Sunlight pressed through the front windows in soft squares, spilling across rows of polished tables and the chalkboard menu that still read Welcome to Reed's Knead in Isla's neat handwriting. Everything looked normal — the counters gleamed, the display case was freshly stocked, and the air carried that calm hum that always lived in the bakery before opening hours.
Except for the line.
It started with three people. Then six. Then, by the time Isla finished tying her apron, it had stretched halfway down the street.
She leaned toward the front window, nudging one of the blinds open with a cautious finger. Outside, people stood in loose clusters — phones in hand, faces lit by screens and anticipation. A few were holding coffee cups from the café down the block, as if they were settling in for a show. Someone even had a handmade sign that read Team CupcakeChaos in glitter pen.
Isla blinked slowly. "This is how it begins," she muttered.
She let the blinds snap shut and turned away from the window as if that could somehow erase the crowd from existence. It didn't. The low buzz of voices still filtered through the glass — laughter, speculation, the faint ding of a camera shutter.
The bell over the door jingled, startling her into a half-spin.
Callie breezed in like chaos in sunglasses, one hand balancing an iced coffee the size a small flower vase. She was dressed for a concert, not a morning visit — oversized shirt tucked half-heartedly into ripped jeans, hair tossed into a perfect messy bun that had to have taken at least ten minutes of effort to look effortless.
She stopped in the doorway, surveyed the shop, and whistled low.
"Oh look," she said, gesturing toward the front window with her straw. "Paparazzi, influencers, and—hold on—" She squinted. "Is that a 'Team Dorian' tote bag? You've officially made it."
Isla stared at her, unimpressed. "You're not helping."
"I wasn't trying to," Callie said cheerfully, sauntering toward the counter. She plopped her coffee down beside the register and leaned against it, scrolling through her phone like a woman on vacation instead of someone watching her best friend's livelihood combust in real time.
Isla exhaled slowly and reached for a tray of croissants, lining them neatly in the display case. "Tell me that line is for the café next door."
Callie made a small, noncommittal sound. "Mmm, not exactly."
"Callie."
"Okay, fine." She grinned, eyes still on her phone. "Apparently some influencer went live outside your shop about an hour ago. Called it a 'CupcakeChaos sighting.' Said she felt destiny in the air. She even did a slow pan of your window like she was narrating a nature documentary."
Isla froze mid-placement, a croissant hovering in the air like a prop caught between disbelief and resignation. "You're joking."
"Nope. She tagged your bakery account — it's blowing up again. Comments are just people asking if they can 'witness the Cupcake Queen in person.'" Callie flipped her phone around, showing Isla the video paused on a perfectly filtered shot of the bakery's front door. "Look at this. Ten thousand likes in under two hours. She even captioned it 'Manifesting my own royal scandal.'"
Isla stared at the screen, then at Callie. Her voice was flat. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Someone has to." Callie lifted her coffee in a mock toast. "To fame, fortune, and maybe a nervous breakdown by noon."
Isla closed her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose. She wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or crawl into the pastry oven and stay there until it all blew over.
The clock above the espresso machine ticked toward opening time. Outside, the line shifted, people edging closer to the door. A camera flash went off. Someone waved a sign.
Callie nudged the light switch with her elbow, bathing the bakery in a brighter glow. "Well," she said, too cheerfully, "time to feed your adoring public."
Isla's only reply was a quiet, despairing groan.
The first customer came in smiling like they were entering Disneyland, phone already raised. The next followed suit, and the next after that. Within minutes, the soft morning hum of Reed's Knead was swallowed whole by the sound of voices, laughter, and the relentless ding-ding-ding of the doorbell.
Isla barely had time to exhale before the first flash went off.
"Hi! Two red velvet cupcakes, please—and can you just, like, hand them to me really slowly?"
She blinked. "...Slowly?"
"For the clip! It's for TikTok. The nation's sweetheart deserves a proper moment."
Isla handed the cupcakes over like she was passing off crown jewels, fighting the twitch in her cheek. The woman squealed, thanked her profusely, and twirled away—camera still rolling.
Then came another. And another.
"Are you her?" a man asked, pointing his phone toward her. "The one from the ball?"
"I—uh—was at the ball," Isla said cautiously, sliding a tray of cookies into the display case.
"Can I get your autograph?"
"I bake," she said flatly. "I don't sign pastries."
He grinned, undeterred. "Can you just sign the napkin, then? My girlfriend's obsessed."
Behind him, a group of girls giggled and took turns pretending to faint. One of them whispered something about "royal chemistry" before snapping a picture of Isla's elbow.
By the time Callie reappeared from the kitchen, the bakery looked like a carnival—people crowding the counter, frosting on someone's sleeve, the scent of sugar and chaos thick in the air.
"Your Majesty of Muffins," someone called from near the door, holding a phone high. "Say hi to the camera!"
Isla froze mid-frost. "I'm—sorry, what?"
Callie nearly choked on her laughter. "Oh, that's sticking," she said, voice gleeful. "That's your royal title now."
"Callie," Isla hissed. "Please do something."
"I am doing something!" Callie protested, waving her phone like a flag. "I'm documenting your rise to fame! Smile! You're trending and taxable!"
The counter wobbled as another wave of customers pressed forward. Someone knocked over a tray of napkins; another leaned too far over the display to film the cupcakes. The air smelled like sugar, espresso, and collective hysteria.
A journalist in an oversized coat elbowed her way to the front, breathless and determined. "Miss Reed!" she said, voice carrying over the din. "Any comment on the rumors about you and the prince?"
Isla, who was currently trying to rescue a sliding tray of scones, didn't even look up. "Yes," she said. "They're ruining my inventory."
That earned her a few chuckles—and at least six new phones raised to record.
Callie leaned over the counter, clearly thriving. "You're killing it," she whispered. "This is content."
"This is insanity," Isla muttered back, wiping a streak of frosting from her arm.
Still, she couldn't quite bring herself to snap. Somewhere beneath the noise, the chaos, and the endless shutter clicks, there was a strange sort of rhythm to it all—like watching a storm she'd already accepted was coming.
Her voice slipped inward for a moment, quieter, steadier.
If this is my life now... fine. Let it be loud. Let them come.
If the world wants a show, then I'll sell tickets. Or cupcakes. Whichever pays better.
The door jingled again, and another wave of people swept in.
Callie laughed breathlessly as she tried to restore some kind of order. "We're gonna need a bigger oven."
Isla handed off another box of pastries and gave her a look that was equal parts exasperation and disbelief. "No," she said, "we're gonna need hazard pay."
And somewhere behind the chaos, the faintest smile tugged at her lips.
Business was booming. God help her.