Chapter 1: Sylvie
Sylvie was stretched halfway up a ladder when a thick layer of dust—and what looked like an entire extended family of cobwebs—collapsed onto her head.
“Oh, come on—”
She yelped, swiping at the pelmet with the cleaning brush, then froze. Her nose twitched.
Once.
Twice.
Sneezing while balanced on a ladder that wobbled if you looked at it wrong felt like an unnecessarily dramatic way to die, and she wasn’t ready for that kind of exit. Not over a set of velvet curtains that smelled like 1974.
She sagged in relief when the sneeze subsided, then scrubbed at her hair, sending a fine cloud of debris down over her shoulders and the front of her top. She brushed at it with an irritated huff.
Who puts heavy velvet in a bakery? Honestly.
Her moving boxes still hadn’t arrived, so her yoga set had officially become renovation workwear. The loose top she’d thrown over her cotton bralette was knotted at her waist. One foot was planted on the second-to-top rung; the other was braced awkwardly against the side rail.
Was this how ladders were meant to be used?
Absolutely not.
Did she care?
Also no.
Health and safety could wait, she told herself, stretching higher. Those curtains were coming down today, or she was going down with them.
She’d jumped at the opportunity to take over this place. Proper kitchen, storefront on the main street, reasonable rent—it was the dream. The town brochure had arrived in her post one morning. She called the number on the back out of curiosity. A woman with a deep, steady voice introduced herself as Arla and sounded way more amused than your typical estate agent.
From the photos, Honeybay looked perfect.
Lush, green wooded hills. A sandy beach stretching out beneath a winding coastline. Charming narrow streets with shop windows that looked like they belonged to actual people instead of faceless global brands. She hadn’t had time to visit the seaside yet, but the air already felt clean. Fresh.
Her estate agent was an orc, and she expected most of the locals would be the Others.
Sylvie had encountered them in the city before. She even counted some as regular customers at her old place—mostly caffeine-deprived vampires or shifters looking for a gluten-free fix—though most preferred smaller towns like this.
From her elevated perch, she could see the morning traffic passing by the glass.
A minotaur paused in front of her shop windows, peering in with open curiosity, his thick brows furrowing when he realized the display was empty.
With a thoughtful snort, he moved on. A werewolf stopped to read the “Staff Wanted” sign she’d taped to the glass, scratched the back of his head, and continued down the street.
The vision for her shop was still shaping up in her head, but one thing was for sure: she didn’t want anything like the patisserie she’d left behind in the city. That place had been all white marble and “minimalist” vibes—which was just code for soul-sucking and cold. It had been spotless, polished, and utterly exhausting, with brutal schedules and sleep treated like an optional extra.
And then there was Brian. Her business partner. Her ex. The man who’d treated their relationship like a corporate merger and looked at her like an underperforming asset—right up until she found out he’d acquired a new asset that was apparently “performing better” in his bed.
Deep breath, Sylvie. He’s three hundred miles away.
She shook her head, physically rattling the memory loose, and turned her frustration toward the first stubborn curtain clip. She leaned farther out from the ladder, arm straining toward the end of the rod. She could have climbed down and moved the ladder a few inches, but her patience was as thin as her yoga pants.
She leaned a little farther, toes curling against the metal rung for balance. The ladder creaked. Not dangerously—but enough to make her breath hitch.
Just one more inch.
That was when the bell over the front door chimed.
