The scent of sugar and coffee greeted Isla before she even unlocked the door.
She blinked.
The lights were on inside Reed's Kneads.
Someone was already there.
Isla pushed open the bakery door with a rising sense of dread... and found Callie lounging on the counter, holding two coffees and scrolling through her phone like she owned the place.
"Morning, Velvet Tempest," Callie chirped, eyes never leaving the screen. "I brought caffeine. You brought the internet to its knees."
"You broke in?" Isla asked, setting her bag down behind the counter. "Please tell me you didn't pick the lock again."
"You gave me a key. In a moment of weakness. Blame yourself." Callie grinned and held up her phone. "You're trending in four languages. Want to know what the French are calling you?"
"No."
"La Tempête de Velours. It sounds like a perfume. Or a warship."
Isla grabbed a coffee with a half-hearted thanks. The warmth in her hand grounded her. She took a sip, then glanced out the window. A small line had already formed outside.
"Don't panic," Callie said brightly. "Half of them are probably just here for baked goods and drama. The other half think they might see the prince show up again. You've got a solid hour before anyone asks if you sell tiaras."
"I hate all of this."
Callie nodded sympathetically. "You hate being famous. But your lemon tarts are about to go viral. So smile for the algorithms."
By seven thirty, the line had tripled. Someone posted a TikTok outside the shop titled "I Ate Where the Velvet Tempest Rises" and tagged the bakery's account. Isla's follower count jumped again.
She tried to stay focused—dough, orders, receipts, morning prep. But chaos was chaos, and everything felt one beat too fast.
A woman at the counter leaned in and asked, "Do you actually make those Velvet Tempest cupcakes?"
Callie didn't miss a beat. "We do now. Red velvet. With a sugar crown."
Isla gave her a withering look. "We do not."
"We will," Callie replied, already sketching frosting ideas on a napkin. "Strike while the scandal's hot."
Isla ducked behind the counter to grab the mail bin—mostly invoices and coupon flyers—when the bell over the bakery door chimed.
A man in a dark, perfectly pressed coat stepped inside. Definitely not a customer. His polished shoes clicked softly against the tile as he approached the counter with a measured calm. A silver pin gleamed on his lapel—a royal insignia.
"Miss Isla Reed?" His voice was low but carried.
Isla froze, still clutching the stack of envelopes. "Yes?"
The man produced a cream-white envelope from his inner pocket, sealed with thick gold wax and stamped with the royal crest. He held it out like something fragile.
Callie straightened on the counter, setting her coffee aside. "That looks... official," she murmured, watching Isla's hand hesitate before taking it.
Isla hesitated before taking it, fingertips brushing the wax. She broke the seal carefully. The parchment inside was brief and formal.
Miss Isla Reed,
Her Majesty the Queen requests your presence at the Palace this afternoon at your earliest convenience.
You will be expected.
She read it twice. Her stomach dropped.
Callie's brows drew together. "Okay... that's not just official. That's—" She cut herself off, eyes darting between Isla and the man in the coat. "Do you even have a choice?"
The escort, as if reading the question in the air, gave a slight bow. "Her Majesty's request is not optional. I'll be outside, Miss Reed. When you are ready, I am to accompany you to the Palace." He stepped back toward the door with the same calm grace, then slipped out into the bright morning, letting the bell chime softly behind him.
Callie let out a low whistle. "Well. That's... dramatic." She glanced at Isla. "You good? No, scratch that—you're not good. You look like you're about to faint into the scones."
Isla closed the letter slowly. "I can't just—just show up at the Palace like this. I'm in sneakers. I don't even know what I'd say."
Callie stepped closer, her voice lower now. "Hey. Breathe. We'll figure it out. You're not walking in there looking like you got tackled by a bag of flour. I've got you."
Isla gave a shaky laugh. "Great. Just what I needed. A royal summons."
Through the window, she saw the man waiting by a sleek black car at the curb, hands folded behind his back like a statue.
Callie followed her gaze and muttered, half to herself, "Of course they sent a guy in a coat that probably costs more than my rent."
The sound of the bakery—espresso steaming, customers chatting—faded behind a sudden hush in Isla's head.
Callie nudged her gently. "Hey. Earth to Velvet Tempest. You gotta breathe. I'm not catching you in front of the croissant display."
Isla blinked. "He's... waiting outside."
"I noticed. Very mysterious royal agent energy, too. Like a spy movie, but with more buttercream involved."
"Callie—this isn't funny," Isla said, her voice cracking mid‑sentence. The laugh that followed was thin, brittle. "I can't go to the palace. I'm not—" She gestured helplessly at herself, flour‑dusted apron and all. "I'm this."
Callie abandoned her half-finished latte without a second glance. "Okay. Then we fix 'this.' C'mon." She took Isla by the shoulders and steered her toward the little back room behind the counter. "You've got, what, ten minutes? Fifteen? Enough time to look less like you've been wrestling a dough hook."
"Fifteen minutes to prepare for the Queen," Isla muttered. "Yeah, sure."
"Shh." Callie rifled through the little rack of "just in case" clothes they kept for markets and pop‑ups. "What about... this?" She tugged out a soft blue wrap dress—knee‑skimming, with short flutter sleeves and a neat tie at the waist. Casual enough for daytime, but with a quiet elegance that didn't scream trying too hard. "You wore it to that café opening last month. It looked great then."
Isla blinked at it. "That's not exactly palace attire."
"It's a step up from flour‑dust chic," Callie said, pressing it into her hands. "It says: I run a business, I didn't expect this, but yes, I clean up nicely. Perfect."
Isla let out a shaky breath, clutching the dress like a lifeline. She ducked into the restroom and changed quickly, slipping out of the apron and into the blue fabric, smoothing it over her hips with trembling hands. Her reflection looked back at her—still Isla, but softer, more composed. More like someone who could maybe stand in front of a queen without fainting.
When she stepped out, Callie was crouched by a lower shelf, triumphantly holding up a pair of simple flats. "Not royal enough for tiaras, but these won't trip you on palace marble. Here."
Isla slipped them on. Her hands still trembled, so she rubbed them against her sides. The escort's silhouette was still visible through the front window, patient and still as a statue by the sleek car.
"I'll be right here, call me if anything happens." Callie said.
"I will." Isla took another breath—longer this time, steadier. She smoothed her hair back, squared her shoulders, and looked toward the door.
The bell chimed softly as she pushed it open. The morning air hit her face, bright and sharp. The man in the coat straightened immediately, gave a small nod, and opened the car door.
Callie watched from the doorway, arms crossed, eyes fierce despite her little smile.
"You've got this, Velvet Tempest," she called after her. "Show them why they're talking about you."
Isla clutched the letter once more, stepped toward the car, and climbed in.