***
Deniz and Adem trail behind me like shadows, their SUV creeping along the dark in my rearview mirror. Two baby soldiers in Gabriel’s syndicate, sent to make sure I stay in line.
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so goddamn tired.
They park across the street when I do, both pretending to scroll on their phones while glancing at the bakery like it’s a war zone instead of a dessert shop. They’re scared shitless of Gabriel. Would snitch in a heartbeat if I turned around and went home.
So I don’t.
I climb out of the car, resume in hand, straighten my spine, and cross the street like this isn’t the worst idea.
Smash and Sugar is... cute.
Too cute.
Bright pastel signage, big glass windows lined with displays of croissants and cookies that look like they were crafted by angels on Adderall. The air smells like vanilla and butter and something warm I haven’t felt in years.
It throws me off balance.
I blink in the doorway for half a second too long before the girl behind the counter looks up.
“Hi there!” she chirps, all sunshine and perfect eyeliner. “We close in ten minutes, but I can still make you a drink.”
I force a smile, walk up to the counter. “Actually... I was wondering if I could speak to the manager?”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Sure thing.” She disappears through the swinging door behind her.
I fidget. Try not to look out the window at Deniz and Adem. Try not to look like I’m here for something other than a job.
Thenhewalks out.
Tall. Broad. Buzzcut. Not a flour stain in sight. Not a smile either.
Definitely not a baker.
I straighten. “Hi. I was just wondering if you had any openings. I’m looking for work.”
He looks at me like I’m asking for a kidney.
“No,” he says flatly.
I blink. “Nothing? Not even for cleanup? I don’t mind back-of-house. I can mop, do dishes—whatever you need.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with those cold, pale eyes like he’s already forgotten I spoke.
I shift on my feet.
I hold my resume out to him, like an idiot trying to be polite.
“I’ve got experience,” I add. “Food service, cleaning, front of house. I can work flexible hours—”
He snatches the paper from my hand. Doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t even glance down.
“No openings,” he repeats.
Final.
I swallow hard. Nod like that doesn’t sting.
