Badges and Bargains
1026 Words
Sloane's POV:
I stared at Hunter, the ruined cake box still clutched in my hands like it could save me.
Fifty grand? For a melted dessert?
My laugh came out bitter, short. "No way. That's crazy. I delivered it on time. Your drama with Joanna isn't my fault."
He didn't even blink. Just pulled out his phone, thumb swiping the screen like it was nothing.
"Fine. We'll let the cops sort it. Property damage, negligence—the works." He tapped once, and the call connected. "Yeah, Eclipse Lounge. Got a delivery girl who just trashed a custom order. Yeah, send a unit."
My stomach dropped.
Police? For a cake? Is he f**ng kidding me? But he looks so serious.
Panic hit like ice water, flooding my veins.
"Wait—no, please. You can't—"
But he was already hanging up, that smirk locked in place. I backed toward the door, mind racing.
Mom would lose it. Victoria finding out? She'd scream, call me worthless, maybe kick me out for good. William? God, I bet he'd love the leverage.
"Sir, come on. I'll talk to the shop, get a refund. Just... don't."
He leaned back, arms crossed. "I gave you a chance before. Too late now. Clock's ticking."
The ride to the station was a blur.
Cops showed up fast—two uniforms who took one look at Hunter and switched to deferential mode.
"Mr. Whitman, sir. We'll handle this quick."
They cuffed me? No, just escorted, but it felt the same.
Eclipse Lounge faded behind us, bass thump lost to siren wails.
At the station, fluorescent buzzed overhead, mixing with the stink of stale coffee. They sat me in a hard chair,
Hunter lounging across like he owned the place. The desk sergeant—a burly beta with a gut—nodded at him.
"What can we do for you, Mr. Whitman?"
Hunter laid it out cool: delayed delivery, ruined cake, "emotional damages."
The cop jotted notes, shooting me glances like I was scum. "Miss Rhodes, you got insurance? Or cash for this?"
Who the hell will get insurance for a cake!
I shook my head, voice small.
"I can't pay. It's not my fault—the bus, the heat—"
Panic clawed higher. They weren't listening. One cop stepped out, radio crackling. Minutes later, he was back.
"Family's on the way. Since you seem unable to handle the current situation, we have no choice but to notify your guardian."
No.
My chest tightened.
Victoria. Here. Exposed.
I'd begged them not to call, promised anything, but Hunter just watched, amused.
The door swung open, and there they were: Mom storming in first, face thunder, William trailing with that fake-concern mask. And... someone else. A woman in a sharp suit, gray hair pulled tight, carrying a leather briefcase. Tall and poised.
She flashed a card, voice crisp. "Sienna Thatcher, counsel for Mr. Whitman. Let's keep this civil."
The station shifted—cops mumbling apologies, suddenly all yes-sir-no-ma'ams.
Victoria's eyes locked on me, fury boiling. She opened her mouth—probably to rip me a new one—but then she spotted Hunter.
Her whole posture changed. Shoulders dropped, smile plastered on, all teeth and deference. She dipped her head, almost a bow.
"Whitman young master. What a surprise. You... here?"
Hunter's gaze swept us, lingering. A slow grin spread.
"Well, it's you. I remember you. Let me recall.. Oh! I saw you at the Silverridge bid last week. Planning that little bakery pop-up, right? Cute pitch."
He paused, eyes on me. "Too bad your girl's the one who pissed me off tonight. That bid? Might not fly after this."
My face went cold.
Silverridge Academy.
Mom had mentioned it—tender for a campus shop, high traffic, easy money. Students loaded, always hungry.
But his school? Stormcrest turf. The pieces slammed together.
Shit. One wrong move, and poof—dream gone.
Victoria's hand shot out, yanking me aside by the arm. Her nails dug into my burned wrist.
I bit my lip, pain flaring, but said nothing. Tears welled, hot and useless.
"What the hell did you do, Sloane?" she hissed, low and angry. "To him? Of all people?"
I stared at her grip, lips trembling. No words came. Just the ache.
Hunter cleared his throat, drawing eyes back.
"Simple, really. She shows up late with a puddle of frosting. Cost me my night—and a potential alliance with another pack." He leaned in, casual. "Bumping the ask to ten grand. Cash or check."
Victoria's screech cut the air. "Ten thousand?"
She whirled on me, face twisted. "You stupid girl! Apologies, Mr. Whitman—truly. She's... impulsive. We'll make it right." Then to me: "Say something! Beg forgiveness!"
Humiliation burned my throat. Everyone stared—cops standing, William shifting uneasy, Sienna silent as stone.
Tears spilled, hot tracks down my cheeks. I dropped my head, voice cracking.
"Please, Hunter. I can't pay. I'm sorry. Just... let it go."
He didn't budge. "Nah. Fair's fair."
The room tensed, awkward silence stretching.
My gaze flicked to the woman named Sienna—last hope, maybe.
She met it, cool, then stepped to Hunter. Leaned in, whispering fast. His jaw ticked, but he shrugged it off, unfazed.
Sienna gave me a sympathetic look, and in an instant, my heart sank.
I'm screwed.
Suddenly, Hunter's phone buzzed. He glanced—smirk vanishing. Face hardened, lines sharp.
"Speak," he muttered, answering. "Yeah. Tomorrow? Fine." Seconds ticked. His end: grunts, a clipped "Understood." Hang up. Shoulders squared, eyes stormy.
Quiet fell heavy. All eyes on him.
He turned, pinning me. That stare—probing, like he'd peeled back layers.
I went numb. Despair dulled everything. No fight left.
He crossed the room, slow. Towering. "Tell you what. No comp if you agree to one thing."
I blinked up, voice flat. "What?"
"Tomorrow. One date."
Shock slammed me.
Date?
Brain shorted. Sounded like some rom-com twist, but alarms blared. Trap. Big one. His kind didn't "date" girls like me—they devoured. "I—"
"No!" The shout cracked like thunder. Sharp, angry.
I whipped around. William. Face flushed, eyes red.
- Writer
