Ficool

Chapter 7 - CHAPTER 7

The bell above the pastry shop door chimed softly as Rose stepped inside, greeted by the warm embrace of sugar and vanilla drifting through the air. The shop was small, intimate—a hidden gem tucked between towering buildings, dimly lit by bulbs that gave the place a vintage feel. The walls were painted a soft cream, with splashes of floral wallpaper and hand-drawn chalkboards displaying the daily specials in cursive. A slow jazz tune hummed quietly from an old speaker in the corner, adding to the serene charm of the space.

She inhaled deeply. It was peaceful. No Salvatore. No Bratva. No power-hungry men looming over her shoulder. For the first time in days, she felt like herself. Free. Normal. She walked up to the glass display and let her eyes wander over rows of freshly baked pastries: golden croissants, fruit tarts glistening under the lights, macarons arranged like edible rainbows, and her favorite—chocolate pastries, shaped in odd, beautiful twists and curves.

"Can you get me that one? Two boxes, please," she said, pointing at the chocolate twists, her voice lighter than it had been in days.

The woman behind the counter nodded and began to package the pastries with delicate care. Rose reached into her pocket and pulled out the black card Salvatore had given her years ago—her golden key to a world she neither asked for nor liked, but had learned to survive in.

She slid the card across the counter.

A soft beep.

The cashier frowned and tapped the machine. "I'm sorry," she said. "Your card has been declined."

Rose's brows pulled together in disbelief. "What?"

The woman tried again. "Still declined."

Of course. Of course, he froze the damn card. That vindictive bastard. She should have known he'd cut her off the moment he handed her to Nikolai. Salvatore Russo didn't like to share, not even his discarded toys. With a groan, she pulled the last few crumpled bills she had from her purse and handed them over.

It wasn't just her pride that took the hit—it was the realization that, as of today, she was officially broke. No money. No income. No control.

Clutching the pastry boxes, she stepped out of the shop. The sky above was an indifferent shade of gray, the kind that made the world feel colder than it was. She walked with her arms wrapped tightly around the pastries, like they were the only warmth she had left.

Back at the building, she reached the elevator and punched in the code Nikolai had given her. The doors whooshed open. The ride up was smooth and quiet, no music—because of course Nikolai didn't believe in that. It was like living in a monastery with a man who looked like he led a vampire cult.

The elevator dinged.

She stepped out, shoes still on. Her gaze dropped to the pristine marble floor. "No shoes," his voice echoed in her head like a commandment from a god she didn't believe in. She hesitated.

Not today. She didn't have the strength to rebel. Her stomach was growling, her pride already bruised. She bent down and slipped off her sneakers, holding them by the laces as she padded barefoot across the cold floor.

Nikolai was nowhere in sight. Probably still holed up in his overly dramatic study, doing Bratva business and drinking black coffee with the intensity of a Bond villain.

She slipped into her room. Still yellow. Still blinding. She'd rip the curtains off the walls if she had the energy.

Dropping the sneakers in a random corner and tossing her purse on the nightstand, she sat cross-legged on the bed. She opened the first box of pastries and inhaled deeply. Sweet, rich, decadent.

"Better than men with high testosterone," she muttered.

The first bite was heaven. Crisp on the outside, soft and gooey in the center. Whoever made these deserved an award.

She pulled out her phone and scrolled to the only name in her contacts that still mattered: Alejandro.

ROSE: I'm broke.

She hit send and took another bite, trying not to sulk. She hadn't hit rock bottom, but she was definitely on the ladder.

ALEJANDRO: How? Didn't my dad give you a black card?

ROSE: He did. But it declined today. I think he froze it or took all his money out or whatever. I don't know how credit cards work.

ALEJANDRO: Ask Nikolai for money.

She scoffed. Out loud.

ROSE: Nah. I'm good. I'd rather let the devil stab me with a pitchfork than ask money from that guy.

She sent it and sighed, flopping back on the bed. The yellow ceiling stared down at her like a mocking sun.

ALEJANDRO: So what's your plan?

ROSE: Send me money.

ALEJANDRO: You don't have any other card besides the one my dad gave you. Where am I supposed to send the money?

She rolled her eyes. Obviously.

ROSE: Bummer.

The conversation ended there. She tossed her phone to the side and looked up at the ceiling. One chocolate pastry sat in her hand, melting slightly from the warmth of her fingers.

She took a bite and chewed slowly.

She was alone. Again.

She didn't want to need Nikolai. She didn't want to have to depend on yet another man who looked at her like she was a ticking time bomb he didn't want to touch.

But the truth? She had no one else.

She closed her eyes. The sugar melted on her tongue, bittersweet.

------------

The sun had long dipped beneath the horizon, surrendering the sky to twilight. Now, the stars shimmered like scattered diamonds across a velvet canvas, and a generous, silvery moon hung high above the city skyline. Its soft, dreamy light filtered through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows of Rose's room, casting pale, geometric shadows across the polished wooden floor.

Steam clung to the bathroom mirror as Rose stepped out of the shower, a plush towel wrapped tightly around her. The faint scent of lavender and citrus clung to her damp skin, trailing behind her as she walked barefoot across the room. The air was cool, kissed by the faint breeze of the central air conditioning, but she didn't shiver. There was something calming about the silence of the penthouse at night, as if the world had finally hit pause.

Only the nightlight glowed beside her bed, its amber hue softening the edges of the room and adding warmth to the golden undertones of the decor. On the nightstand, her phone buzzed faintly with low battery warnings. The clock read 7:05 PM.

She was hungry again.

Not the kind of hunger that chocolate pastries could fix—although those had been delicious—but the kind that made your stomach curl and reminded you of cold nights with an empty plate. She needed a real meal, something warm and heavy. Her thoughts drifted toward the kitchen. Did Nikolai cook? Or was it one of those places where everyone fended for themselves? It didn't seem like the kind of house that ran on traditional routines, but then again, she didn't know what kind of man he truly was—not yet.

She sighed, her breath fogging the cool air, and crossed the room to the walk-in closet. As she opened the door, she was greeted by the soft illumination of recessed lights, revealing an opulent display of clothes that stretched along the pristine rails and drawers like something out of a luxury boutique. Her fingers trailed over the fabrics, silk and velvet, cotton and lace.

"Oh," she murmured to herself, eyebrows arching in faint surprise. Whoever had picked out these outfits had better taste than Salvatore—by a mile. The colors were bold but not garish, the cuts flattering, the quality unmistakable. She didn't want to imagine Nikolai had anything to do with it. A man like him, with his brooding face and cold eyes, didn't seem capable of making fashion choices for anyone, let alone a woman.

She pulled out a pair of deep navy-blue silk pajamas and slipped them on. The material kissed her skin, cool and delicate. At least it wasn't yellow. She plugged in her phone, tossed it onto the bed, and finally stepped out of the room, drawn toward the scent wafting through the air.

The aroma met her like an invitation—a blend of herbs, garlic, something buttery and savory. Her stomach tightened in response. Her feet made no sound on the marble floor as she followed the scent, past the hallway's gentle lighting and into the open-plan kitchen.

Nikolai sat at the long dining table, his silhouette partially illuminated by the pendant light overhead. His posture was casual, but somehow regal. He held a fork in one hand, a glass of dark red wine in the other, and was methodically eating his dinner as though she didn't exist.

She blinked at him, frowning.

"So you thought it was okay not to inform me that dinner was ready?" she asked, stepping into the light with her hands on her hips.

He didn't even glance up. He kept eating, chewing slowly.

"Did you lose your hands and legs?" he asked without inflection.

She raised a brow. "Did you lose your brain?"

He finally looked at her, gaze glacial. "Should you be the one asking me that question, or should I be asking you?"

She let out a small huff. "Whatever, asshole. Where's my food?"

"In the oven," he said simply, still not looking at her.

"Ah, so you do have a brain," she said, brushing past him.

"I just don't want you making a mess in my kitchen," he responded dryly.

Rolling her eyes, she walked behind the counter and opened the sleek, stainless steel oven. A covered plate sat neatly inside. She pulled it out with a cloth, setting it on the marble counter. The heat radiated through the porcelain as she uncovered it.

And her mouth watered.

Steamed vegetables glistened beside creamy mashed potatoes, and a thick, herb-crusted steak sat perfectly seared and juicy. She stared at the meal for a moment in disbelief.

There was no chef. No staff. Just her and the vampire warlord. So… did he make this?

She sat down, two chairs away from him. Her fork sliced into the steak, and the first bite melted on her tongue. It was seasoned with precision, rich with flavor. Garlic. Rosemary. Butter. It was annoyingly perfect.

She cleared her throat, glancing sideways at him. "Did you make this?"

"No, the food made itself," he replied, his tone neutral.

"Yes or no?"

"What do you think?"

She looked at her plate, then back at him. "Well, considering there's no one else in here and the food tastes like regret and depression… yeah, you made it."

He smirked faintly. "But you seem to be enjoying that regret and depression."

"Do I look like I have a choice?" she shot back.

"Then shut up and eat."

Despite her annoyance, she obeyed. They ate in silence after that. The atmosphere was charged, a quiet tension hovering between them like static in the air. Occasionally, she'd glance at him—at the way he moved, the quiet authority in his presence, the shadows that clung to his face under the dim light.

She hated how fascinating he looked in the quiet. How untouchable. How dangerous.

When she was done, she stood, carrying her plate to the sink. The hum of the dishwasher beneath the counter filled the silence, a soft white noise.

Just as she was about to turn away, a firm grip wrapped around her wrist.

"Wash your plate," he said, his voice low and unwavering.

She twisted in his hold. "These hands were not made for hard labor."

His grip tightened—not enough to bruise, but just enough to make her wince.

"Ouch! Let go!"

"I said no dishes in the sink. Wash your plate."

There was something deadly serious in his tone, as if a plate left unwashed could shatter the fragile structure of his world.

"Jeez, fine!" she muttered.

He released her, and she turned to the sink with a dramatic sigh.

"Creep," she whispered.

She scrubbed the plate clean under warm water, rinsed it until no trace of food remained, and dried it off. Then, holding it out to him like a peace offering, she asked, "There. Happy now?"

He took it without a word. She shook her head and walked away.

Yeah.

Creep.

Back in her room, the moonlight still spilled through the windows like liquid silver. She collapsed onto the bed, the softness of the sheets embracing her. The pastry box sat on the nightstand, half-forgotten. Her phone blinked with new notifications—probably Alejandro, checking up.

But she didn't check it. Not yet.

Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling, heart still thumping lightly from her interaction with Nikolai. The man was a cold-blooded brute, and yet something about him made the world tilt a little off its axis. The way he moved. The way he spoke. The way he cooked.

She'd rather chew glass than admit it, but Nikolai Ivanov might be a better cook than her ex's personal chef.

She didn't know what to do with that.

So instead, she let sleep claim her, the scent of herbs and steak still clinging to her senses, the memory of cold fingers around her wrist lingering like a question unanswered.

And in the quiet of the night, the penthouse hummed with its secrets, waiting for the next storm to come knocking.

More Chapters