Chapter 20 Social Media Siege
Social Media Siege
~HAZEL~
Four AM is when successful business owners count money. It's also when overwhelmed bakers have existential crises while drowning in order tickets.
The bakery kitchen sprawls before me in the pre-dawn darkness, renovated and perfect and absolutely terrifying in its efficiency.
Every surface gleams with professional-grade promise.
The new ovens hum with competent warmth.
The walk-in freezer maintains optimal temperature like it's personally invested in my success.
And the printer won't. Stop. Printing. Orders.
Halloween is in less than two weeks and apparently, the entire internet has decided they need my spooky baked goods or they'll literally die.
The order system Levi installed—bless him and curse him simultaneously—spits out another receipt. Then another. The mechanical whir has become the soundtrack to my breakdown, each print a reminder that I'm popular now. Successful. Drowning.
I woke up at 3 AM instead of 4 because sleep is a luxury I can't afford when there are seventeen dozen ghost cookies to make before noon.
Haven't told the guys how bad it's gotten because they've already done so much—the renovation that probably cost more zeros than I can comprehend, the security system, the way they've been sleeping on my ancient couch that has to be punishing their spines.
Should make a Pinterest board for new couches. Something that actually converts to a bed without sounding like it's dying. Maybe take out a loan.
The thought spirals into others—should I get a bigger bed? My bedroom's old-school spacious, could definitely fit a king. But that implies... things. Things we haven't done. Things that make my face burn even thinking about.
I slap my cheeks lightly, trying to focus. Something's been off lately—heat flashes, distraction, this weird restlessness under my skin. But I can't afford to get sick. Not when I'm finally successful. Not when—
My phone buzzes. Reverie, because she apparently never sleeps either.
WAKE UP, SUNSHINE. You're about to be FAMOUS famous. That food blogger? Her article went live at midnight. You're trending. NATIONALLY.
The phone slips from my numb fingers.
Trending. Nationally. Me.
"#OakridgeAlphaWatch" has apparently become a thing.
There are Instagram accounts dedicated to "sightings" of me and my Alphas.
Dottie James turned her betting pool into an actual spreadsheet with odds and statistics.
And now some blogger with two million followers has written about "The Small-Town Baker Who Tamed Three Alphas. "
Tamed. Like they're wild animals. Like I'm some kind of Alpha whisperer instead of a disaster in flour-covered leggings.
The printer continues its relentless chorus. I stand in the middle of my beautiful kitchen, surrounded by success, and I can't breathe.
My chest tightens. Heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. Hands shaking violently enough to scatter flour if I were holding any.
Panic attack. This is a panic attack. Haven't had one since—
Since leaving Korrin.
I close my eyes, try to count from ten like my therapist taught me.
Ten... nine... eight...
Can't make it past seven before the tears come.
Six... five... fi—
Arms wrap around me from behind, solid and warm and smelling like honey butter and safety.
"Hey, hey, sunshine. I've got you."
Levi.
My knees buckle from sheer relief, but he's already scooping me up, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. His flannel is soft against my cheek, his heartbeat steady where mine is chaos.
"Can't—" I gasp. "Can't breathe—"
"Yes, you can. With me. In for four." His voice rumbles through his chest. "Hold for four. Out for four. Again."
We breathe together, him coaching me through each inhale and exhale until the vice around my lungs loosens. The tears don't stop, though, soaking his shirt while he rocks me gently.
"Talk to me," he murmurs. "Tell your Alpha what's wrong."
Your Alpha.
The words should feel like pressure, but instead feel like permission.
"Everything," I sob. "The orders won't stop.
My systems can't keep up. I don't have staff.
Some viral TikToker came by and now everyone wants to visit, and I need the money so badly because I want to be independent and buy you guys a decent couch because your backs must be killing you, and maybe get a bed that would fit—" I stop, face burning even through tears.
"Keep going," he encourages, hand rubbing circles on my back.
"It's too much at once. Like drowning, but everyone thinks I'm swimming, and I can't disappoint them, but I can't breathe and—"
"Okay. Okay, sunshine. We're going to fix this."
"How?"
"First, I'm calling in reinforcements. Luca for baking, Reverie for displays and crowd control. But that means letting people into your space. Your kitchen. Just temporarily, through Halloween. Can you handle that?"
Into my kitchen. My sanctuary. My controlled space.
But I'm already out of control, so maybe...
"Yes," I whisper into his chest.
"Good girl." The praise makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "I'm updating your website and socials right now—opening at 10 instead of 9 today. Give us time to prep. And we're doing a limited edition sweepstakes for metallic purple ghost cookies."
That startles a laugh out of me.
"Metallic purple? Of all things?"
He grins, that sunshine smile that could power cities. "Our favorite color. Secret pack color. Shh, don't tell anyone."
Our pack color is metallic purple. Of course it is.
He holds me tighter, and I breathe him in—honey and vanilla and something uniquely Levi that makes my omega instincts purr even through the panic.
"You need to rely on us more," he says seriously. "Talk to us when you're overwhelmed. That's what Alphas do, even if you're not used to it. We handle things so you can focus on what you love."
"I don't know how to be taken care of," I admit.
"Then we'll teach you. Starting now. You get ten minutes to eat a sugar cookie and relax. Look at Pinterest for whatever makes you happy."
"Even pretty beds and couches?"
His grin turns wicked.
"Especially pretty beds and couches. And Halloween costumes."
I pull back to look at him.
"Halloween costumes?"
"We're doing Halloween this year. As a pack."
"I haven't celebrated properly in years. Korrin thought it was childish."
"Korrin was an idiot." His green-gold eyes sparkle with mischief. "Have you done corn mazes? Pumpkin patches? Haunted hayrides? Apple picking? Costume parties?"
"Not... not as a pack."
"Well, Holloway," he says, and his grin is pure trouble, "you're about to get sick of us for the next two weeks because every day we're going to do all the fall season Halloween dates a pack would do."