And this morning, reality welcomed me back with the sharpest claws.
My headache progresses with every slice of the knife. With every completed order. With every chime of the register.
But the work gets done, and the momentary satisfaction seeps through as the day comes to an end.
“Let’s close early,” I tell Sanjay, an hour before our usual closing time, while I rub a sticky spot on the espresso machine.
I busy myself tidying behind the counter when I finally hear the lock. I almost weep with relief.
Sighing, I lower my head. We did it, just barely surviving, but I kept this place afloat for another day.
“This was delivered as I was locking up. The delivery guy said it’s for you.” Sanjay approaches me holding a white paper box.
I take it slowly. The logo on the napkin tucked under the string says it all. My favorite 24-hour bakery. My stomach tightens before I even open the lid.
Inside, nestled like a little crown jewel, is a pistachio Danish.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
I stare at the pastry. It’s not just the gesture. He teased me about it. Looked down at the place, the amount of sugar poison.
And yet he got me the exact one I raved about in the early morning hours.
And for a moment—just one—I imagine what it would be like to curl up on the worn sofa, eat it with my fingers, and let the sweetness push the bitterness of the day away.
But the bitterness lingers. I also imagine him spending the day in the boardroom, in his tailored suit, probably making ten times more in an hour than I did today.
What do you want from me, Xander Stone? Why do you bother with someone like me?
I glance around.
The tables are empty now, but there’s a stain on the floor no one’s mopped. A leaky pipe in the kitchen. A list of unpaid invoices on the counter. A dozen voicemails from suppliers.
This is not a world where pastries solve problems.
This is not a life where I can afford to be charmed by a billionaire who plays games. I don’t have time or energy for games.
I close the box gently and hand it back to Sanjay. “Take it home.”
He blinks. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “I’ve had enough sugar for a week.”
He smiles. “Thanks, boss.”
I manage a smile too. “Go home. I’ll finish here.”
“For real?” He frowns, but his entire body pivots toward the exit.
“Of course. You were here in the morning. It’s my turn. Besides, I still have paperwork to catch up on.” Or cry over. Which I definitely don’t need him to see.
He leaves.
And I stay.
Sweeping up crumbs that never seem to disappear—so different from last night.
I should never have gone to that gala.
