1
Sienna
Mornings at the bakery are a chaotic kind of magic.
The smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and fresh bread swirls in the air, mixing with the sound of the industrial mixer whirring and Lucy humming some old Taylor Swift song off-key.
I love it. Usually.
But not when I’m trying to wrestle a giant box of muffins, bagels, and a ridiculously extravagant birthday cake out the door by myself.
“This was a dumb idea,” I mutter, shifting the weight of the box against my hip as I elbow open the bakery’s door. “Lucy, remind me next time that I’m not a bodybuilder.”
“Noted,” Lucy calls after me. “But you said you could handle it, and I have three dozen croissants in the oven, so…”
I bite back a groan and make my way toward my car, balancing the box with sheer willpower. It’s a miracle I get it inside without a catastrophe, but the real challenge is still ahead.
Delivering it.
The order is for a big-shot company in a high-rise downtown. When the guy who placed the order called yesterday, he was all business. No warmth, no small talk, just a clipped, “I need this delivered by nine a.m. sharp.”
And here I am, right on time, somehow not covered in frosting or pastry crumbs.
A personal victory in my book, if I do say so myself.
The building is sleek and intimidating, all steel and reflective glass, the kind of place where people wear thousand-dollar suits and act like they don’t have time for nonsense.
Which explains why the receptionist barely glances up when I approach the desk after an unnecessarily long elevator ride to the top floor.
“I have a delivery for Benedikt Volkov.” I hoist the box a little for emphasis.
She finally looks at me, giving me a once-over that makes me feel like I don’t belong.
She’s perfectly put together, with sleek blonde hair and a slim frame, exuding the kind of effortless elegance that makes me acutely aware of the flour and egg smudges on my apron.
“Sienna Graves. The baker.” I paste on my best customer service smile. “This was preordered and paid for by someone named Artem.”
The receptionist sighs like I’ve ruined her morning. “One moment.” She taps something on her keyboard, then gesturestoward the elevator. “Take it up to the top floor. Mr. Volkov’s office.”
“There are more?” According to the elevator I’d just exited, I was currently on the top floor.
She tosses a white badge at me—well, on top of the counter—and dismisses me by looking back at her slick Macbook.
“Great,” I say, even though it doesn’t feel great.
The elevator ride is smooth and eerily quiet, giving me too much time to think. This delivery shouldn’t be a big deal, but something about it feels… off.
Maybe it’s the way Artem was so precise about the order.
Or the way the receptionist acted like I was wasting her time.
Either way, I shake it off.
When the doors open, I step into an office so sleek and expensive-looking that I feel like I should’ve worn something nicer than my bakery uniform.
A massive desk sits near the floor-to-ceiling windows, and behind it, a man sips his coffee, watching me.
He doesn’t say a word.
