Rain drizzled softly on the cobbled streets of Roselake as Maya Thorne tucked her chin into the collar of her oversized cardigan. Her canvas tote bag bumped against her hip with each hurried step, the scent of freshly baked bread wafting from within.
It was her third time delivering to the Van Alstyne Estate this week. A towering mansion on the hill, grand and intimidating, owned by the city's wealthiest—and most elusive—family.
Maya wasn't used to places like that. She was just the bakery girl, the one with flour-dusted cheeks and downcast eyes. People rarely remembered her name, though she remembered everyone else's.
"Thank you, girl," the butler said curtly as he took the package from her hands. He never smiled.
Maya offered her usual gentle nod, rain dripping from her bangs.
But then, something changed.
"Wait."A voice from the corridor—velvet-smooth and commanding—echoed toward the entrance. Heavy steps followed. The butler froze, stepped aside.
And then he appeared.
Lucien Van Alstyne.
Tall, poised, and shrouded in the kind of mystery the tabloids lived for. Everyone in Roselake knew his name. No one really knew him.
He was staring at her.
Maya felt her heart stutter.
She must look ridiculous—soaked, shoes squeaking, cheeks flushed from the cold.
"You're the one who brings the bread," he said.
She blinked. "Um… yes, sir."
Lucien's eyes swept over her—not cruelly, but as though trying to solve a puzzle. "And the pastries last Tuesday?"
She nodded, gripping the strap of her bag. "All from Thorne's Bakery. I'm Maya. My father owns it."
"I see." His gaze softened, just enough. "Come in. You're dripping."
"Oh, I couldn't possibly—"
"I insist."
He turned and walked deeper into the house without looking back, and the butler—after a pause—gestured for her to follow.
Maya stepped into the mansion, nervous energy coiling in her stomach. The floor was marble. The ceilings arched like a cathedral's. A fire crackled in the grand sitting room, the warmth wrapping around her like an embrace.
Lucien returned with a thick towel, holding it out to her himself.
"I don't bite," he said, almost amused by her wide-eyed silence. "Dry off. You'll catch cold."
She hesitated, then took it. "Thank you…"
Lucien watched her as if she were something delicate, something unnoticed until now.
"I'm not used to guests," he admitted. "But your bread… reminds me of something I've been missing."
Maya managed a small smile. "My grandmother's recipe. I use it every morning."
For the first time, Lucien smiled—barely a tilt of his lips, but it changed his whole face.
"That explains it. It tastes like memory."
Maya didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever described her baking like that.
No one had ever really seen her.
Word of her visit spread faster than she'd expected.
The Van Alstyne heir had invited her in. Had spoken to her. Had even asked for her name.
At the bakery, regulars suddenly remembered who she was. At the market, strangers smiled and nodded. Even her father, always distracted by dough and bills, began asking about her deliveries with newfound interest.
"Lucien Van Alstyne?" he'd asked, astonished. "Why's he talking to you?"
Maya didn't know how to answer. She'd spent her whole life in the background, like a soft harmony no one listened for. But that day… Lucien had looked at her as if she mattered.
A week later, he came to the bakery.
In person.
Every head turned when he walked in—dark coat, gloved hands, a faint scar along his jawline like a secret whispered by the past.
Maya nearly dropped a tray of lemon tarts.
"Good morning," he said, his voice low and warm.
"Mr. Van Alstyne," she managed, brushing her hands on her apron. "What brings you here?"
"You," he said simply.
The room went quiet.
Her father dropped his rolling pin.
Lucien turned to the rest of the bakery. "I'd like a moment with Miss Thorne. Alone."
Maya's heart thumped so loudly, she was sure everyone could hear it.
She led him to the tiny back office, a cluttered space of recipe books and childhood drawings. He sat carefully on the edge of her father's desk, eyes on her.
"I haven't stopped thinking about your bread," he said.
She blushed. "There's more in the front. I could—"
"No. Not the bread." His voice softened. "You."
The silence between them was almost sacred.
"I don't understand," Maya whispered.
Lucien tilted his head. "You remind me of peace. Of stillness. In a life that's all noise and power."
Maya blinked, unsure if she was dreaming.
"I'd like to see you again," Lucien continued. "Properly. Not just for pastries."
She felt the room tilt.
No one had ever asked her that before.
Certainly not someone like him.
"Okay," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "I'd like that."
That night, the rain returned, tapping softly on the windows like a lullaby.
And for the first time in years, Maya Thorne didn't feel invisible.
She felt… seen.
Cherished.
And it was only the beginning.