The clink of ceramic hadn't even faded before Callie started scrolling again, her thumb flicking with purpose, grin sharpened by every headline she uncovered. She perched sideways on the armrest, knees tucked in, screen angled so she could catch Isla's reactions as much as the words themselves.
"You're still trending," Callie declared, her tone a mixture of triumph and wicked delight. "#CupcakeChaos is holding steady at number two. Number one is some football scandal, but honestly? They should just hand you the crown already."
Isla groaned and dragged a cushion over her face. The muffled sound came out more pitiful than she intended. "Make it stop."
"Oh no, you don't get to tap out now. This is history." Callie shifted, leaning forward with the kind of glee that promised she wasn't about to let Isla off the hook. "Listen to this one—'Local baker turns palace upside down with a single remark. Is she fearless...or just foolish?'"
"Foolish," Isla said instantly, voice dull beneath the cushion. "Very foolish. Next headline."
Callie ignored her, scrolling with the flair of someone narrating bedtime stories. "Another gem: 'Fairy-tale or fiasco? The nation votes.'"
Isla tugged the pillow off her face just enough to glare. "They can vote me right out of it."
"Oh, but why would they? You're free entertainment." Callie's grin widened as her eyes flicked back to the screen. "Like a cliffhanger in a drama series. People refreshing every five minutes, desperate to know what you'll do next."
"Then I'll disappoint them," Isla muttered, curling the cushion tighter into her lap.
"Please." Callie's voice rose with mock exasperation. "You couldn't disappoint them if you tried. You're living rent-free in every feed right now."
She scrolled again, then froze. Her brows shot up. "Ohhh. Oh, this one's good."
Isla closed her eyes, bracing herself. "I'm not listening."
"Yes, you are." Callie straightened, voice slipping into a theatrical lilt as if she were reciting onstage. "At last night's auction, His Highness, Prince Dorian, made the winning bid—a hundred million, for a diamond necklace." She lifted her gaze slowly, savoring Isla's grimace. "When pressed for whom the piece was intended, the prince declared, clear enough for the entire room to hear..." She paused, drawing out the moment with a wicked smile.
"Callie," Isla warned.
Callie grinned wider, then delivered it with all the drama she could summon: "For the lady in ivory."
The words lingered in the air, heavier than they had any right to in Isla's small apartment.
"That's dramatic, no one pressed him." Isla murmured.
Callie lowered the phone to her lap, the grin slipping into something softer, more incredulous. Her brows lifted as she studied Isla's face.
"Okay..." she said slowly. "Are you just gonna act like the prince didn't just put a hundred-million bounty on your head?"
Isla's laugh came out thin, half-strangled. "Well, let's just make one thing very clear—I'm not accepting it."
Callie tilted her head, a knowing little smile curving at the corner of her mouth. "Not even for a casual Tuesday look?"
"Callie." Isla's voice cracked, then rose. "What am I supposed to do, wear it to the bakery? Oh, good morning, here's your cinnamon roll—don't mind the hundred-million-credit necklace hanging off my neck."
Her hands went up in a gesture that landed somewhere between despair and mock presentation. The coffee table was her stage, the half-finished cupcakes on a plate her unlucky audience. "Or maybe when I run out for milk? Nothing says casual like a necklace worth more than my apartment—and everything in it."
That earned a sharp bark of laughter from Callie, who didn't even try to stifle it. "Honestly? You'd definitely be the best-dressed person in aisle three. You'd make headlines for the dairy section alone."
Isla groaned, dragging both hands down her face. "You're not helping."
"I'm not supposed to. I'm supposed to keep you grounded in reality," Callie said, eyes gleaming over the top of her phone. "And reality is: people are obsessed with this. You're officially accessory goals."
"Accessory goals," Isla repeated flatly. "I don't want to be accessory goals. I don't even want to be accessory adjacent."
She shoved her hair out of her face, restless energy prickling at her skin. The thought of that necklace—its ridiculous sparkle, the weight of it—sitting anywhere in her apartment made her stomach twist. "No. Absolutely not. My place would turn into a museum for thieves. The first headline would be local baker robbed blind. And you know what? They wouldn't even bother taking the TV. Straight for the necklace, thank you very much."
The image rose unbidden: her tiny living room swarming with shadows, drawers yanked open, her couch cushions torn apart while someone hunted for a necklace that didn't belong there in the first place.
She groaned again, lower this time, pressing the heel of her palm to her eyes. "I can't even have peace in my safe place anymore. He's turned my home into a target!"
Callie's laugh dimmed, softening into something more companionable than mocking. She tipped her head, setting her phone down on the couch cushion beside her, eyes narrowing with that particular brand of mischief that always meant trouble for Isla. "Okay, fine," she said lightly, "maybe your apartment isn't a museum for thieves." A beat, then her grin edged wider. "But you already looked like a museum piece in that gown. And remind me again why you didn't return it?"
Isla's hands dropped from her face. She blinked at her friend, then let out a sharp exhale. "Are you serious? Weren't you listening when I said Dorian ruined my first dress?"
Callie blinked back, all innocence. "Ruined? I thought that was just a stain."
"A stain?" Isla's voice pitched up, incredulous. "He dumped half a glass of red wine down it! I couldn't exactly keep parading around with my front soaked like some tragic painting. He boxed me in—literally. The attendant whisked me off, and what was waiting in the room? The neon sign. No options, no choice, just—" she waved her hand, exasperated, "that."
Her frustration sharpened the memory: the slow spill of crimson blooming across the satin, the way the world had tilted for a breath, then narrowed around the weight of his gaze. And there it was again in her mind—his mouth pulling just enough at the corner to suggest amusement, like he knew exactly what he'd done.
She clenched her jaw. "Don't even try to tell me that wasn't deliberate. He had that smile—"
"What kind of smile?" Callie prompted, already smirking.
"The kind that says, 'I planned this,'" Isla shot back, throwing her hand up in exasperation. "Smug. Infuriating. Like he was enjoying every second of me squirming."
Callie leaned back, unbothered, her laugh low and wicked. "That's... actually kind of genius. Dirty, but genius."
Isla's eyes narrowed further.
"You're impossible."
Callie grinned, unbothered. "You love me for it."
"Debatable."
"Admit it—you'd miss me if I stopped reminding you how entertaining your life's become."
"That's one word for it." Isla tipped her head toward her friend, the faintest pull at her lips giving her away. For a moment, the room settled again—the warmth of coffee cooling on the table, the hum of the refrigerator steady in the background, the kind of quiet that only came when laughter ran its course.
Callie's grin softened. She shifted her weight, tucking one leg beneath her as if the next question needed steadier ground. "Alright," she said, gentler now. "What about Tyler? How's he taking all this?"
The question landed like a small weight. Isla's smile faded. She ran a thumb along the rim of her mug, watching the faint swirl of steam that still rose from it. "Not great," she admitted. "Which...I get. The whole night was a mess."
Callie stayed quiet, listening.
"The gown, for starters," Isla went on, her voice low but steady. "Then the necklace. Then the dance—" She stopped herself with a shaky exhale, pressing her fingers briefly against her temple. "Honestly, I don't even know when it all started falling apart. One moment I was trying to be polite, the next I was standing in the middle of the ballroom under every light in the kingdom."
Callie's brows pinched, sympathy flickering through her usual spark. "And he saw everything."
"Yeah." Isla nodded faintly. "And I didn't even notice half his reactions. I was just... trying to keep up."Her gaze drifted toward the window, where pale light softened the edges of the room. "It's not like I planned any of it. The attention, the photos, the stupid headlines. I didn't even have time to breathe, let alone explain what was happening."
"But you did talk?" Callie asked carefully.
"Eventually. Before we left." Isla managed a thin smile. "He wasn't happy—obviously—but he listened. And I think he believed me."
Callie tilted her head. "You think?"
Isla's eyes dropped to her hands. "He said he understood. That it wasn't me he didn't trust—it was everything around me. The people, the noise, the way they twist things. He said it felt like chasing shadows of me that don't even exist."
Callie gave a small shake of her head, but her tone stayed soft. "Public chaos. Private cleanup. Classic love story material."
"Don't start," Isla warned, though her voice carried more fatigue than bite.
"I'm serious," Callie said, smiling faintly. "It's messy, but at least you two talked. That's something."
"Yeah," Isla murmured, half to herself. "Something."