Marge blinks rapidly, recalibrating. “But—the wedding?—”
“Go inside Bavga’s. Ask for Lucia.” His tone suggests this conversation is already over in his mind, a book closed mid-chapter.
“But the CAKE—” Marge’s voice climbs an octave, desperation replacing rage.
“Go inside. Ask for Lucia.” Each word drops like a stone. “She’ll make arrangements.”
Marge’s mouth opens and closes several times, like a fish experiencing an existential crisis. Then she remembers I existand 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.