Knot Your Sugar (Snugverse RomCom)

1. Elena

Chapter one

Elena

My fingers dance across the tart shell, shaping thirty-seven scalloped edges on autopilot. In the quiet of early morning, as the bakery kitchen fills with the rich aroma of butter melting into flour, I find my peace.

Through the panoramic window, I watch sunrise spill over Lakeview, casting the fall forest in rich shades of gold and crimson.

A thin veil of mist clings to the distant lake, softening as the light stretches across the water.

Beyond it, the mountains rise in quiet majesty, their peaks already glowing.

After three years, this view still amazes me.

I glance up at the old, flour-dusted clock on the wall. 5:17 AM. I've been at it for over two hours already. Maybe I deserve a br—

"Eyes on the dough, Elena."

I nearly smudge the tart as Pierre's voice shatters my moment, his French accent thick enough to spread on a baguette. I didn't hear him come in. As always, he moves like a ninja in chef whites, his short beta frame gliding through the narrow spaces between counters.

"The tarts are ready for the oven," I say, straightening up as he inspects my work. His critical eyes scan the scalloped edges, hunting for flaws that even a microscope couldn't find.

Without looking up, he nods once, the closest thing to a parade in my honor I'll ever get from him.

"Registration for the festival is tomorrow," he states flatly. "I expect you to place in the top three. If you do, I'll promote you to artisan baker." He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "With the salary to match."

I bite my lip to keep from squealing while my toes do a happy dance inside my shoes. After three years as his apprentice, I've learned when enthusiasm is welcome and when restraint is required. Still, this is exactly what I've been waiting for.

"I won't disappoint you Pierre," I manage, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fireworks going off in my brain.

Pierre Bouvier is the best baker in the region, possibly the state. His methods are exacting, traditional to a fault, but undeniably brilliant. Working under him has been like attending the most demanding baking boot camp imaginable.

And while I'm grateful he turned me into a high-functioning flour addict, his strictness is starting to suffocate me. Three other bakeries have tried to poach me in the last year, offering actual decent salaries and creative freedom. Tempting, but I stayed. Because Pierre’s training is the key to my ultimate dream: ‘Elena’s Creations’, my very own successful bakery.

A place where innovation wouldn't be a crime against pastry.

As Pierre moves to the other side of the kitchen to start his morning bread routine, I turn my attention to the éclairs waiting on a cooling rack.

Glancing over my shoulder to make sure he's busy, I pull out a small tube of my apron pocket with a conspiratorial grin. Before he notices a thing, I squeeze it, releasing a fragrant paste into one éclair's dark chocolate filling as I whistle a little tune.

Pierre might have a stroke if he knew. 'Sacrilege! Why reinvent what generations have perfected?' he would lecture, probably while waving a rolling pin for emphasis. But as I imagine a customer's eyes widening in delight after their first bite, a thrill runs through me.

This is the real me, the baker I want to be. Someone who respects tradition but isn't afraid to make it dance a little.

* * *

Over two hours later, my feet are staging a minor protest. But today's pastries are done, and Mayor Hanson's daughter's birthday cake is ready for pickup. I glance at the clock. 7:58 AM. Almost time for the morning rush.

"Taking a quick water break!" I call out to Pierre, who's organizing macarons like tiny jewels in the front display.

I step into the cramped break room, grabbing my water bottle and a small, unmarked pill bottle from my bag.

In one smooth motion, I swallow one blue DuoBlocks pill, my daily dose of normal.

This drug masks my omega pheromones (while also filtering out the ones alphas emit) and keeps all my biological imperatives on lockdown.

Without it, my beta facade would vanish faster than free croissants at breakfast.

My phone buzzes just as I stash the bottle. Mom. I answer quickly, keeping my voice low. Pierre has opinions about personal calls during work hours.

"Hi, Mom! How are you?"

"Elena, darling! I'm doing well, just enjoying a quiet morning," her voice is warm, bright even. "What's new in the world of butter and sugar?"

I lean against the metal shelving with a grin. “The annual baking festival starts tomorrow!”

"Oh, how exciting! The big one you've been practicing for?"

"That's the one. And get this, Pierre said if I place in the top three, he'll finally promote me to artisan baker. With the salary to match!" The excitement bubbles up, impossible to fully contain.

"Elena, that's wonderful news! I know you can do it. You've had the magic touch since you were barely tall enough to see over our kitchen counter, remember?"

The memory brings a smile. Me, standing on a stool, flour dusting my nose, Mom patiently guiding my small hands as we made her special chocolate chip cookies. Back before life threw curveballs that forced her to give up so much. "Thanks, Mom. It’ll be tough competition, but I'm going for it."

"You absolutely should! You work harder than anyone I know." There's a slight pause, and before she asks about my non-existent love life (as she usually does), I jump in.

"So, how was the seniors' dance at the community center last Saturday?"

There's a slight hesitation before she answers. "Oh, that. Well, it was... nice."

"Nice? That's all I get?" I laugh, but something in her tone makes me suspicious. "Mom… did you actually go?"

Another pause. "Well, actually... no. But for a good reason! My old hip was giving me a twinge. Besides, Mrs. Peterson needed someone to watch her cats while she visited her daughter. She paid me twenty dollars."

My heart sinks. "Aw, mom, you were looking forward to that dance for weeks. You even practiced in your living room."

"It's okay sweetie, there'll be other dances."

I close my eyes, understanding exactly what happened. Mom is sacrificing small joys to make ends meet, just like when she traded her passion for better-paying work when my alpha father walked out.

"When I win this competition and get promoted, we're going to celebrate," I say firmly. "We'll go out for a fancy dinner with cloth napkins and everything."

Mom laughs. "I'd settle for just seeing you more often. And maybe meeting a nice young man in your life? It's been so long since you've dated anyone."

I roll my eyes, though I know she can't see me. "Mom, seriously? When exactly would I find time to date? I’m at the bakery by three in the morning and don’t get home until after three in the afternoon. And I still have to, you know, eat and sleep."

"There's always time for love, Elena. You're young and beautiful. You shouldn't spend all your days surrounded by flour and sugar."

"I like being surrounded by flour and sugar," I counter. "Besides, I've seen what happens when you fall for the wrong guy." The words come out sharper than I intend, and I immediately regret it.

There's a brief silence before Mom speaks again. "Your father was... complicated. But not all men are like him, sweetheart. Not all alphas just walk away when things get tough."

I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying too much. She doesn't know I'm on medication. She doesn't know I've been passing as a beta for years now. As far as she's concerned, I'm just a regular omega who's moved out of state to focus on her career. And that's exactly how I want to keep it.

"I know, Mom, I just—" I'm interrupted by Pierre calling my name from the kitchen. "I have to go. Pierre's on the warpath. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Go, go! Don't let me get you in trouble. Love you, sweetheart. Knock 'em dead at that festival."

"Love you too, Mom."

After we hang up, I stare at my phone for a beat as guilt mixes with determination in my gut.

She deserves so much better than watching other people's cats instead of going dancing.

I send her money every month, as much as I can possibly spare from my meager apprentice allowance, but it's not enough nowadays.

When I have my own successful bakery, I'll make sure she can do whatever she wants.

"Elena. Break time is over. Customers will be arriving."

Pierre's sharp tone yanks me back to reality. He's standing in the breakroom's doorway, arms crossed.

"Sorry, Pierre," I say, quickly pocketing my phone. "Just finishing up."

He starts to turn away, then pauses, his nose twitching slightly. His gaze snaps toward the cooling rack where the éclairs sit, including the experimental one I set apart. Uh oh.

He strides over and picks up the éclair with suspicion, sniffing it. "What is the meaning of this?"

My stomach does a nervous flip. "It's just an extra, Pierre. I was exploring a potential... enhancement."

"Enhancement?" The word drips with disapproval.

My caution suddenly evaporates, replaced by a flicker of defiance. "Yes! I added a touch of vanilla and lavender paste," I explain, maybe a little too eagerly. "It adds this wonderful floral note that complements the dark chocolate, making it more complex, more—"

"The recipe is a classic for a reason, Elena. It does not require 'enhancements'," he cuts me off, his voice glacial. "Such experiments belong on your own time, in your own kitchen. Not mine."

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he sends my vanilla-lavender éclair right into the bin. My creation. My little spark of rebellion. Trashed. My shoulders slump.

"Three years," he sighs, wiping his hands disdainfully. "And you still haven't learned respect for tradition. This impulsivity is why you remain an apprentice."

I bite my tongue, hard. Arguing is pointless. He inspects the other éclairs, then nods curtly.

"These," he concedes, "are acceptable. The festival demands this precision. Nothing less. Remember, top three. For the bakery's reputation."

"Yes, Pierre," I murmur, while mentally adding, and to finally get paid what I'm worth.

As he leaves, I trace the smooth, chocolate surface of an approved éclair. In my mind, I can taste what it would be like with a touch of orange zest in the filling… or a sprinkle of sea salt on top to enhance the sweetness.

I think of Mom skipping a dance she would have loved. I think of three years spent hiding, suppressing, pretending. I think of the festival, my chance to finally prove myself. To earn the means to chase my dreams and help my mother.

Nothing will stop me. Especially not that… thing my mom wants me to find. 'Love', I gag at the word, is just another way to suck your dreams away and leave you helpless. Especially when alphas are involved. I’ll never be anyone’s omega. I'll never lose myself to biology.

The bell above the front door jingles just as I reach the counter, snapping me back. Customer number one of the day. Showtime.

I smooth my apron, shove the dreams and defiance back into their box, and paste on my best beta smile.

Outside, Lakeview stirs to life with sunshine and neighborly hellos—the perfect conditions for gossip to spread faster than butter on warm toast.

And yet, somehow, in a town where secrets have the shelf life of a ripe banana, mine, my omega designation, remains intact… for now.

And that's exactly how it has to stay.