Chapter 4 Flour And Ambition

DEMETRIA

Wednesday...

"I don't know, Demetria, maybe a weekend away is what you need. With a new man by your side," Anastasia pressed, her voice too chipper for my mood.

I had just finished telling her that all I needed was rest. But in my line of business, rest didn't exist. Saturdays weren't for brunch dates or spa trips; they were for orders, deliveries, and ovens that never seemed to cool down.

I rolled my eyes, pushing open my car door. "If I were going to take a vacation, it wouldn't be with a new man, a stranger at that."

"Why not?" she challenged.

A short laugh slipped out of me as I crossed the parking lot. "Girl! What if I'm being kidnapped?"

"Fair enough," she said with mock seriousness, before quickly adding, "Maybe you're waiting for your handsome devil to come and snatch you up."

This time, I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah, that's exactly what I want. Some hot billionaire to come and steal me away."

"Damn right!" she shrieked happily in my ear.

Her laughter still rang in my head as I stepped into the bakery. The familiar scent of butter, vanilla, and coffee grounded me. Home. But before I could even shrug off my bag, Amanda appeared, practically jogging toward me.

"Mark is here, Bosslady," she whispered urgently, tilting her chin toward the corner table.

I froze. "Seriously?"

"What's going on?" Anastasia piped up, apparently forgetting she was still on the line.

"Anas! Let me call you back. Mark is here."

"What! Okay, girl... call me immediately, I need every detail."

"Okay." I hung up quickly, sliding my phone into my pocket.

My gaze shifted across the bakery, landing on him. Mark. My ex-fiancé. Sitting there like he belonged. My stomach twisted, and not in a good way.

I drew in a breath, my expression hardening as I muttered under my breath. "Of course."

And with disdain prickling beneath my skin, I started toward him.

He fidgeted in his seat before standing, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Hi... baby. How... are... you?"

I tilted my head, my tone sharp. "My name is Demetria. You broke up with me, remember?"

"Give me another chance," he said quickly, his voice almost trembling. "I won't mess up anymore."

A harsh scoff escaped me. "Give you a chance? You left me with nothing but a letter, Mark. Not even a text. Not even a call. A letter saying you couldn't be with me anymore. Do you think I forgot that? Or did you suddenly come down with amnesia?" I folded my arms across my chest. "Please. Tell me something new."

His face twisted with guilt. "When your grandmother died, you pulled away. You didn't come back for a week. I needed you too, Deme."

My jaw clenched. "I was grieving, Mark. Mourning. And if a man can't stand beside me during my lowest moments, then he isn't meant for me. You showed me who you are, and you did me a favor." My voice dropped into a hiss. "Now, please leave."

"Deme, listen," he tried again, desperation bleeding into his tone.

I cut him off sharply. "Mark, don't start with your bullshit. This is my place of work. Customers will be walking in any minute, and I need to prepare orders." My lips curled into a humorless smile. "And honestly? I didn't take you for a morning person. It's a surprise you're even here this early."

"Demetria..." he whispered, eyes full of that pathetic, lost-puppy look. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, right." I pointed to the door without hesitation. "Leave."

For a second, he just stood there, searching my face for something that wasn't there anymore. Finally, with shoulders sagging, he turned and walked out of the bakery.

The bell over the door jingled softly behind him.

"Don't let him in next time, Amanda. He broke up with me, and I need it to stay that way. No reconciliation here." I told her firmly before making my way to my office, then to the kitchen to get the day started.

Just as I sat down, my phone buzzed. Anastasia. Of course. I sighed. This girl.

"You couldn't wait for me to call you back?" I answered.

"Nope. Spill."

I rolled my eyes but launched into the full gist of my encounter with Mark.

"You've got to be kidding me!" she gasped.

"Yep. That's what I thought," I retorted dryly.

"He's dreaming, girl. Just as I told you, you need a new man."

I snorted. "Guess I'll have to get on these dating apps then."

"Yeah, hopefully, you'll find your hot billionaire."

"You think a man like that would be on dating apps?" I scoffed.

"You never know."

"Indeed."

There was a pause, then she sighed. "Okay... have a nice day. I'm about to leave for work now."

"Okay, have a nice day too. Love you."

"Love you too, girl!" she sang, before the line clicked off.

I set my phone down with a shake of my head. Time for work. I needed to shift gears and start preparations for tomorrow's tasting with Mrs. Whitfield.

Just the thought made my stomach flutter. Not because I cared who they were, not really. But this was the biggest opportunity I'd ever had. A charity gala for the Whitfields wasn't just exposure; it was a door into a world most bakers could only dream of stepping into.

I pulled out my notepad, flipping through the list of desserts I'd been experimenting with since my meeting with her. Everything had to be perfect. No mistakes. No distractions. Definitely no Mark.

Tomorrow wasn't about my past. It was about the future.

I've been in the kitchen all day. The bakery had grown quiet, the soft hum of the refrigerators and the faint tick of the wall clock the only sounds left in the space. My team had gone home hours ago, but I stayed behind, apron still tied snug around my waist, hair pulled into a messy bun that was already falling loose at the edges. Tomorrow was too important to leave anything to chance.

I rolled out another batch of dough, the wooden pin pressing rhythmically against the flour-dusted counter. The scent of butter and citrus filled the kitchen, warm and sharp at the same time. Tonight wasn't about quantity; it was about perfection. Mrs. Charlotte Whitfield wasn't the type of woman you impressed with just "good." She expected exceptional.

On the prep table, I had three options laid out:

Mini lemon meringue tartlets - light, airy, and bright enough to awaken the palate.

Almond shortbread cookies - buttery, delicate, with just enough crumble to melt on the tongue.

Dark chocolate raspberry cake bites - rich but bite-sized, indulgent without being overwhelming.

Cinnamon sugar cookies - warm, fragrant, and comforting; a classic addition.

Each one had been tested, tweaked, and retested, but still, I found myself fussing over them. Adjusting the height of the meringue peaks. Checking the snap of the shortbread. Making sure the ganache glistened just right under the lights.

Amanda's notes from earlier sat beside me, her neat handwriting reminding me of tomorrow's schedule: 11:00 a.m. sharp, tasting at the restaurant, Lido di Manhattan. Dress professionally, and have samples of desserts for the tasting.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my hand across my forehead, leaving a streak of flour there. My nerves buzzed beneath my skin. I'd baked for celebrities, for high-end weddings, even for magazine spreads, but this was different. This was Mrs. Whitfield. Her approval could put my bakery on the map in ways I hadn't even dared to dream.

As I slid the last tray into the oven, the timer ticking to life, I leaned against the counter and let myself breathe. Just one night. One night of sleep, one morning of calm, and tomorrow I'd either win her over... or crash harder than sugar after a long day.

I glanced around my kitchen, my second home, where every recipe carried a piece of me. You've got this, Demetria, I whispered under my breath. Tomorrow, it's showtime...