Chapter 15 Sylvie
This dragon-man should come with a manual. A thick one. Obviously.
Warning: hoarding included as standard. If attachment mode has been activated by another user—do not proceed. Evacuate immediately. Run.
Rhavor had told her himself. When he attached, it was for life.
He hadn’t sugarcoated it, either. He’d looked her straight in the eye and dropped that truth like a life sentence—heavy, final, and zero percent negotiable. And now the ex-fiancée was back in town, haunting his driveway like a bad omen.
But Sylvie couldn’t shake the look in his eyes when she’d tried to end their chapter. It was like watching the lights go out in a skyscraper. Like she’d reached into his chest and flipped his soul to off.
It was all she could think about. Seeing a man like Rhavor actually tremble was… a lot.
Keep busy, she reminded herself. Busy hands don’t reach for things they can’t have.
Like dragon-men who break your heart by existing.
Thankfully, she had plenty of distractions.The shop was in the final stages of renovation—which was basically just chaos wearing a “Progress” T-shirt.
Between hauling furniture and arguing with Julian about the undertones of “Linen White,” she had little space left to dwell on the way Rhavor’s scent lingered in her mind—or the memory of his wide, strong golden arms.
They’d repainted the front of the house, light linen color lifting the entire space. Once she’d stripped away the fake flower garlands and tragic canvas art, the wooden counter revealed a stunning oak surface carved with intricate vines, leaves, and curling flames.
It anchored the room. It felt fresh, high-end, and full of the charm she’d moved here for.
They were dragging one of the bulky couches toward the door when Julian paused mid-heave, wiping a smudge of paint from his cheek.
“What about him?” Julian asked.
“Who?” she snapped, far too fast. Her mind leaped straight to Rhavor. A traitorous, liquid heat flickered in her gut. Stop being pathetic, Sylvie. He isn’t the only ‘him’ in the world.
Julian pointed toward the corner. Fred the unicorn stood there in silent, dusty-wood judgment.
“I’m getting rid of it,” she said firmly.
Julian hesitated, his brow furrowing. “You know unicorns are sacred in elvish culture, right?”
Sylvie scoffed. “He might be sacred to the elves, Julian, but he’s just clutter to me.”
“He can be charmed. Bring luck and good fortune.”
Sylvie’s nose wrinkled. If Fred had brought her anything so far, it was an obnoxious, demanding, infuriatingly hot dragon-man with a messy past and a former fiancée who’d resurfaced like a surprise tax audit. If that was “luck,” she’d officially hit her quota. She’d had quite enough of it.
“He’s taking up seating space,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “He’s going.”
Julian studied her a second too long, his eyes narrowing. He almost whispered, “I have an idea.”
“That sentence is usually the opening credits to a disaster,” Sylvie muttered.
“Trust me.”
“Also not reassuring.”
He narrowed his eyes further, and she caved with a huff and capitulated. “Fine. You get one chance. Make him useful, or he’s gone.”
“Marvelous.” Julian clapped his hands and tapped the unicorn’s horn.
Right on cue, the doorbell chimed. For one ridiculous, embarrassing heartbeat, Sylvie wondered if “magic” had actually summoned a dragon. Her heart did a hopeful little parkour move that made her pulse stutter.
Instead, Bobby’s voice boomed through the shop. “Hello there! Heard you might need an extra pair of hands!”
Behind him, a delivery truck was pulling away, having just dropped off the new furniture. Sylvie stared at the unicorn. Maybe Fred actually has some juice.
With Bobby’s help, they cleared out the heavy, dark shelving that had held Seth’s curiosities.
They arranged the new wooden tables and upholstered chairs.
Soft armchairs now hugged low coffee tables—vibey and inviting.
Lighter shelves displayed cookbooks and jars of preserved citrus peel.
Neatly bundled wheat sat in wicker baskets by the door.
Behind the counter, the display cases waited, hungry for pastry.
The bakery was finally ready.
“What are these?” Bobby asked, lifting a framed certificate from a box. He whistled low as he read the calligraphy. “The Golden Star of Excellence… First Award for Patisserie… Wait. You're a Michelin-star pastry chef?”
Julian snatched the frame, eyes wide with a mix of fanboy energy and sudden dread. “I didn’t know I was working for a Michelin-star chef! I would have worn my best velvet vest and a tuxedo!”
“Then you would have ruined them with paint,” Sylvie said, taking the frames back. She ran her thumb along the cold glass, then flipped them facedown. “I left all that behind. It didn’t make me happy. I’d rather smell fresh bread than chase another ego-trip award.”
Julian’s expression softened. “That’s lovely, dear. But you should come out of the kitchen more. Relax. Have some fun.”
She smiled faintly. When she was stressed, she didn’t relax. She baked. And with the festival this weekend, she was about to start a marathon bake like her sanity depended on it.
She retreated to the kitchen. Her lemon tart needed more zing, and the rose-jam doughnuts needed a lift from a hint of juniper in the chocolate glaze. She’d just set the apricot and peach turnovers on the cooling rack when the doorbell chimed again.
Arla poked her head through the doorway. “I couldn’t walk past,” she said, her nostrils flaring appreciatively. “It smells dangerously good in here.”
“You’re just in time,” Julian called. “Sylvie’s first test batch is out.”
Arla stepped fully inside and let out a low whistle as she surveyed the shop. “Wow. Now this looks like a bakery. Not a thrift store with a bread side hustle.”
Sylvie set a tray of strawberry tartlets and salted-caramel éclairs on the counter. Arla took one bite and let out a deep, primal groan of approval. “Oh, gods. I love these.”
“You’re a terrible tester,” Sylvie said, though a warm glow settled in her chest. “I need a critique, not a fan club.”
“I’m an orc,” Arla replied, licking vanilla cream from her thumb. “We don’t do nuance. It’s either delicious or it’s trash. These are delicious.”
She paused, looking around. “So—have you picked a name for the place yet?”
Sylvie blinked. “I… actually haven’t.” In all the chaos, she’d forgotten the most important thing.
“We need something that hits instantly,” Arla said.
“The Flaming Tart!” Bobby shouted.
“The Flaming Fart?” Julian snorted, not missing a beat. “No, dear. We are not opening a dwarvish dive bar. We need something sensual. Something that would play to the vibe of this place.”
He stroked his beard, eyes lighting up. “I’ve got it. Fifty Shades of Grain.”
Sylvie’s jaw dropped. Heat rushed to the tips of her ears.
“Well,” Arla said brightly, “your pastries do look like food porn.”
“What about Knead Me Hard?” Arla added thoughtfully.
“She’s running a bakery, not a massage parlor,” Bobby muttered.
Sylvie rubbed her forehead. A headache was already sparking. The trio dissolved into a full-blown argument—Julian flinging rainbow sprinkles into Bobby’s beard, Bobby retaliating with freeze-dried raspberries, and Arla laughing herself breathless.
Sylvie’s gaze drifted to the wood-fired oven. Its dark mouth was still warm, embers glowing faintly within.
“The fire is the heart of the kitchen,” she said slowly. She raised her voice just enough to cut through the chaos. “How about… Flour & Fire.”
The room went quiet.
Arla propped her hands on her hips. “I like it. It’s got punch.”
“Sounds like a place where you either get fed or get in a fight. I’m into both,” Bobby added.
That wasn’t exactly what Sylvie had intended, but she let it stand. Julian clapped his hands, brushing raspberries from his vest.
“I’ll start on the marketing materials. Flour & Fire.”
It felt right. At least that was settled.
Her nerves, however, were absolutely not.
***
The day before the festival hit like a storm. Julian and Bobby were basically barricaded in the kitchen until the eleventh hour, piping intricate lemon-icing filigree onto matcha croissants and glazing strawberry tartlets until they shone like rubies under the LED lights.
By the time the sun began to dip, Sylvie felt hollowed out. She sent them both home despite Julian’s theatrical protests that he still needed to perfect the “cinnamon deer” dusting on his lattes.
“I cannot offer a substandard cinnamon dusting upon the public,” he declared dramatically.
“You absolutely can,” she replied, steering him toward the door. “Go home.”
She just needed quiet. She needed to crawl upstairs, uncork a bottle of wine, and let a ridiculous romantic comedy drown out the noise of her own thoughts while she devoured an entire bar of chocolate without shame.
She was wiping down the last counter when the bell above the door gave a cheerful, mocking tinkle.
Great. Exactly what I didn’t need.
She turned, ready to snap that they were closed—and froze. Rhavor’s aunt Vera walked in, Arla trailing behind her like a mounting shadow.
“We just stopped by to say we can’t wait to try your pastries tomorrow,” Vera said warmly. Her eyes, however, were far too sharp for this to be a casual visit.
Sylvie knew instantly. This wasn’t about croissants.
“And,” Arla added, exchanging a weighted glance with Vera, “we heard a certain person is back in town. Making herself a little too comfortable.”
Sylvie sighed, the last of her energy draining into the floorboards. “Well,” she said, forcing a weary smile, “if you’re going to give me a lecture, you might as well have some espresso with it.”