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CHAPTER 7

MAGGIE

T he morning begins with me arriving early, unlocking the front door with robotic precision. I flip on the lights one by one, like a ritual to keep the shadows at bay. The scent of butter and sugar—normally grounding—hangs too thick, too sweet, like it knows I’m lying to myself, puttering in the front instead of heading into the kitchen.

My hands move through the usual motions of readying the front for the coming day—putting chairs back on the floor, rearranging artisan supplies I sell as a small revenue and to help other small entrepreneurs begin to make their own dreams come true.

I walk into the back and find Gideon already there.

Of course he is. He has to have been up for hours. The coffee is brewed. Inventory logs reviewed. The wobble in the back door hinge—fixed. He stands at the prep counter, sleeves rolled up, wiping it down with quiet efficiency, moving like the place has always been his. Like he belongs there.

It makes something inside me clench—an unwelcome knot of appreciation, irritation, and something I don’t dare name.

This bakery—especially the kitchen—is supposed to be my domain. And yet, here he is. More useful than the rest of my staff put together. Twice as steady. And every time I find myself adjusting to his presence instead of resenting it, it shakes me. Gideon is Kari’s big brother. He’s only here as a favor to Kari. I know I need to get over my perpetual crush on Gideon, but then I’ve known that for years and, as yet, have not accomplished it.

“You don’t have to do everything, you know,” I mutter, grabbing a tray from the drying rack with a little too much force. My hand trembles slightly, but I tighten my grip, hoping he doesn’t see. Everything is piling up—late deliveries, rotating staff, the quiet whispers behind my back. My world is unraveling thread by thread, and here Gideon is, just... fixing things. Steady. Unshaken. Like he belongs in the middle of my chaos. And that only makes me angrier.

“Someone has to,” he says without looking up.

I turn on him. “You may be on the payroll, but that doesn’t make this your kitchen.”

He finally meets my eyes, calm and unbothered. “No. But someone’s been treating this place like a target, and I don’t look the other way when people are under attack. You hired me as your assistant, Maggie, and Kari asked that I keep an eye on you...”

"Kari worries too much. I suppose it's a common affliction of writers..."

"I don't think Kari is being overzealous. My little sister has pretty good instincts about these things. So either let me help or tell me which part of the sabotage I’m supposed to pretend doesn’t exist. Because I’m not wired to watch it happen and do nothing.”

The words land hard. My breath hitches, my spine stiffening as if I can will the reaction away through sheer force. But it’s too late. The truth of what he says scrapes against the inside of my chest, raw and too close to the bone. I turn away before he can see the flinch, jaw clench, throat tight, everything inside me just one more push from cracking wide open.

Mid-morning brings a brief lull, and a regular named Clara—an older woman with a sharp bob, sharper tongue, and a tendency to notice everything. She leans on the counter like she owns it, tapping the glass case with her perfectly manicured nails in a slow, deliberate rhythm that grates on my nerves. Clara never misses a thing and today is no exception. There’s curiosity in her eyes, but also something else—concern, maybe. Or suspicion. I can’t tell which, and that only makes my chest tighten further.

“You’ve had a lot of unfamiliar faces lately,” Clara says casually, eyeing the kitchen staff. “Seems like a revolving door back there—although I must say this latest one is easy on the eyes. And the vendors... a different guy every week.”

I paste on a smile so tight it hurts. “We’ve had a few changes, that’s all.”

My voice comes out too bright, too practiced—like I’ve rehearsed the line in the mirror that morning. Because what else can I say? That my staff keep quitting or ghosting with zero warning? That every unknown face comes with the question: are they working for me, or against me? My grip on the counter edge tightens just slightly as I hold the smile a beat too long.

Clara hums, lips pursing like she already doubts the answer. “Hope that’s all it is,” she says, but her tone holds a note too pointed, too knowing. Like she’s not just making conversation—she’s issuing a warning dressed up as a pleasantry. It lodges in my spine like a splinter, sharp and impossible to ignore.

That comment sits heavy on my shoulders long after Clara leaves. It trails me like a shadow through the kitchen, slipping into the quiet moments between orders and clinging to me like the smell of scorched sugar. Each time I glance at my staff, the words echo—unfamiliar faces, different vendors, a revolving door. It isn’t just gossip. It’s a mirror. And I hate what it reflects: a business slipping out of my grip, and the creeping dread that Clara has simply said what I’m too afraid to admit.

The rush hits soon after, and I dive into my work like it might save my sanity. I move with the frenetic energy of someone trying to outrun their own thoughts, barking instructions and clattering bowls louder than necessary. My hands move quickly, automatically—cracking eggs, leveling flour, setting timers—but my mind stays knotted around the weight of Clara’s words and Gideon’s too-steady presence.

I’m halfway through measuring ingredients for a custom wedding order, trying to pretend the ground beneath my feet isn’t shifting, trying to pretend the pressure in my chest isn’t tightening with every passing hour. If I just keep moving, maybe the panic won’t catch up. Maybe the cracks in my foundation won’t spread.

I reach for the fresh bag of sugar, mind buzzing, hands on autopilot as I empty it into the container from which I measure out the amounts I need, spilling a bit on the counter. Taking a cloth, I sweep it from the counter into my hand and freeze. My pulse skips. My breath hitches. My stomach turns cold, a thick weight dropping in my gut as dread claws up my spine. I can feel it; contained within the sugar crystals like a buried mine—glass—shattered, jagged, unmistakable.

This isn’t just careless. Not just bad luck. This is a deliberate act. An invasion disguised as an accident, a threat masquerading as a mistake. A message, yes—but not subtle. Bold. Brazen. And it had nearly slipped past my fingertips like a whispered warning I almost didn’t hear. Someone wants me scared. Someone wants me off-balance. And now, they have my full attention.

My breath catches like a snare tightening in my chest. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the bag, and my knees threaten to give out. My heart thunders against my ribs in a frantic, stuttering rhythm, so loud it drowns out the hum of the ovens, the music playing from the front, the rest of the world entirely. My vision blurs—not from tears, but from the sick, disorienting flood of adrenaline that says this isn’t an accident. Someone wants to hurt me.

I dump the sugar and the glass into the trash, seal the bag with shaking hands, and carry it out back with the stiffness of someone moving through a dream turned nightmare. The moment the lid snaps shut on the dumpster, the silence hits me—louder than the clatter of trays or the hum of the ovens. I make it back inside and to my office in a haze, each step heavier than the last, until I close the door behind me and press my back to it. Only then does my spine sag and my shoulders collapse inward, like the fear has finally found its way into my bones. I haven’t just found glass in a bag of sugar. The discovery proves that my safety has already been compromised. And that realization nearly knocks me to the floor.

My hands brace on the desk, chest heaving, as if the act of holding myself upright is the only thing keeping me from shattering. The walls feel too close, pressing in with a suffocating weight, and my skin itches like the air itself has turned hostile. My control—already shredded by weeks of unease and mounting failures—snaps in a silent scream behind my teeth, pain and fury tangled so tightly together I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I want to scream, to throw something, to cry, but all I can do is breathe through clenched teeth and pray the tremble in my legs doesn’t give me away.

I open my eyes to find Gideon standing behind me, feet planted wide like he owns the damn room, his attention locked on his phone screen with that impenetrable calm I’m coming to both resent and rely on. He looks quiet—comfortable, focused, and steady like nothing has rattled him all day. Like he hasn't just witnessed me fall apart.

"Found something," he says without looking up.

“So did I.”

Gideon looks up. “Tell me.”

I hesitate, arms crossed tight over my chest like I can hold the fear in by force. “There was glass. In the sugar.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in the room does—it goes still, sharper. “How much?”

“Enough that if I hadn’t seen it…” I shake my head, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t a broken jar or a crack in the bag. It was inside a new sealed bag. It was buried and hidden as if it was meant to be missed.”

He swears under his breath, low and quiet. “Anyone else touch it?”

“No. I dumped it. Bag’s out back, double-tied. But Gideon…” My voice dips. “That was no accident. Someone wanted it in the batter. Someone wanted someone to get hurt.”

His jaw flexes, but he says nothing.

That’s when I try to make light of it. I stare at him, pulse still thudding in my ears, my voice thinner than I mean it to be. “Do you just... lurk everywhere now?” My attempt at sarcasm falls flat, the edge dulled by the tremor I can’t quite swallow. I don’t know whether his presence annoys or relieves me—but the part of me that feels less alone also bothers me.

"Only where it matters," he replies, glancing up at me.

I move past him to see his phone. Delivery logs—columns of data, time stamps, product codes, signatures. My eyes catch on the repetition instantly. Three different shipments logged under the same ID number in the last ten days. The same manifest number. The same vendor name. But subtle differences in product weights, driver names, even crate markings. My throat tightens. That kind of discrepancy isn’t just oversight—it’s orchestration.

"These aren’t the same deliveries," I whisper.

“Nope.” His gaze lifts to mine, just for a second, and lingers. Not just to confirm what he already knows—but to check on me. The tightness in my voice. The tension in my shoulders. Something about me is off, and he clocks it. I can see it in the narrowing of his eyes, the subtle shift in his posture. He isn’t just focused on the sabotage. He’s reading me, too.

My fingers curl around the edge of the desk. “You’re sure?”

“Cross-referenced with footage. Different drivers. Different crates. Same manifest,” he says, choosing to ignore what I’m sure he’s seen in my demeanor.

I’m grateful, but I don’t want to be grateful. Gratitude feels too close to dependence, and dependence is dangerous. It makes my chest tighten in defense, even as something warmer—something quieter—uncoils just beneath the surface. I don’t want to feel the weird twist in my stomach that comes every time he looks at me like that—like this is more than a job to him. Like he sees me. Not just the bakery, not just the problem. Like I’m not alone in this. And maybe that’s what scares me most of all.

“Thanks,” I say, voice quiet.

He finally looks at me then, eyes dark and steady. “Don’t thank me. Just stay sharp.”

The words are simple. But the look? That look carries something weightier than reassurance. It’s steady, unreadable, and far too focused on me—not just the problem. It makes my throat close up, the pressure building there a mix of panic and something I refuse to name. Like he sees too much. Like he already knows what I’m trying so damn hard to hide.

I walk away before I say something I’ll regret—something sharp, something too raw. I clench my jaw so tight that my teeth ache. Gideon says nothing but follows behind me like a shadow made of flesh and purpose. I try to ignore him, but Gideon is a difficult man to ignore—too steady, too present, and far too good at making me feel like I’m not nearly as alone as I need to be.

That night, long after Gideon has left to do whatever shadowy patrol thing he does, I sit alone in my condo with the lights dimmed low and my pulse still fluttering beneath my skin. I can’t relax—not with the day’s unease still thrumming in my bones, not with the image of broken glass buried in sugar burned into the backs of my eyes. I replay it in my mind, the silence in the room so deep it seems to echo off the walls.

I watch the video Gideon left for me, dragging the cursor frame by painstaking frame, every second a punch of tension in my chest. Delivery by delivery blurs together, but my eyes stay locked to the screen, searching for something I can’t name—until it’s there. A flicker of movement. A shadow turning just enough to make my breath still in my lungs. I see it.

A hoodie. A posture. A flash of a jawline, a turn of the shoulder. Just enough to make my breath catch hard in my throat. My stomach drops, icy dread seeping into my limbs. It can’t be—but my body reacts before my brain can argue. I know that walk. That casual arrogance in the way they move, like they own the ground beneath their feet. And if I’m right—and God, I’m certain I am—then someone I once trusted, someone I’ve let into my world, has come back to tear it all down from the inside. This time, they’re not hiding anymore. They’re circling.