The bakery had been a blur since sunrise. The kind of blur that kept Isla's hands moving too fast to think.
She told herself it was work — just another catering order, just another job. But she knew the truth. It was easier to fold napkins, arrange pastries, and scrub pans raw than to sit in her apartment staring at the unopened box on her table. Or her silent phone. Or the never-ending stream of gossip headlines that made her name sound like a punchline.
So when the city council had approached her about catering for the community development fair, she'd said yes before they even finished the sentence. Work was work. And distraction, apparently, was survival.
By midmorning, she was under a white canopy strung with bunting, trays neatly lined: golden croissants dusted with sugar, baskets of bread rolls still warm, fruit tarts glistening under the sun. She'd polished the setup until it looked like something from a glossy magazine spread, even tied her apron twice to be sure it sat neat.
Her hands were steady. Her smile, practiced. But the noise in her head was louder than the chatter around her.
The fair itself was alive.
Children wove between stalls clutching red and blue balloons. A brass quartet at the edge of the square sent music rolling across the cobblestones, notes light enough to make people tap their toes as they browsed hand-painted pottery, jars of honey, and knitted scarves. City banners fluttered overhead, and the air smelled of sugared almonds and fried dough.
It should have been comforting, familiar — she'd grown familiar with these sorts of events, after all. But today, every sound grated against the hum beneath her ribs.
Because people weren't just here for crafts and speeches. They were watching her.
Not openly, not rudely. But enough.
"That's her," someone whispered as if she couldn't hear. "The one in the photo."
"She looks normal enough," another said, amused.
"Didn't she get a gift from a noble?"
Isla's smile didn't falter as she poured coffee, but her grip on the spout tightened. Viral baker. That was what she'd become — a strange kind of novelty. A baker who'd insulted a prince and somehow kept being seen with him. A baker who now, apparently, had nobles dropping boxes on her doorstep like suitors in a bad romantic comedy.
If this was what being noticed felt like, no wonder the royals always looked exhausted.
She was busy enough to keep moving, to keep her head down. Refill plates. Thank customers. Wipe crumbs from the table. Don't think about the unopened box. Don't think about Tyler's silence.
Which was why she didn't notice him right away.
But he noticed her.
Not that the whispers made it hard not to.
From across the square, he stood among a cluster of city officials and polished dignitaries, expression unreadable beneath his usual royal composure. His gaze cut through the crowd, finding her like it was the easiest thing in the world—before sliding past, as though she were just another face among the many.
A few beats later, the mood around the square shifted. Voices lowered, chairs scraped, and heads began to turn toward the fountain. He had already started moving in that direction, a measured stride carrying him toward the raised platform. The cluster of officials closed in behind him, eager shadows at his back. By the time he stepped onto the stage, the hush had spread like a tide.
Isla glanced over almost without meaning to.
Of course.
Prince Dorian stood framed by banners snapping in the breeze. Guest of honor. His suit was tailored to perfection, not a thread out of place, and his expression carried that poised detachment she'd come to recognize—calm on the surface, sharp underneath, as if even while smiling he was cataloguing every flaw around him.
He spoke briefly, a practiced sort of courtesy. Words about "community spirit" and "continuing tradition." The crowd leaned closer, charmed. A group of girls near Isla's stall sighed at the way his voice carried over the square.
Isla pressed her lips together to keep from muttering. All they saw was charm. None of them noticed the pride threaded through every syllable, the arrogance tucked neatly behind his composure. If she opened her mouth, she knew exactly what would come out—and exactly how fast it would spread online.
So she busied herself with ribbons and pastry boxes, pouring coffee while keeping her head down. But when his eyes swept the crowd, slow and deliberate, she knew the second they landed on her.
Her stomach gave the smallest lurch. She bent lower over the trays, as if the arrangement of croissants demanded her full attention.
She told herself he'd move on. That his little glance was nothing more than habit, the way a hawk's eyes pass over a field before settling somewhere else.
But it didn't feel like that.
Even as he spoke again, offering some polished phrase about heritage and future, Isla swore she could feel it—that fine, invisible thread holding her fast. Customers drifted in and out, asking for pastries, praising the setup, and she smiled and nodded in all the right places. Still, the sense of being watched never loosened.
When the applause broke out at the end of his speech, she risked a glance up. Too late. He was already moving, parting from the cluster of councilmen with that unhurried grace that somehow made every step feel deliberate.
By the time his shadow finally slipped across her stall, Isla wasn't even surprised. Only resigned.
"Miss Reed."
His voice was smooth, practiced, carrying just enough bite to remind her who he was.
"I see you've managed to stay in headlines without my help. Remarkable efficiency."
She tied off the ribbon with deliberate neatness before looking up. "Efficiency's important in my line of work. Pastries don't sell themselves."
"Nor do reputations." His gaze swept the little crowd still lingering nearby, as if to remind her how easily people listened.
Isla forced a small, polite smile—the kind she saved for customers who tried haggling over the price of muffins. "What can I get you, Your Highness? Croissant? Scone? Or are you just here to critique the bakery business too?"
For the first time today, a flicker of amusement touched his features. "Tempting. But no. I'm here because..." His eyes dropped briefly to the wrapped parcel set aside behind the counter, before returning to her with practiced casualness. "You seem to be collecting gifts these days."
The box. Of course. The question half the nation would ask if they had the chance.
"It's just a present," she said quickly, shrugging like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. "Hardly scandalous."
"Mm." His tone suggested otherwise. "Strange, then, that the public has turned one present into an obsession. Makes a person wonder."
Her throat went dry. She busied herself stacking cups, willing the moment to pass. But his eyes stayed on her, steady and unrelenting, until—before she could stop herself—she slipped.
"It's not like I asked to be invited."
The words tumbled out before she could stop them, landing between them like loose change dropped on the floor. Isla froze, instantly wishing she could stuff them back into her mouth.
Dorian's brow arched, just enough to show he'd heard what she hadn't meant to admit. His gaze sharpened, not predatory but amused—like he'd been waiting for her to trip. "Invited?"
Her stomach knotted. "It's nothing. A mix-up. Not worth your attention."
He didn't bother to answer. Just watched her. And the watching was worse than words, worse than the cool silk of his tone. He could stand in silence for a heartbeat too long and suddenly it felt like he'd turned the entire square into a stage she couldn't step off.
Isla fussed with the ribbon on a pastry box, tugging at it until it bit into her fingers. Finally, she huffed. "Fine. There's some event. He thought it'd be amusing to ask me."
The admission sat heavy, even though she tried to toss it out like scraps.
Dorian's eyes narrowed—not harshly, but in that deliberate, measuring way of his. "And by 'he,'" he said smoothly, "I assume you mean my cousin."
She hadn't said his name. She didn't need to.
"You've been making time for cousins now, Miss Reed?" he asked, tone deceptively smooth. "Careful, Miss Reed. People might think you're building a collection."
She nearly snorted. A collection of princes. As if she'd ever be foolish enough to want one, let alone two. Her cheeks warmed anyway, traitorous, and she had to glance down at the pastries just to keep her expression steady.
The quiet stretched. She refused to dignify him with a reply, and he seemed content to let her squirm in it. Then, almost casually, he shifted as though to take his leave.
"If you happen to see him," she said quickly, "could you tell him I won't make the event."
Cael hadn't left her any way to reach him. Typical. With his persistent streak, he'd probably done it on purpose—in case she got second thoughts or dared to return the gift.
Dorian's eyes narrowed a fraction — not sharp, not hostile, barely for her to notice. "Just because we share blood doesn't mean we share company." His tone was polite on the surface, but she caught the edge beneath it, the arrogance threading through. "And besides—sending a prince on errands?"
Her lips pressed tight. Of course.
He let her sit with that for a beat, then added, smoother, final: "Tell him yourself. He'll come for you."
And just like that, he turned. His exit was as deliberate as his arrival, folding back into the crowd with ease, leaving behind the faint ripple of whispers he'd carried in.
Isla's mutter slipped out before she could stop it. "Right. Forgot he was arrogant."
She straightened the trays, refilled a basket, poured coffee with a smile she didn't feel. People drifted by, complimenting the bread, asking for refills, chatting about the weather. She nodded at all of it.
But the weight in her chest stayed heavy, heavier than when the day had begun.