When Sofia’s eyes opened, they were hot with fury. With a carnal growl, she filled both fists with cake and let them fly, but before they reached their target—Natasha’s face—she dodged. Cake splatted against Angelika’s face with a one-two plop of red velvet and lemon cake, glued to her face with icing.

A harpy screech. A flash of motion. And the room dissolved into chaos.

Cake flew in streaks across the table, and the rest of us were held hostage by the size of the bakery. The only room was occupied by the Felix sisters, covered in cake and slipping on icing. The baker backed against the wall with her hands over her mouth and eyes tracking the maelstrom. Greedy hands reached for cake, teeth gnashed, faces unrecognizable, covered by dessert. Sofia lunged for Alexandra after a slice of strawberry cake made itself a new home in her ear, the sisters slipping with a squeak and a thud that left them wrestling on the ground. Natasha was on the run from Angelika—who shrieked her rage over her sister ruining her wedding—and with Olympian skill, she vaulted over the counter. She reached into the cooler with a maniacal grin, brows jackknifed in madness, and returned with a massive tiered cake.

Her laughter could only be described as a cackle, a hysterical, evil sound that stopped all three sisters dead. And she plopped the cake on the counter with a thud, reached in with both hands, and fired like a machine gun.

No one was safe from the onslaught, and Natasha had no aim, shooting blind. A slab of cake hit a camera lens. Sorina’s cheek, her face whipping away like she’d been slapped. And then me, a thud to the chest, a cool slide of cake between my breasts and down the front of my shirt. When I glanced down, it looked like I’d been shot—red velvet had exploded from the point of impact in a burst.

I looked up with murderous designs, only to get a load square in the face.

The sound of her laughter rang like a fire bell in my ears as I scooped cake from my eyes. But I still saw red. I saw red as I slipped on baked goods, trying to get around the table and out of the way, as if I had somewhere to go. I saw red as I imagined shoving cake down Natasha’s throat until she choked. I saw all the red—red fury, red cake, my red hair, which hung lank in my face, sticky with icing.

And I couldn’t do one fucking thing about any of it.