Chapter 1 - The Woman in the Green Shirt
“Wait. Who let you in?”
The question landed harder than it should have.
Camila Reyes stopped three steps inside the ballroom, balancing a silver tray of pastries against her hip. Crystal chandeliers burned above a sea of champagne gowns and black tuxedos. A string quartet played near the windows. Beyond them, the city glittered under a warm summer night.
And standing directly in front of Camila was the woman whose engagement party had shut down half the hotel.
Victoria Langford.
Thirty years old, blonde hair twisted into a flawless updo, diamonds at her throat, and a champagne-colored gown that caught every light in the room.
Victoria looked at Camila’s worn green button-down shirt as if it had personally offended her.
“I’m sorry?” Camila asked.
Victoria lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I said, who let you in?”
Camila tightened her hands around the tray. “I came to deliver the cake.”
A few nearby guests turned.
That was the part Camila hated most about wealthy rooms. People pretended not to stare while staring harder than anyone else.
Before Victoria could answer, a man stepped up behind her.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with a neatly trimmed beard and the kind of black suit that looked custom-made because it probably was.
Camila recognized him only from the giant photograph near the entrance.
Adrian Vale.
Founder of Vale Urban Systems. Thirty-five. Rich enough to have buildings named after his donations. The man everyone in Boston seemed to describe as either brilliant or impossible.
Victoria’s fiancé.
Adrian looked from Camila’s face to the tray.
Then something changed.
His expression softened.
“Are you Camila?” he asked.
Victoria’s head snapped toward him.
Camila blinked. “Yes.”
A smile spread across Adrian’s face. Not the polite public smile from the photographs. Something warmer.
“I tried your desserts months ago.”
Camila stared. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“And I didn’t know the best baker in town was you.”
The string quartet kept playing, but the air around them seemed to go still.
Victoria gave a short laugh. “Adrian, seriously?”
Camila felt heat climb into her face. “I just came to deliver my work.”
Victoria rolled her eyes. “I thought you were part of the service.”
Camila lowered her gaze.
She had heard versions of that sentence her entire life.
At eighteen, when she delivered bread to a private club and a woman handed her an empty glass without asking.
At twenty-one, when a restaurant owner refused to believe she had designed the dessert menu.
At twenty-four, when a food critic praised “the chef” for her tres leches cake and never asked who the chef was.
She had promised herself none of it mattered anymore.
But tonight mattered.
Because the cake in the service hallway had taken her forty-two hours.
Because the sugar flowers were modeled after dahlias her grandmother grew behind their old apartment.
Because the flavors inside—burnt honey, vanilla bean, orange zest, and cinnamon—came from a recipe Camila had spent six months perfecting.
And because this one order could pay the overdue rent on her bakery.
Adrian stepped closer.
“Then stay,” he said firmly. “I want to introduce you to everyone.”
Victoria stared at him.
Camila stared harder.
“No,” she said quietly. “That’s okay. I should finish the delivery.”
“You should stay long enough to see people enjoy what you made.”
Victoria’s smile sharpened.
“Adrian, she’s working.”
“So?”
“So workers don’t usually join the party.”
Camila flinched before she could stop herself.
Adrian noticed.
His eyes moved to Victoria.
For the first time, the warmth left his face.
“Neither did I,” he said.
Victoria frowned. “What?”
“The first time I came into one of these rooms. I was carrying blueprints for my father.” He looked at Camila again. “Everyone thought I was a courier.”
A few guests laughed nervously.
Victoria didn’t.
Camila wanted the marble floor to open beneath her.
Then the ballroom doors swung open.
Two hotel employees rolled in the cake.
Conversation stopped.
Even Camila felt her breath catch.
The five-tier cake was ivory with hand-painted gold vines. Hundreds of sugar dahlias climbed one side in deep burgundy, cream, and blush. Tiny spun-sugar windows glowed between the flowers like miniature lanterns.
It was the best thing she had ever made.
A woman near the stage gasped. “That is unbelievable.”
Phones came out instantly.
Victoria’s mother, Evelyn Langford, hurried over.
“Oh, thank God,” she said. “The centerpiece.”
She looked directly past Camila.
Then she clapped toward the hotel staff.
“Please make sure the pastry company’s logo is removed before photos.”
Camila’s stomach dropped.
Adrian frowned. “Why?”
Evelyn smiled. “Because Victoria designed the cake.”
Camila thought she had misheard.
Victoria’s eyes flashed a warning.
Adrian turned slowly.
“What did she say?”
Victoria touched his arm. “It’s not a big deal.”
Camila looked at the printed program on a nearby cocktail table.
Under the heading THE STORY OF OUR CAKE were the words:
Concept and flavor design by Victoria Langford.
Camila stopped breathing.
Her grandmother’s dahlias.
Her flavor profile.
Her work.
Victoria had not only mistaken her for the help.
She had planned to take credit for everything Camila created.
Adrian picked up the program.
He read it once.
Then again.
When he looked up, his voice was dangerously calm.
“Victoria,” he said, “who actually designed this cake?”
May you like
And for the first time that night, Victoria Langford looked afraid.
