By the time Isla arrived the next morning, the bakery windows were already fogged with steam and curiosity.
Callie was at the counter, hair in a messy braid, one hand cradling her phone, the other fending off a reporter with a cupcake box.
"No comment, no quotes, and absolutely no photos in the kitchen," Callie said sweetly, shutting the lid on the box with a snap. "But thank you for your support of local business."
The reporter gave Isla a quick once-over as she stepped inside. Isla caught the flick of a camera phone and forced her shoulders not to tense.
"Oh good," Callie said brightly. "The star of the scandal arrives."
"I am not a star," Isla muttered, ducking behind the counter to drop her bag. "What is this circus?"
Callie swiveled her phone so Isla could see the headline blazing across the screen:
FROM OVEN TO THRONE? PRINCE'S VELVET TEMPEST LEAVES PALACE AT DAWN.
Isla stared. "That is—there's not even—who writes this?"
"Someone with rent due," Callie said, grinning. "You're trending harder than royal birthdays."
The bell over the door chimed again as a trio of women swept in, chattering. One leaned across the counter. "Excuse me—do you actually make the Velvet Tempest cupcakes?"
Callie winked at Isla. "We do now. Limited edition."
Isla pressed a hand to her temple. "We do not."
"We will," Callie whispered back. "Don't ruin the mystique."
The orders came in waves, customers half hungry, half curious. Isla's hands worked on autopilot—piping cream, boxing tarts—while whispers floated through the shop.
She danced with him, you know.
I heard the Queen smiled at her.
Imagine—our own Cinderella in an apron.
She tuned them out as best she could, focusing on the rhythm of her work. But under it all was that strange hum again: the gravity the Queen had spoken of.
By midmorning, the shop was a hum of clinking cups and murmured gossip. Isla was lost in the rhythm of frosting pastries when Callie returned from delivering a cappuccino to one of the tables by the window.
She leaned an elbow on the counter, eyes wide, voice pitched low. "Okay… is it just me, or does that man over there look way too polished to belong in here?"
Isla didn't even glance up from the piping bag. "You're imagining things. We get all sorts."
Callie arched a brow. "All sorts don't usually have a voice like that. I asked if he wanted sugar and— Is that an accent? I swear he said 'thank you' like he was signing a treaty."
Isla snorted. "You're dramatic."
"I'm observant," Callie whispered, eyes darting back toward the table. "Look at him. That jacket is tailored. And those sunglasses indoors? He's got that…ugh, what do you call it…that aura. Proud. Elegant. Like…royal, almost."
The word snagged in Isla's mind like a hook. Royal.
She finally looked up, following Callie's gaze—and froze.
Black shades. Casual clothes that somehow screamed expensive. Hair tucked under a cap that didn't quite hide the arrogance in the way he sat, arm draped over the back of the chair as if the whole café were his. And suddenly it clicked.
Of course it was him. Who else would think a disguise meant wearing sunglasses and radiating authority?
Callie was still muttering, "I swear half the café's been sneaking looks at him—"
But Isla had already pushed away from the counter, wiping her hands on a towel as she stalked toward the window table.
Dorian looked up as she approached, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as if he'd been waiting for her to notice.
"Subtle," she said dryly, stopping beside his table. "Sunglasses indoors. Very discreet."
He tilted his head, amusement glinting behind the lenses. "You told me to spend more time outside the palace. I'm only following your advice."
"Disguises are supposed to make you blend in, not look like you're undercover in a bad movie."
"Ah, but blending in is overrated. Besides—" he let his gaze flick lazily around the café, at the women stealing glances and the older couple pretending not to stare, "—it seems I don't need a palace to draw an audience."
Isla folded her arms. "They're not looking at you. They're looking at the sunglasses wondering if you're hungover."
His smirk deepened. "And you, Miss Reed? You've been looking at me since you walked over. Almost like you missed me."
Her mouth opened, then shut, heat creeping into her cheeks despite herself. "Or maybe I'm just wondering why the crown prince is sitting in my bakery when it's swarming with people talking about him."
"Maybe," he murmured, leaning back in his chair, "you're wondering if you're the reason I'm here."
She scoffed. "Please. You couldn't stand a day without people telling you how brilliant you are."
"And yet," he said smoothly, "I came to see the one person who doesn't."
She shot him a narrow look, which only seemed to delight him further.
"You're insufferable," she muttered.
"And you're terrible at hiding that you enjoy this."
She blinked. "Enjoy what?"
"Getting under my skin," he said, voice low and amused, "and you're infuriatingly good at it."
She met his gaze squarely, refusing to be flustered. "I think you like that I don't fall all over you like everyone else."
For a beat, neither spoke. The noise of the café buzzed faintly around them.
Then he laughed softly. "Touché."
She shook her head, fighting a smile. "So what, you're haunting my bakery now? Is this a new hobby?"
"Consider it research. I needed to see the phenomenon for myself." He nodded toward the counter, where Callie was fending off another customer asking about Velvet Tempest cupcakes. "You've started a trend, Miss Reed. Even court chefs are attempting to copy your creation."
That startled a laugh from her.
"Though I doubt they'll capture the chaos that comes with it." He paused, letting the moment stretch. "Speaking of chaos—are you always this quick to dismiss the prince in disguise?"
"You're not exactly good at it." Her voice softened, playful now. "Raised as royalty, demanding attention, full of yourself…disguises don't suit you."
"Ah," Dorian said, leaning forward slightly, "but I seem to suit you just fine."
Her pulse skipped. She opened her mouth to retort—
"Isla?"
Tyler's voice cut through the hum of the café.
She turned, startled to find him standing just inside the doorway, shifting his weight like he wasn't sure he should be there.
"Tyler—hi." She blinked, glancing back at Dorian before quickly stepping toward Tyler. "Um… come over here."
She led him away from the window side of the shop, weaving through two tables until they reached the counter near the register. The smell of coffee was stronger here, and the noise of the café softened into a background murmur.
Tyler followed, his eyes flicking once toward the man by the window before settling on her. His jaw tightened, but his voice was careful.
"Who was that?"
"A customer," she said too quickly. Then softer, "Someone I've… seen around."
Tyler's brow furrowed, but she didn't give him time to press. "Why are you here?"
He blinked at the sudden subject change. "Is it wrong to visit my girlfriend at work?"
"No, of course not." She lowered her gaze. "You just don't usually stop by in the middle of the day."
"Should I not?" His voice sharpened with a flash of hurt, then softened. "I thought maybe I'd surprise you."
"It's not bad," she said quickly, meeting his eyes. "It just… caught me off guard."
The space between them felt strange now—like something was loosening but neither of them wanted to pull too hard and watch it unravel.
"Miss Reed?"
Isla turned, startled to see Dorian standing closer than she expected—he'd walked up to them without a sound, the late‑morning light haloing him from the window behind. His smirk cut through the tension like a blade, deliberate and impossible to ignore.
"I should be going," he said, tone polite but threaded with something purposeful—something meant to be heard. His gaze swept briefly over Tyler, assessing, before landing back on her. "Thank you for the coffee. Until next time."
Then he was gone, the bell above the door chiming softly as he stepped out into the sunlight, leaving behind a ripple of whispers from the nearby tables.
Tyler stared after him, his expression unreadable. When he finally looked back at Isla, the half‑smile he'd worn earlier was gone, replaced by a quiet that felt heavier than words. "I'll wait until you're done," he said at last. "I'll take you home."
She hesitated, searching his face, feeling the weight of something she couldn't quite name. "Tyler, you don't have to—"
"I want to." The words came out softer this time, almost like a plea.
And for the first time in a long while, Isla found herself without an answer.
_____
The café had finally slowed. Callie untied her borrowed apron, stretching her arms as she walked over to the counter where Isla was gathering the day's mail.
Callie's eyes flicked to the corner table—Tyler was still there, scrolling his phone, glancing toward the counter every so often. "Okay," she whispered, leaning in with a grin, "when you said he was staying over, I didn't think you meant this long. You sure that's not a clone?"
Isla let out a breath of a laugh, shaking her head. "He's… waiting to take me home."
"Mhm." Callie smirked knowingly. Then she slung her bag over her shoulder. "Listen, I won't make it tomorrow. Got some work I've been putting off that I need to catch up on."
"Don't worry about it," Isla said with an easy smile. Callie didn't work here—she just liked to help when things got crazy.
"Text me if anything explodes," Callie added, heading for the door. "See you, superstar."
When the bell chimed behind her, the bakery felt quieter, the late sun stretching through the glass. Isla turned back to the small stack of letters, flipping through until a crisp cream envelope caught her eye.
She tore it open and skimmed the elegant print:
You are cordially invited to attend the upcoming Charity Soirée…
The date and address followed—nothing more. No sender name, but nothing unusual about that either.
"Isla?" Tyler's voice broke through her thoughts. He was standing now, pocketing his phone. "You ready?"
She slipped the envelope into her bag. "Yeah. Let's go."