Chapter 6 Reckoning (A Reversal) 2

Victoria stood nervously outside Ethan's villa, her fingers gripping a slightly bent cake box like it was her only ticket to redemption. She'd practically extorted Bo for the address, wearing him down with a ton of texts and guilt-tripping voice notes until he caved. Now here she was again, heart hammering like a bad drum solo.

She rang the bell.

It took longer than expected. Just when she was about to turn around and run, the door swung open. Ethan stood there in joggers and a gray hoodie, barefoot, his hair scattered and damp like he'd just stepped out of a shower. His brows rose slowly at the sight of her.

"You again."

"Me again," she echoed, lifting the cake box like a shield. "Don't slam the door. I brought cake."

He let her in and they go to his kitchen and she tries to cut him a slice.

Ethan watched her massacre the cake like a surgeon, brow furrowed in concentration, knife trembling like it was her first time cutting anything more dangerous than a sentence.

"You know," he said, folding his arms, "for someone claiming to be repentant, you're doing a great job of butchering the evidence."

Victoria didn't look up. "Consider this penance. You get dessert and a show."

"I didn't realize war crimes were part of the package."

"Shut up, I'm trying to make it look homemade."

He leaned against the kitchen counter, expression unreadable, but his eyes lingered too long on her hands, her nervous fidgeting, the way she was clearly trying too hard. That alone made his chest twist in a way he hated.

"I know you didn't bake it," he said finally.

She froze. "Excuse me?"

He arched a brow. "You think I don't recognize Sweet Rituals' signature espresso swirl?"

She groaned. "Okay, Sherlock. You caught me. I lied. Call the authorities."

"I should," he murmured. "Perjury. Dessert fraud. Emotional manipulation and aggravated assault by your boy toy."

"Do you want the cake or not?" she snapped, shoving a plate toward him. "Because this is me apologizing, in case your emotionally constipated brain didn't pick that up."

He didn't move.

"Why?" he asked. Low and Annoyed. "Why go through all this? The cake. The lie. Pressuring Bo for my address. What are you trying to prove?"

Victoria's face closed. She didn't like being read. She liked being in control. He could see it the panic, the pride, the stubborn flare in her jaw.

"I owed you," she muttered. "You didn't deserve what happened. So I'm here. With cake. Being nice. That's all."

Ethan scoffed. "You're not very good at 'nice.'" While holding up his fingers making air quotes before saying nice.

"Well, you're not very good at forgiving."

Something between them sparked hot, fast, reckless. His fingers curled around the edge of the kitchen counter.

And then, like a switch, his mind flicked away.

Flashback to Ethan at Seven baking with his family, his last truly happy moment..

The kitchen was in chaos.

Flour dusted the air like snow, and the counters, God help them looked like a bakery had exploded. Seven-year-old Ethan stood on a stool by the counter, clutching an egg with the seriousness of a bomb technician. His brows were bent closely together in deep concentration.

"Ethan, baby, now," his mom prompted, holding the mixing bowl steady.

"I know, Mom," he said with importance. "I'm just.. preparing."

His little sister, Noelle, five and full of sass, stood beside him on a shorter stool, licking chocolate batter off a spatula with no regard for timing or hygiene.

"Eww!" Ethan complained, pointing. "She's licking it before it's even in the oven!"

Noelle grinned, chocolate smeared at the corners of her mouth like paint. "It's called quality control, idiot."

"Don't call your brother idiot," their dad said from the dining table, where he was trying and failing to read the Sunday paper with batter-streaked pages.

"He started it!" she chirped.

Their mom rolled her eyes but smiled as she turned to Ethan. "Alright, Chef, crack the egg."

He nodded with solemnity, lifted it high, and crushed it on the side of the bowl with all the grace of a wrecking ball. Half the egg landed in the bowl. The rest? On the counter. And his sleeve.

"I did it!" he announced proudly.

"You murdered it," his mom laughed, wiping her hands on a towel. "Pretty sure the egg's filing a lawsuit."

"But I got the yolk in!" he argued.

"Half the yolk," Noelle muttered with a mouthful of batter. "And all the shell."

"Extra crunch," Ethan said, puffing out his chest.

Their mom scooped out the pieces of eggshell. "You're lucky you're cute. If I had a chef like you at the bakery, we'd be out of business."

"Maybe I'll be a chef when I grow up," Ethan said, watching the mixer whirl the brown-and-gold batter into soft spirals. "Or a magician. Or maybe I'll build houses."

"You can be anything you want," his dad said, setting down the paper and stretching out his arms to pull both kids in for a chocolate-smeared hug. "Just remember to keep your hands clean before you shake a client's hand."

"You're one to talk," his wife said, pointing at the streak of batter across his cheek. "You let her lick the bowl again."

"She has strong negotiation skills," he said, winking at Noelle.

The smell of cocoa filled the air as the cake went into the oven. Ethan watched the oven light glow golden, mesmerized. He could barely wait for the final product, even though he knew the best part was always the in-between the mess, the noise, the teasing.

Their family wasn't perfect. But on Sundays, when the world smelled like sugar and sarcasm, it felt like nothing could touch them.

And somewhere between the spilled flour and his sister's giggles, a little boy felt like he belonged to a world that was sweet.

He smirked.The memory pleased him

"What is on your mind?" She asks creeped out by his random silence then the smile, sheesh what a freak, she thought.

"None of your lying arse's business" He retorted, annoyed again.

"You're scared of being known."

That hit harder than it should have.

"And you?" he asked. "What scares you?"

She paused, then met his gaze.

"Being replaceable."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy. Just... fragile.

He walked over slowly, sat beside her. "I dream of writing music one day. Just for me. No label. No audience. Just sound."

Victoria stared. "That's unexpected." She made a mental note to add it to the biography.

"You think I'm shallow?"

"I think you're hiding a lot behind all that brooding and privilege."

"I am brooding. It's a lifestyle."

She chuckled softly.

Then... crash.

A picture frame fell off a nearby console table. Victoria jumped.

"Oh god, I'm sorry...I just leaned..."

Before she could finish, footsteps echoed down the hall.

And there she was.

Antonella.

Hair wrapped in a silk scarf, robe tied too tight, eyes taking in the broken glass and the girl beside it.

"You."

Victoria straightened.

"You're the girl from that party. The one who embarrassed herself in front of investors and ruined my son's name."

Victoria opened her mouth. "It was a misunderstanding...."

"No. It was a disgrace. And now you're here, breaking things in his house?"

"Mother," Ethan said sharply.

But his mother didn't stop. "I knew letting someone like you near him was a mistake. But clearly, mistakes run in your blood."

That did it.

Victoria's eyes burned. Her jaw clenched.

She turned, not to Ethan, but the door.

"Don't worry," she said. "I know when I'm not wanted."

She stormed out.

And Ethan?

He stood frozen. Caught between two worlds. One too loyal. One too afraid.

When the door slammed shut behind her, he looked down at the cracked photo.

Him and his real family.

Laughing.

Gone.