CHAPTER 7
Ciara’s POV:
The Houston sun was doing that slow, heavy slide down the sky, cutting through the grease-filmed window of my kitchen and laying a long, warm band of orange-gold right across my laminate countertop.
I leaned back in my squeaky thrift-store swivel chair, my shoulders popping with a release of tension that had been building for the last three hours.
On my laptop screen, the little blue progress bar on the YouTube creator dashboard finally dissolved, replaced by that beautiful, solid green checkmark.
Upload complete. Processing HD.
"Another one in the books, Ciara," I murmured to the quiet kitchen, letting out a breath that felt like it carried half the stress of my week with it. "You’re really doing this thing solo now. No managers, no fake friends whispering in your ear. Just you."
I looked at the thumbnail. It was a picture of me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open in a mix of awe and mock-judgment, next to the classic album art of Jodeci’s Diary of a Mad Band.
That was my sweet spot. My channel was all about taking those old-school R I wanted that fire. I blasted my favorite Houston rap playlist, the heavy, double-time bass of old-school UGK and DMX thumping through the Mark X’s speakers, making the side mirrors vibrate in their housings.
"Y'all don't know what I been through!" I rapped along, my voice dropping into that deep, rhythmic Texas flow, my right hand tapping a steady beat on my denim-clad thigh while my left hand steered the car through the neighborhood.
I cracked the windows just an inch, letting the heavy bass roll out into the hot afternoon air.
The music was like a shield, stripping away the lingering doubts, the ghost of Morgan’s betrayal, and the quiet loneliness of the last few months.
By the time I pulled into the massive, crowded Walmart parking lot, my heart was pumping, my energy was high, and I was fully locked into the mission.
This cake wasn't just dessert. It was going to be an entire experience.
***
I grabbed one of the metal shopping carts from the rack near the entrance, the squeaking wheels echoing against the high concrete ceiling of the lobby.
The store smelled of that classic mid-week mixture—freshly baked bread from the deli, industrial floor cleaner, and the faint, cool draft of the air conditioning system trying its best to combat the ninety-degree heat outside.
First stop: the baking aisle. If I was doing this, I was doing it with the premium materials.
None of that cheap, dusty cocoa powder that tasted like sweetened dirt.
I loaded up my cart with two boxes of high-end Dutch-process cocoa, three bars of seventy percent dark organic chocolate for the melting process, a carton of heavy whipping cream, and a carton of brown eggs.
I paused by the spice rack, my fingers hovering over the vanilla extract. The real stuff—the Madagascar bourbon vanilla—was twenty dollars for a tiny bottle, but I grabbed it anyway. If Joshua Willis was going to eat this, he was going to taste the quality in every single bite.
I steered my cart toward the liquor section, my sneakers squeaking softly on the polished white linoleum.
I scanned the shelves until my eyes landed on a bottle of small-batch Kentucky bourbon.
A little splash in the chocolate batter didn't just add flavor; it gave the cake this deep, smoky warmth that stayed in the back of your throat long after the sweetness faded.
I grabbed a bottle of sweet, heavy red wine too—partly for the frosting, and partly for me to sip on while I watched the oven timer count down.
"A little splash for the cake, a little splash for Ciara," I murmured, a slow, wicked grin spreading across my face as I imagined the look on Joshua's face when he realized I’d baked his favorite vice right into the food.
I moved back toward the produce section, trying to behave like an adult who actually ate vegetables.
I picked up a bag of organic baby spinach, a couple of bright red bell peppers, and some chicken breasts for my weekly meal prep.
But as I passed the berry display, I stopped.
There was a carton of fresh, local strawberries that looked so ripe they were practically bursting out of their green tops, their sweet, summery scent cutting through the cool air of the grocery aisle.
I grabbed them, my mind immediately painting a picture of them sliced up, glistening with sugar, sitting right next to a thick slice of that dark chocolate cake.
My cart was filling up beautifully, the heavy glass bottles clinking against the chicken packages as I turned the corner toward the cereal aisle. I was looking down at my phone, checking the Walmart app to see if I’d forgotten anything on my list, when—
Thunk.
A metal cart rammed straight into the front of mine, the force of the impact jarred my wrists and pushed my cart back by a full foot, the metal edge barely brushing against my shin.