The sll of cinnamon and fresh dough hit the second I stepped into the bakery.
It was warm, familiar. Safe. The bell above the door jingled as I walked in, apron already tied around Pedro’s waist as he stood behind the counter, hands dusted with flour.
He looked up and smiled. "There she is. My star baker."
I smiled back, but it felt wobbly. "Hey, Pedro."
He cocked his head imdiately. "Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound like ’Hey Pedro, ready to make twenty loaves of sourdough?’"
I stepped behind the counter, slipping off my coat slowly. "Can we talk?"
"Of course." He wiped his hands and motioned toward the little table in the corner, the one we always sat at during slow afternoons. "What’s up?"
I sat. Picked at a crumb on the table. "I got a job."
His eyes lit up. "That’s amazing, Izzy! Where?"
"Corporate assistant role. Full-ti. Pays well, benefits, all of it."
Pedro nodded, proud. "You’ve been working so hard for this."
I gave him a sheepish smile. "Yeah. I just... it ans I won’t be able to co in here much anymore."
He blinked, then sat back slowly. "Ah."
"I didn’t know how to tell you."
"Don’t apologize," he said imdiately. "You were never ant to stay here forever. This place was just a stop on your way to bigger things."
"But I’ll miss it. I’ll miss you."
He gave a soft smile, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "You’ll always have a place here. But Isabella... go. Go build sothing that doesn’t sll like burnt bagels."
I laughed through a lump in my throat. "You’re the best, you know that?"
"Obviously."
By the ti I stepped out of the bakery, the sun had already begun to dip, casting everything in a soft gold glow. I was exhausted—my legs aching from standing all day, my apron dusted with flour, and my hair slling like cinnamon and yeast. But despite the fatigue, there was this humming thrill beneath my skin.
I got the job.
A real job.
I couldn’t wait to tell Dad. Or maybe I could. The bakery had been helping us stay afloat.
When I got ho, the house was quiet. Too quiet.
I threw my bag on the worn-out couch and headed straight to the kitchen, tying my hair back and grabbing a pan. Even if I was tired, we all had to eat. I started dinner—fried rice with so leftover grilled chicken I’d saved from yesterday—and by the ti the scent filled the house, I heard the front door creak open.
"Where have you been?" I called, not even turning around. The rice sizzled in the pan as I stirred.
My little brother’s voice ca from behind . "The academy."
I turned slowly. He stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes shifting just a little too much.
"You’re lying."
"No, I—"
"Don’t even try it." My voice was sharp now, slicing through the air. "The academy closes by six. It’s past eight. What were you really doing?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Studying... with friends."
"Friends?" I scoffed. "So now we lie with confidence?"
Before I could launch into a full-blown lecture, Dad’s voice cut through from the hallway. "Isabella, sweetheart. Enough."
I turned to face him. He looked tired—his eyes soft but worn, his vet coat still half-buttoned. He placed a calming hand on my shoulder. "He’s ho. That’s what matters. We’ll talk about this tomorrow."
I exhaled hard through my nose and went back to stirring the rice, silently fuming. Dinner was quiet—tense, but still familiar. We ate like we always did, in the living room, plates balanced on our laps, so old show playing on low volu in the background.
Later, after washing up and checking my bag for the fifth ti to make sure I had everything for work, I finally collapsed into bed. My head barely touched the pillow before I knocked out completely.
Monday ca like a slap.
My alarm shrieked at 4:45 a.m., dragging out of the deepest sleep I’d had in weeks. I groaned, sat up, and stared at the dark ceiling for a few seconds before the reality hit .
First day.
Vantage & Cole.
Adrien freaking Walton.
I shook off the thought and got moving.
Shower. Teeth. Hair tied back in a neat bun. My new white blouse was already ironed and hanging by the door. I slid into it, paired it with my best blazer and black trousers, then hurried to the kitchen.
Dad was still asleep.
I made him a quick breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee—and left a note before grabbing my bag.
Then I stepped out into the cool morning air, nerves and caffeine colliding in my chest.
This was it.
New job. New Chapter. No mistakes.
The cold air hit my face the mont I stepped outside, and with it ca a surge of nerves so strong I nearly turned around. But I kept walking. I had to. This wasn’t just a job—it was my shot at paying off debt, taking care of Dad, keeping my brother on track. I didn’t have the luxury of fear.
The city was still half-asleep when I caught the first train. I kept checking the ti like a maniac. Adrien—Mr. Walton—had made it painfully clear: 8 a.m. sharp. Not a minute late.
By 7:48, I stood in front of the tall glass building, heart racing like it wanted out of my chest. The lobby was all chro and perfection, like success had a sll and this place bottled it.
The receptionist gave a once-over, then politely directed to the 42nd floor.
Each ding of the elevator made my nerves worse.
By the ti the doors opened, I felt like a soda can soone had shaken for fun.
His secretary, a tall woman with a sleek bun and sharper heels than I’d ever own, was already at her desk.
"You’re early," she said with a nod, glancing at the ti. "Good."
I smiled awkwardly. "Thought I’d give a good first impression."
"You’ll need it," she said, handing a stack of docunts. "Mr. Walton left very specific instructions for your training. Start by reading these thoroughly. Then I’ll walk you through your morning duties."
I nodded, clutching the papers like they were life vests.
She gave a sympathetic look. "You’ll be managing his life. And he’s not exactly... well ─ flexible."
No kidding.
"Also," she added, "His coffee. Black. Extra hot. Not warm, hot. He wants it on his desk the mont he steps into his office. If it’s not steaming, don’t bother handing it to him."
I blinked. "Got it."
"Oh, and you’re not allowed to leave until he leaves."
Pardon!
My mouth went dry. "What ti does he usually—?"
"It varies."
Of course it does.
She handed a list. I glanced down, and my eyes widened.
The Rules:
Always be at your desk before 6:00 a.m. You don’t leave until he does. Coffee every morning, extra hot. Never interrupt a call or eting unless it’s on fire. Maintain discretion. About everything. Keep his schedule updated and synced across devices. Never be late. Never. You should have a driver’s license.
There were more, but I stopped reading before my brain lted.
What had I signed up for?
I took a slow breath and took on a determined face. I needed this job. I could handle this. Even if it ant working under a man who may or may not make things easy for .
At 7:59, the elevator dinged again.
And just like that, Adrien Walton walked in.
Black suit, colder expression. Not a single glance my way.
He stepped past us without a word, his presence like ice settling into the room.
I quickly grabbed the cup I’d prepped just monts ago and followed, heels clicking softly.
The day had officially begun.
And I was going to survive it—even if it killed .
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