I stare at Leo’s phone as it keeps buzzing, notifications multiplying like bacteria, and I feel the trap cinch tight around my ribs.
Because I did not ask for this.
I just wanted to bake bread.
Chapter 11
Leo
I have been nervous ever since I left the bakery yesterday. Tess did not say much, but I know she is not happy about the video. And neither am I.
The comments have been unhinged. Some people say we look like we belong together. Some are calling Tess fat in ways that make my stomach turn. Others want to know if I am single and are asking for my number.
It is 4:44 a.m. when I walk in, and my entire body is buzzing with a strange, jittery energy I cannot shake.
The bakery still holds the afterglow of yesterday. The cake saves. The chaos. The collaboration. That raw, collective joy still hums in my bones. It was the most fun I have had in a decade.
My phone vibrates like a live wire in my pocket. I ignore it, but I catch the first text from Julian anyway, and a cold stone of dread drops into my stomach. Then I see Rex Chen’s name and feel an even colder wave of irritation.
So, I turn the phone off.
I do not want to deal with the brand. Or the docu crew. Or the deal.
I want to deal with dough. I want to see if I can make another star.
I want to see Tess smile again, that short, rusty, beautiful laugh she gave me before my phone ruined everything.
I walk in wearing a hopeful, slightly goofy smile.
“Morning, boss. I…”
My smile dies.
Tess is standing at her steel table, not with a clipboard, but with her arms crossed so tightly it looks painful. Her face, soft and laughing just hours ago, is now a mask of glacial, crystalline fury.
She is colder than she was on my first day.
Gwen stands behind her, very deliberately not looking at me. Her face is pale.
“Boss?” I ask. My voice wavers. The air in the bakery feels heavy and suffocating, like the warmth and yeast have been replaced by something sharp and metallic.
“You are a liar,” Tess says.
Her voice is not loud. It is worse than loud. It is low, flat, and lethal.
“What? No. I…”
“I asked you if this was a stunt. A collaboration. A reel.” She steps toward me. “You looked me in the eye and said no.” Her gaze does not blink. “Was the little girl an actor, Leo? Her mother? Was the canceled cake from La Fantaisie part of the script, too?”
I am stunned.
The accusation lands like a physical blow, knocking the air from my chest.
“Tess no.” The words come out too fast, too desperate. “My God. Of course not. That was real. You saw her. Maya…”
“Don’t.” The single word cuts clean. “Say her name.”
She is shaking. Her rage is a physical thing in the warm, yeasty air, and it makes my skin prickle.
