Toast
The bell over the bakery door jingled, too sharp for comfort at 7:04 a.m.
She didn't look up. Not right away. Her focus was on the flour-dusted countertop and a tray of half-frosted cinnamon rolls that needed finishing before the morning rush.
"Sorry, we're not open until—" she started, glancing up.
And then stopped.
Because the man standing in her doorway was too polished to belong. Tall. Tailored coat. Sharp jaw. Expression like he'd just walked out of a painting and realized the world bored him.
"Oh," she muttered. "You're... someone."
His lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's the nicest way anyone's ever called me a jackass."
Her stomach dropped.
She knew that voice. Not from conversation—but from every national broadcast and recycled video clip that played during royal press junkets.
Prince Dorian of Esrea.
Future heir. Certified aristocratic menace.
"You," she said slowly, "shouldn't be here."
"No? I thought this place was open to the public. Or does 'commoner-friendly' only apply to charity nights?"
There it was. The dig. The reminder.
He'd heard what she said. Probably word for word.
"If you're here to demand an apology," she said, straightening, "I have to warn you—I'm fresh out of groveling. I used it all up paying rent this month."
The prince's smile sharpened. "Actually, I came for coffee. And to see if your pastries are as bitter as your personality."
She stared at him.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm not frosting that cinnamon roll anymore. You get it angry and unfinished. Like me."
He stepped closer, eyes gleaming. "Perfect. I like things that bite back."
⸻
The Night Before
[Flashback: The Charity Event]
The prince was late, which made everything worse.
Not that she cared.
Okay, she cared a little. Because he was the only reason this charity event had spiraled into a media circus, and she had barely gotten the invite after another bakery canceled. It was supposed to be good exposure.
Instead, she was sweating under chandeliers, pretending to smile at people who called her "the caterer" and asked if the macarons were store-bought.
Then someone near the velvet rope whispered, "He's here."
She didn't look. Not at first. But the silence that fell—that made her curious.
She glanced up and saw him. Crown Prince Dorian of Esrea, in his pressed suit and smug perfection, striding in like he owned the oxygen.
He didn't look at anyone. Just glided toward the stage while people parted like butter melting off warm bread.
"He's so dreamy." Someone near her giggled.
She muttered under her breath, "That guy looks like he's never buttered his own toast."
Unfortunately, someone heard her.
Worse, the someone had a live mic.
The insult echoed, just loudly enough for a ripple of snickers to spread across the room.
Her heart stopped. Her hands froze mid-icing. She blinked up, only to lock eyes—briefly—with the prince himself.
He didn't flinch. Didn't raise a brow.
But she felt it.
A slow, deliberate glance in her direction—like he'd made a note of her face, filed it away under unimportant but not forgettable.
And then he turned back toward the stage, smiling graciously like a true royal.
As if she'd never spoken.
But she knew.
Oh, she knew he'd heard her.
