Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
MAGGIE
G alveston, Texas
Present Day, 4:47 a.m.
I wake up in my loft condo—a cozy, one bedroom unit tucked inside a converted warehouse that sits right on the Galveston beachfront. The industrial bones of the place show through in exposed brick walls, steel beams, and high ceilings, but I’ve softened it with pastel rugs, stacks of cookbooks, and the smell of vanilla that never quite leaves my clothes.
I pad barefoot across the cool concrete floor, still groggy from another night of stress dreams about collapsing cake towers. After a hot shower, I step out and stretch naked in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the ocean like a living painting. It’s one of my favorite indulgences. There’s something about standing there, unguarded, the sea breeze sneaking through the slightly open window I allow myself, that makes me feel strong in my own skin. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about voyeurs—not this early, not from this angle. Especially with only the soft glow of the bathroom light behind me.
I get dressed, leave my home, and head toward my bakery—Sea Salt the shells crunch beneath my fingers like they personally offended me. Yolks splatter into the stainless-steel mixing bowl with satisfying plops. I reach for the sugar with a swift, practiced motion, dumping a measured scoop in without even looking. If my emotions had a flavor, they’d be bitter and burnt around the edges—but I’ll still find a way to fold them into the batter and make something edible. That’s my superpower: rage baking. Fury-fueled frosting. The more the world spins sideways, the harder I lean into butter and precision.
The silence of the kitchen feels heavier than usual—no low hum of friendly ovens, no music, no Kyle talking about his weird obsession with lemon zest ratios. Just my heartbeat and the ticking clock over the espresso machine.
By 6:15, I have three dozen cupcakes in the working oven and two mixers going at once. By 6:32, the piping bag has blistered my thumb, and I haven’t frosted a single cooled cake because I can’t find my tip set. By 6:48, I’m holding a broken pastry bag over the sink, shaking my head like I can physically rattle the day back into order.
My phone buzzes on the prep counter. I glance at the screen.
Kari Bonham—6:49 a.m.
I hit accept with my elbow. "Tell me you’re bringing caffeine or a gun—your choice."
"Who's the gun for?" asks Kari.
"Me or Kyle—take your pick."
“I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet,” Kari says, voice still scratchy with sleep. “What’s going on?”
I exhale hard, dragging a hand down my face. “You called me, but in answer to your question, everything is flaming garbage on a gasoline cake stand. I jacked up the ovens—one is trying to incinerate my batter, and the others are dead as my love life. Kyle ghosted. Left a note like we’re in middle school. And I’ve got a wedding pickup in three hours with cupcakes that look like a toddler decorated them using sidewalk chalk and a fever dream.”
Kari goes quiet for a second longer than normal.
I frown. “What?”
“Nothing. Just… that’s a lot of bad luck.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, cracking open another egg and fishing out a rogue piece of shell. “And it’s not just today. Last week, that order from Milk & Honey never showed up. I had to improvise whipped cream with powdered milk like it was 1950. The week before that? All three fridges lost power for about six hours. Long enough to ruin all the milk and eggs I'd just taken delivery of.”
“You think someone’s messing with you?” Kari’s voice loses its sleepiness in a snap, turning crisp and alert. It’s not just concern—it’s the kind of sharp that comes from gears turning fast behind her words. Like she’s already considered the possibility before I even said it out loud. Like she’s been waiting for the pieces to click.
I bark a tired laugh. “No. I think I push people too hard and they finally get fed up. It’s me, not a conspiracy.”
“Mags...”
“I’m serious. I’m not easy to work for. I want things done a certain way, on time, with no shortcuts. That kind of precision doesn’t win popularity contests. I’m not warm and fuzzy when someone forgets to sift flour or skips the resting time on dough. I correct them. I expect better. People tire of that. They want praise for just showing up, not getting it right. It’s a cupcake shop, Kari, not a cartel war—but some days, it damn well feels like one.”
More silence.
I balance my phone between my shoulder and cheek while I start another batch. “Don’t give me that thoughtful quiet. I know that tone. You’re thinking.”
“If I'm not talking, I can't have a tone. Look, why don't I try to stop by later?”
“You don’t need to...”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I want to,” Kari says firmly. “You sound like you’re two cupcakes away from a breakdown.”
“That’s because I am,” I say, laughing without humor. “But if you bring coffee, I’ll forgive your unsolicited concern.”
“Deal,” Kari says, but her voice is still off. Controlled. Too even—like she’s masking something behind the word. It’s the kind of tone that makes my skin prickle, the one Kari uses when she’s already ten steps ahead in a mental chess game and doesn’t want to tip her hand. She isn’t just being a good friend. She’s planning something—God only knows what.
I hang up and toss the phone onto the counter, watching the frosting swirl in the bowl like it might give me answers. The motion is hypnotic, steady in a way the rest of my life refuses to be. I focus on the ribboning sugar and butter, half-hoping some kind of clarity will rise to the surface with the peaks. My brain keeps circling the conversation with Kari, picking apart tone and timing and intent. I’m not the paranoid type, but I know Kari—and Kari’s quiet isn’t quiet. Kari’s quiet is always loaded. Calculated. And if Kari has picked up on something, it means this mess might be more than bad luck and overworked staff. Still, I can't afford to chase shadows. Not yet. Not until the wedding cupcakes are boxed and the ovens either function properly or explode.
I don’t believe in sabotage. That sounds too dramatic, too much like a Lifetime movie for a cupcake shop run by one over-caffeinated perfectionist. People don’t care that much—not about me, not about this place. They quit. They flake. They forget. They move on without a second thought while I stay behind, scraping burnt batter off pans and rebuilding my schedule from scratch. Life is full of screwups, and I figure I’ve just been given a messy, unlucky streak. That’s all. Has to be.
But still... I glance at the ovens. One of the offline ones is now blinking too cold. One is flashing over-temp, and one is completely dead.
Maybe it’s not personal, but then again, maybe it is. In either event, it’s starting to feel pointed.