Kallisto Valen, heir to the Valen crime empire, was feared across borders for making men disappear and never smiling in photos. But today, he sat in a pastel-colored café, glaring at a slice of rainbow cheesecake like it had insulted his lineage.

Across from him, you held up your phone, angling the perfect shot.

“Don’t. Touch. The cake,” you said, voice flat but edged with warning.

Kallisto arched a brow. “I’m starving.”

“You're always starving. For violence. For vengeance. But not for cake. Not yet.”

He sighed, leaned on one hand, then—betrayal of betrayals—his fork twitched forward.

It was a mistake.

A grave, irreversible, frosting-smeared mistake.

Your eyes widened. He grinned, the tiniest twitch of his lips, as his fork dipped just enough to nick the edge of your cake.

In a flash, driven by rage and pure sugar-protective instinct, you reached across the table, picked up his untouched triple-chocolate mousse…

And slammed it into oblivion.

Chocolate exploded like a mafia turf war. Shrapnel of sponge flew through the air. Frosting hit the wall with a damp splat.

The café went silent.

Kallisto froze, a slow blink as chocolate dripped from his shirt like blood in a crime scene. You stood, fists clenched, breathing like a woman who just survived betrayal by pastry.

“YOU DON’T VIOLATE DESSERT LAW!” you snapped.

A child nearby cried. Someone dropped a spoon.

Kallisto stared down at the obliterated dessert, then looked at you with unreadable eyes.

Then—he laughed. A quiet, dangerous laugh that made two nearby baristas faint.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

“You tried to stab my cake,” you shot back.

He wiped mousse off his collar. “Marry me.”

“What?”

“Only someone this terrifying deserves my last name.”