Chapter 7 A Birthday Surprise

Now

By the time they returned from the market, it was already 6 p.m. Layla felt exhausted but determined. The day had been spent shopping for decorations, ingredients for the cake, and other treats for the house staff. Every choice she made was deliberate-strawberries, because they were his favorite. She knew how much he loved strawberry cake, how he had always said that no one could bake it the way she did. If there was any way to soften him, to make him listen, it was through that cake.

She stood in the massive kitchen, sleeves rolled up, carefully mixing the batter. The smell of fresh strawberries filled the air, mixing with the warmth of the oven. It was almost nostalgic-the way she used to bake for him before everything fell apart. Before she became his prisoner.

The staff worked alongside her, setting up decorations. Some hung lights, others arranged the table, and Madame Paula oversaw the whole process. Layla also baked extra treats for the workers, knowing that despite their fear of him, they were still human. By the time the setup was complete, the mansion looked festive, warm-almost like a real home, rather than the cold prison it usually was.

And then, they waited.

At exactly 8 p.m., the sound of a car rolling into the garage sent a chill down Layla's spine. She swallowed hard, her hands suddenly clammy.

The front door opened.

As soon as he stepped inside, the lights flickered on, and everyone yelled in unison, "Surprise!"

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, his expression darkened.

Layla saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes scanned the room, not with surprise or happiness, but with pure, simmering rage.

"Who told you to do this in my house?" His voice was low but dangerous, sending a shiver through the room.

No one answered.

His nostrils flared. "I said, who did this?"

Still, silence. The staff members shrank back, avoiding his gaze, fear evident in their eyes. Madame Paula's head was bowed slightly, her hands clasped together.

Then, his gaze landed on the cake.

Layla knew the moment he made the connection. His expression shifted, his eyes darkening further. Only one person knew his favorite cake. Only one person knew exactly how to make it the way he liked.

Layla.

Before she could react, he was moving toward her.

Her body tensed. "Roman, please-"

He didn't stop.

His hand gripped her wrist, firm and unforgiving. In one swift motion, he threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

"Roman! No-please! Let me go!" she pleaded, kicking, struggling, but his grip was unyielding.

Tears blurred her vision as she beat her fists weakly against his back, but it was useless.

The staff remained frozen, not daring to interfere.

Madame Paula looked away.

Roman carried her up the stairs, his steps unhurried but firm. He didn't speak. Didn't acknowledge her sobs, her desperate begging.

He reached his room, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

With a quiet click, he locked it behind them.