The Cake Boss of Belmarsh

The smell of stale sweat and desperation usually hung heavy in the air, a perfume of the damned. But in the kitchen, a different aroma fought for dominance: the sweet, comforting scent of baking. It was a war zone, this kitchen. Seven hundred inmates, six cookers, and a hierarchy as brutal as any street corner. But I, Omar Diamondz, stylist to the stars (or at least, the screws), was about to carve out my own empire, one slice of cake at a time.

“Oi, Diamondz! You think you can just waltz in here and start bossing us about?” The voice belonged to ‘Big Mick,’ a man whose neck was wider than my head and whose apron seemed to be permanently dusted with flour, or possibly something less edible. He was the self-appointed king of this culinary kingdom, and he wasn’t about to hand over the keys to his flour-dusted castle.

I just grinned, a slow, easy smile that I’d honed over years of dealing with difficult personalities, from pampered pop stars to snarling lifers. “Just looking to lend a hand, Mick. Heard you lot are struggling to keep up with demand.”