My roommate’s boyfriend walked into the kitchen and asked,
“Did you eat my chocolate slice?”
“Yeah, like an hour ago.”
“Why?”

He dropped to his knees right there on the kitchen floor. For a second, I thought he was joking, but then he started dry heaving into the sink.

“She ate it. The whole thing,” his voice cracked.

He ran out to the bathroom, slamming the door.

That’s when Delilah burst through the front door, still in her dental hygienist scrubs.
“She must have left work early. Where’s Killian?” she asked, breathless.

“He texted to call 911 and something about you eating the last slice.”

Delilah pounded on the bathroom door.
“Killian, baby, what’s wrong?”

He came out, eyes red, and showed her something. Delilah’s face went from worried to devastated in seconds.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

My phone buzzed. It was our landlord.
“Heard what happened. So sorry. Rent can wait this month.”

My stomach cramped suddenly, sharp enough to double me over. The chocolate cake. Another wave of nausea hit, and I barely made it to the kitchen sink.

My roommate Damen rubbed my back, which was so out of character. I’d have laughed if I wasn’t puking.
“She’s been waiting 2 years to eat that cake,” Killian muttered, looking at Delilah, who was now sitting on the floor, crying her eyes out.

“Two years for what?” I gasped between heaves.

Nobody answered.

My phone rang. It was my mom.
“Hey, I’m so disappointed in you. How could you do this?”

She hung up before I could ask what she was talking about.

“We need to go to the hospital, Killian.”

“Now what? Why? It’s just food poisoning.”

Delilah stood up, her face pale.
“It’s not food poisoning. Please, just trust me. We need to go now.”

Killian was already grabbing his keys.

The cramping was getting worse. In the car, Delilah wouldn’t even look at me. Killian kept checking his phone and wincing at whatever he saw.

“What was in that cake?” I asked again, starting to panic. The pain was spreading.

Delilah finally spoke, her voice hollow.
“My future just… “

“We’ll deal with it at the hospital,” Killian said.

At the ER, Killian ran ahead to talk to the intake nurse. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she looked shocked and waved us through immediately.

That’s when I knew something was really, really wrong.

Delilah looked like she might cry or scream or both. A doctor appeared with a portable X-ray machine.
“We need to check your stomach contents immediately.”

“For food poisoning?” he exchanged a look with Killian and Delilah.
“Not exactly. Let’s just see what we find.”

A nurse started prepping an IV.
“Any allergies I should know about? Medications? Latex?”

She paused, looking at her clipboard.
“Reactions to platinum or white gold?”

“No,” I answered, completely confused.

They made everyone leave the room while they X-rayed my abdomen. The doctor studied the image on his tablet, zooming in on something.

Killian’s mom appeared in the doorway. She looked at me like I’d killed her dog.
“Is it still intact?” she asked the doctor.
“It’s been in my family for 90 years.”

The room went silent except for the beeping machines. Delilah finally looked at me, her face a mask of controlled rage.
“There’s definitely a metallic object in your stomach,” he whispered.

I stared at him.
“A what?”

Delilah’s face went red with anger.
“You ate my engagement ring.”

“I what?”

Killian cleared his throat.
“I hid grandma’s ring in your favorite cake. I was going to propose.”

“That was my cake from my boyfriend for our anniversary.”

“It was on the middle shelf.”

The words tumbled out as my brain tried to catch up.
“That’s the communal shelf. Everyone knows that I was saving it for tonight.”

Delilah’s voice rose.
“You literally have your own shelf. Your name is on it in purple Sharpie.”

My stomach gurgled again. The ring was in there, supposedly worth thousands of dollars, floating around with the chocolate cake I thought was communal property.

The doctor handed me a bottle of thick white liquid.
“This should speed things along. You’ll need to strain everything to recover the ring.”

Delilah started crying. Killian was still listing everything he had planned. His mom was facetiming with angry relatives.

My roommate texted me.
“This is why I label everything, even my water bottles.”

“Next time,” I told Killian as another cramp hit, “maybe just use a ring box like a normal person.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Delilah screamed.

The doctor cleared his throat.
“Well, this is certainly going to be an insurance nightmare. Destroying property worth thousands. You’re a thief,” Killian’s mom spat.

Delilah wiped her tears.
“Your type always takes what isn’t theirs.”

As I sat there with the laxatives, I remembered something. Something that would make them regret how they treated me.

I reached for my phone in my pocket and pulled up the photo gallery, scrolling back to yesterday afternoon.

There it was, the chocolate cake sitting right on the middle shelf of our fridge with my handwritten note taped to the white bakery box that said, “Happy anniversary, Brandon. Love me.” in blue pen.

I turned the screen toward them and watched their faces change.

Killian went white first, then his mom, then Delilah, who grabbed the phone from my hand to look closer.

The timestamp showed 3:47 p.m. yesterday, clear as day.

Killian started opening and closing his mouth like a fish, trying to find words that wouldn’t come out. He finally managed to stammer something about how Delilah had mentioned wanting chocolate cake last week, and he just assumed when he saw it.

His mom snatched my phone from Delilah’s hands, holding it close to her face and squinting at the screen. Her jaw tightened when she saw the timestamp and the note with my name on it. She handed the phone back without saying anything, but I could see her grinding her teeth.

The doctor came back in carrying a clipboard full of paperwork, stopping short when he felt the tension in the room. He suggested maybe everyone should step outside while I rested and dealt with the medication.

I shook my head and told him I wanted witnesses to stay because I needed to explain what really happened here. He looked uncomfortable but nodded and started filling out his forms while standing by the door.

I took a breath and explained how Brandon had ordered the cake from Josiah’s bakery downtown for our 2-year anniversary, paying $60 for the custom chocolate ganache with raspberry filling.

I’d picked it up yesterday after work and put it in the fridge to surprise him tonight when he got home from his shift.

Delilah’s face crumpled as the pieces clicked together in her head. She turned to look at Killian with something between hurt and rage in her eyes.

He wouldn’t meet her gaze, just stared at his shoes like they were the most interesting thing in the world.

His mom shifted her weight and changed tactics, saying,
“If the cake was so special, I should have labeled it better or put it on my personal shelf.”

I reminded her that my name was literally written on the note and the middle shelf had been communal space for 3 years since I moved in. Everyone in the building knew the rules about personal shelves versus shared space.

She pressed her lips together but didn’t have a comeback for that.

The nurse knocked and came in carrying a plastic collection kit and what looked like a strainer in a sealed bag. The room went dead quiet as she sat everything on the tray table next to my bed.

She gave me a look full of sympathy while explaining how to use the supplies when the time came.

Killian’s family all turned away, suddenly very interested in the medical posters on the walls. The nurse patted my shoulder gently before leaving.

Delilah suddenly whipped around to face Killian, her voice rising as she asked why he didn’t just buy his own cake, or at least check whose it was before taking it. Her hands were shaking as she spoke.

Killian mumbled something about his original plan falling through when the jewelry store messed up the ring sizing, and he panicked. He admitted he saw the cake and grabbed it without thinking because he knew she loved chocolate.

Delilah’s face got redder with each word.

My phone buzzed with a text from Brandon, asking if I was okay and saying he was leaving work early to come to the hospital.

Relief washed over me, knowing I’d have someone actually on my side soon instead of these people treating me like I’d committed a crime.

I texted him back quickly with the room number.

The hospital administrator knocked and entered. A middle-aged woman in a Navy suit carrying a tablet. She introduced herself and said she needed to discuss the insurance situation and billing for this unusual case.

She explained that since this wasn’t technically a medical emergency, but rather a voluntary retrieval procedure, insurance might not cover the full costs.

The room got even quieter if that was possible. She pulled up some numbers on her tablet and showed them to Killian and his mom.

The preliminary estimate was around $800 for the ER visit, X-ray, medications, and supplies.

Killian’s mom immediately crossed her arms and declared they wouldn’t pay a cent of medical bills since I was the one who ate their property.

Her voice had that sharp edge that rich people use when they think they’re being wronged.

I actually laughed, which made my stomach cramp again, and pointed out that their property was hidden in my property without my permission.

She started to argue, but the administrator held up her hand and said liability would need to be determined later, but someone would need to handle the immediate costs.

The administrator left us with forms to fill out and said she’d be back in an hour.

Killian’s mom was already on her phone, probably calling their lawyer or insurance company. Delilah sat down hard in the plastic chair by the window, putting her head in her hands.

Killian stood there looking lost, caught between his angry mother and his devastated girlfriend. Another cramp hit, and I doubled over, the medication starting to work.

There’s something strange about how fast everyone showed up. The landlord texting about rent, Killian’s mom appearing at the hospital, even my own mom calling to yell at me.

How did word spread so quickly about a cake and a ring? This was going to be a long, horrible afternoon, but at least I had proof that I wasn’t the thief they claimed I was.

The door burst open and Brandon rushed in, holding a white paper bag from the bakery. He crossed the room in three quick steps and kissed my forehead before turning to face everyone else with a look that could freeze water.

He pulled out a yellow receipt and held it up so everyone could see the $60 charge for a custom chocolate anniversary cake with special decorations.

Killian’s mom grabbed for the receipt, but Brandon pulled it back and took a photo of it with his phone first.

The hospital administrator knocked and came back in carrying her tablet and a stack of forms. She cleared her throat and suggested we focus on the immediate medical situation first since the financial and legal discussions could wait until after the patient was stable.

She handed me several forms about the incident for hospital records and mentioned something about insurance claims that would need to be filed.

My stomach cramped hard again, and I doubled over while Brandon rubbed my back.

Delilah suddenly stood up and announced she needed air before rushing out of the room. Killian looked between his mom and me before following Delilah into the hallway where their voices carried through the thin door.

We could hear her asking why he didn’t check whose cake it was and him trying to explain about the jewelry store mix-up.

His mom stayed in the room watching me like she expected me to somehow swallow the ring again or maybe run off with it.

Brandon pulled out his phone and called Marta, who picked up on the second ring. He put it on speaker and asked her about the apartment shelf rules from when she lived with us last year.

Her voice filled the room as she explained that the middle shelf was always communal property and everyone knew personal items went on labeled shelves only. She even remembered the exact meeting where we all agreed on it after someone ate Damen’s special yogurt by mistake.

Killian’s mom started to argue, but Marta cut her off, saying she had photos from that time showing the shelf labels and communal areas clearly marked.

The doctor knocked and came back in to check my vital signs and feel my stomach. He said the medication should start working within the next few hours and recommended I go home to wait since there wasn’t anything else they could do medically.

He wrote something on my chart about the foreign object ingestion and told the nurse to prepare discharge papers.

Brandon helped me stand up slowly while another cramp hit, and I had to lean on him for support.

Killian came back into the room alone with red eyes and his hair sticking up from running his hands through it. He walked over to where I was gathering my things and quietly said he was sorry for taking the cake without checking first.

His mom immediately jumped up and grabbed his arm, telling him not to say anything else because I might be recording.

She pointed at my phone sitting on the bed and said something about not admitting fault in front of witnesses.

I hadn’t been recording anything, but hearing her say that made me pick up my phone and start the voice recorder app right away.

I made sure the red recording light was visible as she continued telling Killian about liability and not taking blame for anything.

Brandon squeezed my hand as we walked past them toward the door with me still recording every word she said.

The nurse brought a wheelchair, but I waved it off since I could walk fine between the cramps. We made it to Brandon’s car and I finally stopped recording after getting three full minutes of Killian’s mom explaining why he shouldn’t apologize.

The drive back to the apartment took 20 minutes with me curled up in the passenger seat trying not to think about what was coming next.

Damen was waiting in the living room when we walked in and immediately showed me his phone screen. The building group chat was going crazy with people calling me a thief and saying I did it on purpose for attention or money.

Someone had even started a poll asking if I should be evicted for stealing from other tenants.

Damen scrolled through showing me comment after comment from neighbors I’d never had problems with before. One person suggested checking if anything else was missing from the communal areas and another said they were putting locks on their shelf sections.

Brandon took the phone from Damian and started typing a response, but I told him not to bother yet. We needed to focus on getting through the next few hours first, and then we could deal with the rumor mill.

He helped me gather supplies from around the apartment, including magazines, my phone charger, a bottle of water, and the plastic strainer the hospital gave us.

The bathroom felt smaller than usual as Brandon arranged everything with an easy reach of the toilet. He offered to stay with me, but I shook my head and told him I needed to do this part alone since it was already humiliating enough.

He kissed my forehead again and said he’d be right outside if I needed anything before closing the door behind him.

The first hour passed slowly with just minor stomach cramps and nothing happening despite drinking tons of water. The second hour brought stronger cramps that had me gripping the edge of the bathtub and breathing through my nose.

By the third hour, I was exhausted and ready to give up when finally something shifted in my stomach.

20 minutes later, I was holding the plastic strainer under running water, watching a small metal object emerge from things I really didn’t want to think about. The ring was covered in stuff that made my stomach turn, but it was definitely there and looked intact.

I put on the rubber gloves from the hospital and carefully picked it up to rinse it thoroughly under hot water. After drying it with paper towels, I sealed it in a plastic sandwich bag and washed my hands about six times.

I texted Killian a photo of the ring in the bag with a simple message saying I had it and asking when he wanted to pick it up.

5 minutes later, my phone buzzed with Killian’s reply, telling me I needed to bring the ring to their place and apologize in person for stealing it.

Brandon looked over my shoulder at the message and shook his head hard. He grabbed my phone and started typing a response, but I stopped him and deleted what he’d written.

We weren’t doing anything until they admitted what really happened here.

I remembered my mom mentioning her friend, Porsche Justice, who worked as a legal aid attorney downtown. I found her number in my contacts and called while Brandon sat next to me on the couch.

Porsche answered on the third ring and I explained everything that had happened from finding the cake to the hospital visit. She listened without interrupting, then told me to document absolutely everything and not return the ring until we had a written agreement.

She said they had no right to hide property in my food without permission and cause all this trouble.

Within an hour, Porsche had drafted an email laying out all the facts about how they hid the ring in my cake without asking. She attached the photo I took of my anniversary cake with a note clearly visible on the middle shelf.

Brandon had already gotten Marta to send over her statement about the shelf rules we’d always followed. Porsche added everything to the email, including screenshots of the nasty messages people had sent me. She sent it to Killian and his mom with a read receipt requested.

The response came back 2 hours later from Killian’s mom threatening to sue me for emotional distress and damage to their family heirloom.

Porsche actually laughed out loud when she read it over the phone to me. She said they had absolutely no case and they knew it, which is why they were trying to scare me.

2 days later, the hospital bill showed up in my mailbox for $800. My insurance only covered part of it since they classified the ring removal as an elective procedure.

Brandon immediately offered to help pay, but I wanted Killian and his family to take responsibility for what they’d done.

I was sitting at the kitchen table staring at the bill when my phone rang with an unknown number. It was Josiah from the bakery where Brandon had ordered the anniversary cake.

He’d heard about what happened from other customers who were talking about it. He offered to write an official statement confirming that Brandon had ordered and paid for a special anniversary cake with specific decorations.

I thanked him and gave him Porsche’s email so he could send it directly to her.

Armed with the bakery statement, plus Marta’s testimony and all the photo evidence we had collected, Porsche sent them a formal demand letter. She made it clear they could either