Belinda's point of view
By 9:30 that night, I had buttercream on my elbow, flour in my braids, a burn forming on the inside of my wrist, and $93 in the bakery account. $93.12 if God wanted to be petty.
The mixer coughed like it had been smoking cigarettes longer than my Uncle Derek. The front display held three lonely lemon bars, and the rent notice taped beneath the register stared at me with landlord eyes. I stared back.
"Don't start with me," I told it. "I know where you live."
The bakery was officially closed, but Sweet Mercy never really slept. Not when bills stacked up like funeral programs. Not when the left oven made a whining sound every time I asked it to act like a professional appliance. Not when a bride canceled her wedding cake 12 hours before pick up because, according to her tearful voicemail, she had caught the groom testing the vows with her cousin. Her words, not mine.
So, now I had a half-decorated four-tier wedding cake sitting in my walk-in cooler like a frosted monument to bad decisions. Cindy had begged me to go home. Melon had texted me three crying emojis, a skull, and "Don't die in there, boss." But, I stayed because canceled or not, that cake was already paid for halfway. And if I could resell it, maybe I could cover the electric bill before the city decided darkness was a good look for my business.
I was piping gold vines onto the bottom tier when the front bell chimed. I froze. The door was locked. I knew it was locked because I had checked it twice after a drunk man tried to argue with me about whether red velvet was just chocolate with attitude.
The bell chimed again, softer this time. My hand tightened around the piping bag.
"If you are here to rob me," I called, "I need you to be realistic about what you're taking. There are lemon bars and trauma."
No answer.
I wiped my hands on my apron and walked out front. A man stood inside my bakery. Not outside the glass door, not peering in from the sidewalk. Inside. He was too tall for the room. That was my first thought. The ceiling suddenly seemed lower. The walls closer. The air thinner.
He stood near the display case in a black coat that looked too expensive to exist on my side of town. His dark hair fell past his shoulders. Rain caught in the strands though the street outside was dry. His face was sharp, handsome in a way that felt less like beauty and more like a warning carved by somebody cruel. And his eyes, gold. Not brown with a little honey. Not hazel in good lighting. Gold.
I looked at the locked door behind him. Then at him. Then at the locked door again.
"No," I said. "Absolutely not."
His gaze moved to me. It did not wander like most men's eyes did. It landed. Heavy. Certain. Like I had become the only thing in the room worth noticing.
"You are Belinda," he said.
I picked up the nearest object on the counter, which happened to be a bread knife. Not ideal for battle, but I had once seen Cindy use it to cut a frozen baguette, so I trusted its violence.
"Depends who's asking."
"Malric."
"Just one name. Like Beyonce, but with more threat."
I waited. He did not add a last name, a reason, or an apology for magically breaking into my bakery like an overgrown gothic tax collector.
"Okay, Malric." I lifted the knife a little. "The bakery is closed."
"I require a wedding cake."
I blinked. Of all the things he could have said, that was somehow the most insane.
"You require a what? A wedding cake? At 10:00 at night?"
"Yes."
"For when?"
"Dawn."
I stared at him. Then I laughed. I did not mean to. It just came out of me, sharp and tired and a little unhinged.
"Sir, unless dawn has been rescheduled for next Thursday, you are out of luck."
His expression did not change. "I was told you could make one."
"I can make one. I can also make croissants, birthday cakes, and an argument for why landlords shouldn't be allowed to breathe. That doesn't mean I can bend time."
His eyes shifted toward the back, toward the kitchen. I stepped sideways blocking the view.
"I have one," he said.
I went still. "No, I have one," I corrected. "A canceled order, four tiers, vanilla bean brown sugar buttercream, rum caramel between layers, gold detailing. It was supposed to feed 180 people and witness a marriage that no longer deserves dessert."
"I will take it."
"You don't even know the price."
"Name it."
There were moments in life when dignity mattered. This was not one of them.
"3,000," I said.
His face remained unreadable. I swallowed.
"5,000."
Still nothing.
"10," I said, because exhaustion had made me stupid and God had apparently sent me a rich intruder with cheekbones.
Malachi reached into his coat. I tightened my grip on the knife. He pulled out a coin. One coin. It was gold, thick and old-looking, stamped with a dragon curled around a crown. The metal caught the bakery light and seemed to glow from the inside. Not shine. Glow. Like it had swallowed fire and politely kept it there. He placed it on the glass counter.
The second it touched down, every light in the bakery flickered. I looked up. He watched me with that grave, unsettling focus.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Payment."
"That is a coin."
"Yes."
"I said $10,000."
"That is worth more."
"People who break into bakeries don't get to decide the exchange rate."
A faint line appeared between his brows. "You do not trust gold?"
"I don't trust strange men who appear in locked buildings asking for emergency wedding cake with pirate money."
"It is not pirate money."