< Chapter 84
(Scarlett’s POV)
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I talk for what feels like hours, painting the vision of my bakery for Andrew.
Two weekster, I’m standing in my original bakery, Sunrise Bakes, at five in the morning, kneading dough for the day’s first batch of sourdough. The familiar rhythm soothes my nerves, but something feels off.
My phone buzzes with another notification. I ignore it, trying <i>to </i><i>focus </i>on the feel of the dough beneath my hands. Smooth, stic, perfect. To rediscover the lost connection between my hands and the bread, the inner peace thates with doing what I love best.
But the phone keeps buzzing, interrupting my concentration.
I wipe my flour–covered hands on my apron and finally check my messages. Fifteen missed calls from Chloe. My stomach drops.
I call her back immediately.
“Thank God,” she breathes when she picks up. “Scarlett, have you checked the reviews for the
mall location?”
“What reviews? It’s been doing great. Andrew said yesterday it was another sellout day.”
Silence stretches between us, and I feel ice forming in my veins.
“Chloe, what’s wrong?”
“Check yourptop. Now.”
I open myptop with shaking fingers, navigating to the review sites while Chloe stays on the line. What I see makes my knees buckle.
“Sunrise Bread <i>isn’t </i><i>what </i>it <i>used </i><i>to </i><i>be</i><i>. </i><i>Bought </i><i>their </i><i>famous </i><i>honey </i>wheat rolls yesterday and they tasted like cardboard<i>.</i><i>” </i>
–
“So disappointed. The texture was <ipletely </i>wrong – dense and vorless. Nothing like the original location.<i>” </i>
“Overpriced industrial bread <i>with </i>fancy packaging. Save your money.”
One star. Two stars. Review after review, all saying the same thing.
“This can’t be right,” I whisper into the phone. “Andrew follows my recipes exactly. I trained
:
< Chapter 84
him myself.”
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“Scarlett…” Chloe’s voice is gentle but worried. “When’s thest time you actually tasted the bread from the mall location?”
I try to remember. Last week? Two weeks ago? I’ve been so focused <i>on </i>keeping my original bakery running smoothly, on perfecting new recipes, that I haven’t dropped in a while.
“I need to get over there,” I say, already untying my apron.
“I’ve got Lily. Go.”
The drive to the mall feels endless. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles are white. These reviews can’t be urate. Andrew is experienced, professional. He wouldn’t change my recipes without telling me.
I try to convince myself, but my mind keeps shing back to the dissatisfied expression on his face thest time we talked.
The mall isn’t even open yet, but I have keys to the service entrance. I slip inside, the empty corridors echoing my footsteps. When I reach the bakery, I can hear Andrew moving around
in the kitchen.
I pause at the door, watching him through the small window. He’s pulling trays from the oven – my signature bunny bread. But he’s not the only one. There are more staff, unfamiliar ones, pulling out the same style of bread from other ovens with him. The shapes are all wrong, too standard, too uniform. Like they came from a mold.
My heart sinks.
I push through the <i>door</i>, and Andrew looks up with a guilty start.
“Scarlett! You’re early. I wasn’t expecting-”
“Show me the bread,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“The bread you just pulled from the oven. Show it to me.”
He hesitates, then hands me one of the rolls. The moment I touch it, I know. It’s dense, heavy.
The color is off too pale,cking the golden brown I spend hours perfecting. <fnb6fb> Find the newest release on Find_Novel(.</fnb6fb>
I take a bite, and my heart breakspletely.
It tastes nothing like the pastries I’ve been proud of selling.
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< Chapter 84
“Andrew.” My voicees out steadier than I feel. “What is this?”
“It’s your bunny bread recipe-”
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“No.” I set the roll down carefully, like it might explode. “This is not my recipe. This tastes like
it came from a factory.”
His face goes red. “Look, I made some modifications. Small <i>ones</i>. To improve efficiency-”
“What kind of modifications?”
“The rising time was excessive. I cut it from four hours to ny minutes. And the shaping was taking too long, so I invested in some molds to speed up production. Basic business
decisions.”
Each word hits me like a physical blow. “You cut the rising time by more than half?”
“Yes, and honestly, most customers can’t tell the difference-”
“I can tell the difference!” The words explode out of me. “Everyone who’s ever eaten my real bread can tell the difference! That’s why we’re getting destroyed in reviews!”
“Scarlett, you’re focusing on the small problems. The profit margins-”
“Forget about the profit margins.” I hold up my hand, my whole body shaking. “Just stop talking about profit margins. Show me everything you’ve changed.”
For the next hour, Andrew walks me through his “improvements.” Shorter rising times across the board. Chemical additives to speed up fermentation. Pre–made molds for everything that used <i>to </i>be hand–shaped. Cheaper ingredients to reduce expenses – regr flour instead of the organic blend I specified.
“You’ve turned my bakery into a factory,” I whisper when he’s done.
“I’ve turned it into a profitable business,” he snaps. “Do you know how much money we’ve been losing on your precious hand–shaping and four–hour rise times? This is reality, Scarlett. This is how real businesses operate.”
“This isn’t my business anymore.” I look around the kitchen that was supposed to be an extension of my dream. “This is just another corporate bakery selling fake goods to fill their pockets.”
“The customers are buying it. Sales are actually up fromst week.”
“Because they don’t know what they’re buying. They’reing because of the good reviews from the original bakery store!” I grab one of the industrial mixer attachments he’s been
<Chapter 84
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using. “Do you know why I knead by hand for certain breads? Because I can feel when the gluten is perfectly developed. Because I can adjust for humidity, for temperature, for the specific batch of flour. This machine doesn’t care about any of that.”
Andrew crosses his arms. “Hand–kneading isn’t scble.”
“Then maybe some things aren’t meant to be scaled!” The words tear from my throat. “Some things are supposed to stay small and personal and made with love!”
“Yeah, well… Love doesn’t pay the bills.”
I stare at him, shocked. This man I trusted with my recipes, my reputation, my dream, doesn’t care about any of them aside from making more money. “Get out.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out of my kitchen. You’re fired.”
“Scarlett, be reasonable. You need me. You can’t run both locations by yourself-”
“I said get out!” My voice echoes off the industrial steel surfaces he chose over my warm wood counters. “Take your molds and your chemical shortcuts and get out of my sight!”
He leaves, muttering about unrealistic expectations and lost profits. I stand alone in the deserted kitchen that no longer feels like mine, surrounded by equipment that makes bread
without soul.
I pull out my phone and start typing.
“Sunrise Bakes Mall <i>Location </i><i>will </i><i>be </i><i>temporarily </i>closed <i>while </i>we <i>return </i>to our <i>original </i>methods and standards. <i>We </i><i>apologize </i><i>to </i><i>customers who </i>received <i>subpar </i>products. <i>This </i><i>is </i>not <i>what </i>Sunrise Bread represents<i>.</i><i>” </i>
I post it to every social media ount, every review site, then lock the front door and flip the sign to close.
My hands shake as I dial Dorian’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Scarlett? What’s wrong?”
“I need to see you,” I say, my voice barely holding together from the anger and frustration bubbling inside me. “Can you meet me? I think we made a terrible mistake.”
“Of course. Where are you?”
“The mall. But I’m leaving now. Can we meet at your office?”
<Chapter 84
“Hold on. I’ll send someone to pick you up.”
“No, I’ll take a cab…”
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“Scarlett. I’ll send someone. It’ll be safer that way.” I pause, caught off guard by the sharpness of his tone. I’m not a three–year old. I can take a cab <i>to </i>his office without problem.
But Dorian…he’s been acting strangetely.
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