The next lull came twenty minutes later—if you could call it that. The bell had gone silent for the first time in an hour, leaving behind the faint clatter of coffee cups and the buzz of conversation that felt like a physical thing in the air.
Isla leaned against the counter, chest rising and falling in steady, deliberate breaths. Her apron looked like a battlefield—dustings of flour, streaks of buttercream, a hint of chocolate near the hem.
Callie was perched on the stool near the register, scrolling on her phone and humming something suspiciously upbeat.
"You look like you just finished a triathlon," she said without looking up.
"I feel like I did," Isla muttered, grabbing a rag to wipe down the counter. She paused halfway through, staring at the crowd outside the window—still there, still waiting.
Her shoulders slumped for a moment. Then, slowly, she straightened. A spark flickered somewhere in her expression—a trace of the stubbornness that built this bakery from scratch.
Without a word, she reached for the chalkboard that hung near the counter, flipped it over, and grabbed a stick of white chalk from the drawer.
Callie looked up. "Uh-oh. That face says you're either about to have a genius idea or commit a misdemeanor."
Isla didn't answer. Her strokes were quick, neat, decisive.
When she stepped back, the new words gleamed in bold letters:
THE CUPCAKECHAOS COLLECTION — Limited Edition! 🍰
Inspired by the nation's favorite scandal.
Callie blinked. Then her mouth dropped open. "Oh, we're monetizing the meltdown? I love this for you."
The customers closest to the counter leaned forward, reading. Murmurs rippled through the line—phones lifted again, flashes popping like paparazzi bulbs. Someone gasped, "She's really doing it," as if Isla had just declared war.
Isla tucked the chalk behind her ear, her voice even. "If they want a story, I might as well sell the merchandise."
Callie's grin was pure pride. "That's my girl. What's the lineup?"
Isla turned to the display, thinking fast. "The first one's 'Royal Mess'—chocolate base, raspberry filling, gold dust on top."
"Art imitating life," Callie said approvingly.
"Then 'Public Apology'—vanilla with lemon curd. Sweet, a little sharp."
"Ooh, savage."
"And 'Damage Control.' Espresso and caramel. Caffeine and sugar—everything you need to survive a PR disaster."
Callie clutched her heart. "It's so beautiful I could cry."
Within minutes, Isla had three trays of the newly christened cupcakes arranged behind the glass, each labeled neatly with tiny handwritten tags. The reaction was immediate.
A woman in line gasped, pointed at the board, and whispered something to her friend. Phones shot up again. Someone shouted, "We'll take four Royals and two Apologies!" and half the crowd laughed.
Callie, caught between filming and ringing up orders, looked like she was thriving. "We're officially in our villain era," she said, posing for a quick selfie in front of the chalkboard. "I'm posting this with the caption #CupcakeCapitalism."
Isla shot her a dry look. "Do that, and I'm docking your imaginary pay."
But she was smiling now—really smiling—as the orders flew in. The chaos hadn't stopped, but it had changed its shape. It wasn't swallowing her whole anymore. She'd found her footing in it, one cupcake at a time.
Callie leaned across the counter, handing off a box to a customer who looked ready to faint from excitement. "You know," she said over the din, "if this whole royal scandal thing doesn't work out, you could always run a cult."
"I already do," Isla said, glancing at the sea of eager faces outside her bakery. "They just pay in sugar."
And for the first time that morning, the sound of the bell didn't make her flinch. It rang again and again, steady and bright, like applause.
Business was still booming. But this time—it was on her terms.
The last of the morning rush faded into a hum of satisfied chatter. Boxes closed, trays emptied, crumbs dotted the once-perfect counter like confetti after a parade. Isla wiped her hands on her apron, exhaling through a half-smile that still didn't feel entirely real.
For the first time all day, the bakery wasn't vibrating with noise.
That lasted all of ten seconds.
"Hold still," Callie said.
Isla turned—and froze. Her best friend stood a few feet away, phone angled expertly, camera on, sunlight hitting her like she'd personally scheduled it.
"Are you filming me?" Isla asked slowly.
Callie grinned, unbothered. "Obviously. The people need content."
"The people?" Isla echoed.
"My followers," Callie said brightly. "They're living for this. Every time I post an update, the views go insane."
"Callie," Isla said, voice edging dangerously toward a plea, "you too?"
"Relax! I'm helping. Think of it as free PR." She lowered her sunglasses just enough to wink. "I got a thousand new followers overnight after that picture of us from the cafe. I'm basically your publicist now."
Isla blinked. "Publicists get paid."
"Exposure counts," Callie said sweetly, already adjusting her camera angle. "Oh, and before you say anything—I might've set up an unofficial fan account for you."
"You what?"
"It's thriving!" Callie continued, ignoring the rising horror in Isla's voice. "I posted your OOTD recap from this morning—apron chic, very girlboss—and a 'CupcakeChaos aesthetic board.' People are obsessed. Half of them are using your photo as a meme format. You're practically an icon."
Isla's jaw dropped. "You're joking."
Callie beamed. "And now I'm filming a 'Day in the Bakery' vlog! You're the star, obviously. Smile for the camera, bake queen! Action!"
"Callie," Isla warned, "I will actually throw this tray."
Callie laughed, utterly unfazed. "You wouldn't. You love me."
"I'm reconsidering," Isla said, grabbing the tray anyway.
"Oh, come on, you need this. This is how we build your brand!"
"I already have a brand!" Isla hissed, turning to stack a few empty cake boxes just to give her hands something less violent to do. "It involves baked goods, not performing for the internet."
Callie, undeterred, zoomed in on Isla's concentrated scowl. "There it is—the look of a woman one minor celebrity scandal away from becoming a household name."
Isla glanced at her, incredulous. "I'm firing you."
"You can't fire a best friend," Callie said smugly, glancing at her phone to check the shot and nodding in approval like a director satisfied with her take. "Besides, you'll thank me when your next post hits the explore page."
"Or when I'm on the evening news for assault," Isla muttered under her breath.
Callie only giggled, setting her coffee beside the register again. "I mean, if you're going to assault anyone, please wait until I get it on camera. That's good engagement."
Isla's sigh came from somewhere deep in her soul. She wiped her hands on her apron again, eyeing her friend like one might a very affectionate, very chatty tornado. "You realize you're a problem, right?"
Callie lifted her phone for another shot, unbothered. "A profitable one."
The bell over the door jingled again.
For once, no one screamed, snapped a picture, or shouted "Cupcake Queen!" into a phone.
The sound was almost... normal.
Isla glanced up automatically, expecting another eager face with a camera. Instead, a man stepped inside—mid-thirties maybe, dressed in a crisp button-down and a dark coat that looked far too clean for the sugary chaos surrounding him. He moved with a kind of calm purpose, his expression unreadable.
Callie, mid-vlog sentence, faltered. "Uh—customer alert?"
He gave her a polite smile and waited near the counter, hands clasped loosely in front of him.
For a few seconds, the bakery noise carried on—voices, laughter, the hiss of the espresso machine—but it all felt oddly distant, like the volume had been turned down just for this moment.
Isla wiped her hands on her apron, still half distracted. "Be right with you—unless you're here for a selfie, in which case please form a single line of despair."
The man's mouth curved faintly. "Actually, no selfie required." His voice was calm, measured, a little too formal for a cupcake shop. "I'm here on behalf of His Highness, Prince Dorian."
The rag slipped from Isla's hand and landed on the counter with a dull thud.
"I'm sorry—what?" she said, blinking.
He inclined his head slightly, stepping forward. "Elliot Whitmore. Secretary to the Crown Prince."
Then, with practiced precision, he unlatched the slim black briefcase in his hand and lifted out a small velvet box. Its deep blue surface caught the light like something too refined for the real world.
He set it carefully on the counter between them. "His Highness asked that I deliver this to you personally."
Isla stared at the box, the hum of the bakery dimming to a low, stunned buzz.
Elliot's voice stayed polite, almost detached. "It's the necklace from the charity ball."
The words hung there—soft, impossible, final.
Isla's breath caught, her mind tripping over a dozen questions she couldn't voice. The box sat in front of her like a dare, a glittering reminder that whatever game Prince Dorian was playing... he'd just made his next move.