Dahlia set down the phone. Picked up her rolling pin. Set it down again because her hands were shaking and she refused to ruin another batch of croissants.
Marzipan watched from her perch on the ingredient shelf, tail curling with feline concern.Bad news?
“The Torres family cancelled our honey supply.”
Marzipan’s ears flattened.The mountain honey? Your grandmother’s supplier?
“The only supplier that matters.” Dahlia grabbed her phone again, scrolling through contacts. “There are other apiaries in bear territory. Someone else must be available.”
She called Hendricks Honey first. The line rang twice before a harried voice answered.
“Sorry, Ms. Moon. We’re not taking new accounts right now.”
“I’m not a new account. I’ve bought from you before?—”
“Can’t help you. Sorry.” Click.
Mountain Gold Apiaries. Same story—the owner barely let her finish introducing herself before cutting her off with a muttered excuse. Bearfoot Farms: “We’ve committed our entire harvest elsewhere. Try again next year.” Silver Peak: “Not possible. Don’t call back.”
By the time she’d worked through her list, the morning light was streaming through the windows and her stomach had turned to ice.
Every single bear-territory honey producer was suddenly “unavailable.” Every single one.
That’s not coincidence.That’s coordinated.
Dahlia didn’t have an answer. She walked to the storeroom instead, pulled open the climate-controlled cabinet where she kept her magical ingredients. The door swung open with a soft click, releasing the faint scent of enchanted sugar and spelled flour—but underneath, the rich golden aroma of mountain honey. Her grandmother’s secret. The foundation of everything.
Three jars. That’s all she had left. Three jars of the golden, magic-infused honey that made her pastries special. That carried the ambient energy of the Ursa mountains, enhanced potions, amplified charms. The honey her grandmother had built an entire business around.
Three jars. Maybe two weeks of careful rationing, if she limited the honey to her most important products.
After that...
Dahlia closed the cabinet. Leaned her forehead against the cool metal door. The chill seeped into her skin, grounding her even as panic clawed at her throat.
Without magical honey, her charmed pastries were... pastries. Good ones, sure. But nothing that set her apart fromthe cheap bakeries in the next town over. Nothing that justified the prices she charged or the loyal customer base she’d built. Nothing that made Honey & Hex worth anything more than the real estate it sat on.
The sabotage was elegant. Deniable. Devastating.
Marzipan jumped down from her perch and wound between Dahlia’s ankles, fur brushing her bare skin.What are you going to do?
Dahlia straightened. Squared her shoulders. “What I do every day. Open the shop. Serve the customers. Figure out the rest later.”
And if there is no ‘rest’ to figure out?
She didn’t have an answer for that.
FIFTEEN
DAHLIA
The morning rush came and went. Dahlia smiled at customers, made small talk, pretended everything was fine. Mrs. Patterson bought her usual comfort croissant, chatting about her husband’s latest doctor’s appointment while Dahlia made sympathetic noises and wrapped the pastry with extra care. Tom Chen picked up a clarity cookie—still unemployed, still pretending otherwise, his shoulders hunched with the particular shame of a man who’d been taught that his worth depended on his work.
The Nakamura twins came in for their weekly box of courage cinnamon rolls, blushing and giggling about some upcoming event they wouldn’t explain. Dahlia didn’t push. She smiled, charged them half price, and watched them practically skip out the door.
Normal. Routine. As if Dahlia’s entire livelihood wasn’t crumbling beneath her feet.
By ten, the rush had faded to a trickle. Dahlia retreated to the kitchen, needing the comfort of flour between her fingers, dough yielding beneath her palms. Stress-baking. The only therapy that had ever worked for her.
