Nika
I read the side of the bottle carefully.
Common side effects include abdominal pain, bloating, and diarrhoea.
Abdominal pain. Bloating. Diarrhoea.
I nodded slowly, the way you nod when something confirms exactly what you were hoping it would confirm, and reached for the second bottle.
The kitchen smelled like dark chocolate and something sweetly dangerous. Rich and warm, the kind of smell that made people lower their guard completely—that made them think treat and celebration and someone went to a lot of effort. Which was true. I had gone to a lot of effort. That was the part I wanted them to appreciate.
I poured both bottles into the Belgian chocolate. Watched the liquid disappear into the dark, glossy mixture without a trace. Once every drop had been drained I screwed the lids back on and dropped the bottles into the recycling bin. The glass clinked together, cheerful and unbothered.
This is going to be so good.
The recipe would serve at least forty people. Forty people, one bathroom per floor, and a client presentation tomorrow afternoon.
I grabbed the third bottle and added it to the double cream. A little sugar, a little patience, and the cream came together thick and smooth and entirely unsuspicious. Nobody would taste anything. Belgian chocolate was a generous host—it masked everything.
I worked carefully. Methodically. The same focus I brought to testing a system, finding the fault, documenting exactly where things were going to go wrong.
I knew where things were going to go wrong tomorrow. That was rather the point.
The cake layers went down first. Then the black forest compote—deep and dark and glossy, spread evenly to the edges. Then the cream. Thick. Generous. Lovingly applied.
Then the chocolate frosting, dark and gleaming.
Fresh berries arranged on top with what I can only describe as genuine artistic care.
And in the centre, nestled between the piped frosting, the little Happy Birthday decoration. No one would know whose birthday it was. No one would know who brought it in. No one would question it. There was always something—a birthday, a retirement, a new baby. A cake in the kitchen was just Tuesday.
Everyone would be tempted by a home-baked chocolate sponge cake.
I stood back and looked at it.
It was genuinely beautiful. A shame, almost.
I printed the allergen notice and set it beside the box. No nuts. Contains dairy and gluten. Francis was vegan. Francis would be fine. I had considered Francis.
I was not a monster.
I boxed it up, slid it carefully into the fridge, and closed the door on it.
Tomorrow I would arrive early. I would carry it in a large bag, completely covered. I would leave it in the kitchen, uncovered, with the dietary note. No one would see me place the mysterious cake.
Part of me wished that I could tell everyone that the cake was from me, but I needed to pay rent, so alas, I must remain anonymous.
Just the way they kept me.
Admit it. You’re loving this.
I smiled at the kitchen.
I really was.
??????
Three bottles of concentrated laxatives might have been too much.
