Isla dusted flour from her palms, the sweet warmth of vanilla lingering thick in the air as she cracked open the oven door. A wave of heat rolled out, carrying with it the golden scent of cake and sugar. She tugged on her oven mitts, slid the tray forward, and set a dozen cupcakes on the counter to cool, their rounded tops rising like little crowns.
It was nearly noon. She had woken far later than she should have—9:40, to be exact—but she wasn't about to scold herself for it. After the night she'd had, a slow start was practically deserved. Her Sunday had been meant for rest, quiet, for shaking off the chaos that came with being the kingdom's latest obsession. Instead, she'd dragged herself into the kitchen and decided to bake anyway. Because what was the point of a scandal if she couldn't at least have cupcakes with it?
Her movements were efficient, almost absentminded: sliding the tray onto a rack, tying her apron tighter around her waist, wiping a streak of flour against her hip. She moved like someone who had done this a thousand times, muscle memory guiding her through the simple rituals of sugar, heat, and patience. The steady rhythm of baking was her grounding, her stubborn way of saying: Yes, the whole kingdom might be talking about me right now, but I'm still me. I'm still here, in my kitchen, making something sweet.
Her apartment suited her the way her favorite apron did—not flashy, not flawless, but comfortably broken in. The kitchen and living room shared the same open space, divided only by the narrow counter that doubled as a breakfast bar. The living room side held two small sofas angled together, forming a snug corner with throw pillows in cheerful, mismatched colors. A low wooden coffee table bore faint rings from too many mugs of tea, and a shelf behind the couch carried an odd assortment: mismatched mugs, baking books with worn spines, a little plant she always forgot to water. The place wasn't grand, wasn't cluttered, but it was undeniably hers. Cozy, functional, a home that smelled of sugar more often than not.
She breathed in the scent of the cupcakes, savoring it. This—this was her rhythm.
Of course, the world beyond her four walls had other ideas.
If nothing else, tomorrow's rush at the bakery would be madness—lines spilling past the door, trays emptied faster than she could set them out. She could already picture it: people clutching phones, sneaking pictures of her while pretending to debate over croissants. It was exhausting, yes, but it also meant one thing.
Business was booming.
It had been weeks since that first ridiculous viral moment, weeks of strangers staring at her like she was part of some unscripted play they couldn't look away from. They came for the baker who had dared to insult the crown prince, and they stayed because her pastries weren't half bad. If they wanted to gawk at her, fine. But they'd have to buy something if they were going to sit around in her bakery pretending not to.
It was the strangest curse and blessing rolled into one. The curse: constant scrutiny, whispers that followed her from market stalls to bus rides, the way her phone buzzed until she had to mute it or risk hurling it into the nearest river. The blessing: trays that sold out before noon, the thought of rent finally gathered ahead of time, and maybe even a little cushion where before there had only been worry. If the kingdom wanted to make her a spectacle, she would at least let them fund her livelihood while they were at it.
Still, she knew how fragile it all was. Fame was fickle. The same crowd that rushed her door today might vanish tomorrow, once they grew bored of her face. She should probably enjoy it while it lasted—or at least use it. Maybe even raise her prices.
She snorted at the thought, leaning an elbow against the counter. Who knew how long the kingdom's obsession would last? Soon enough they'd realize she was nothing more than a baker who had stumbled into the wrong spotlight, whose greatest crime had been making one brutally honest comment in public.
And then, of course, there was him.
Isla's jaw tightened. The Devil Prince.
If there was anyone determined to keep her from slipping back into peace, it was Dorian. She could almost hear the smugness in his voice, the amusement that seemed stitched into every word he said to her. He'd ruined her gown last night—that she was sure of—and then had the audacity to "save" her by forcing her into a dress that had screamed for attention. A blinking signal. A flare set off in the middle of the ballroom.
She groaned under her breath and pressed her palms against the cool counter.
And then the dance. His closeness. His hand at her back. The steady way he pulled her in as if the entire floor was his stage and she was just there to follow his lead. Worst of all, the whisper after—the words she still hadn't figured out how to frame. Were they genuine? Were they another game?
Her cheeks warmed. Isla slapped them gently with both hands. No. No, absolutely not.
What was she thinking? Of course he had been teasing. He always teased. That was his sport. His hobby. His greatest talent. Girls might swoon over that voice, over the way he leaned in too close, but Isla wasn't about to be fooled.
Beautiful. That was what he'd called her.
She groaned again, louder this time, burying her face in her flour-dusted hands.
He probably said that to every girl he cornered in a dance. And his suit—oh, the suit. It had barely covered his chest, and she had been fighting herself the whole night not to look at it. Not to let her eyes dip even once, because the ballroom had been full of cameras and phones. The last thing she needed was another headline: Scandalous baker caught drooling over the prince's chest.
She almost laughed, almost. The kingdom would love that. And Dorian—he would never let her live it down.
Because that was the thing, wasn't it? His arrogance wasn't unfounded. Who wouldn't be arrogant if the entire nation kept calling you charming, handsome, untouchable? Confidence practically poured off him. She could understand how others mistook it for allure.
But her? She wasn't falling for it.
She shoved the thought aside, busying her hands with sliding another tray into the oven. The devil prince might be basking in the aftermath of their scandal right now, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had any hold on her.
The doorbell rang.
Isla froze mid-motion, one oven glove still dangling from her hand. Of course. She knew exactly who that would be.
Sure enough, when she opened the door, Callie stood there, practically bouncing in place, her grin stretched wide enough to split her face in two. Her eyes shone, too full of gossip and glee, the kind of look that said she could burst if she didn't spill everything in the next ten seconds.
"Morning!" Callie chirped, though it was practically noon.
Isla sighed, tugging the door wider. "Come in before you combust."
She left the oven gloves on the counter and braced herself. She had switched her phone off hours ago, unable to face the avalanche of notifications she knew would be waiting. If the kingdom wanted to keep her trending, fine—they could scream into the void without her. She'd get her updates the old-fashioned way: from Callie, who looked more than eager to deliver them.
As Callie dropped onto the sofa, already rummaging in her bag like she had a press briefing to conduct, Isla glanced at the tray of cupcakes cooling on the counter. Coffee and cake would soften the blow. Hopefully.
She laughed softly to herself. Cupcakes, coffee, and scandal—apparently that was her Sunday now.