𝗨𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲

Chapter one

Isabella's POV:

Another day at the bakery was about to begin. As soon as my alarm buzzed, I sprang out of bed, my thoughts already racing ahead to the day's tasks. I quickly slipped into a cozy white sweater, a pair of well-worn blue jeans, and my trusty white Converse.

After a quick brush of my teeth and a quick fix of my hair, I was out the door, my backpack slung over my shoulder. Inside were my notebooks and pens—companions that never left my side.

At the bus stop, the morning air was crisp and cool. The bus arrived on time, thankfully not as crowded as usual. I was early today. As we rolled into Brooklyn, the streets were just starting to wake up. When I reached the bakery, the familiar sign that read 'Golden Bakery' greeted me. It was still early—8:30 am. We wouldn't open until 9:30, but I liked being here before the rush.As I approached the door, I spotted Ava, my best friend and partner-in-crime, hurrying toward me. She was still in her pajamas.

"I didn't have time to get ready," she blurted, a bit out of breath. "I almost missed the bus. I'llchange in the bathroom—I was out late last night."

"Good morning to you too," I replied with a smirk.

Ava rolled her eyes and dashed inside. Ava is the wild spirit between us—the kind who never misses a party and lives life with unapologetic flair. But she's also the one who's always been there, especially when I needed her the most.

Brooklyn has become my home, but I wasn't born here. I grew up in South Carolina. After my father's death, New York became my escape—a city big enough to swallow grief whole, or so I hoped. My dad was my only family, my best friend, my everything. He was a taxi driver, always working, always hustling. We only ever really had Sundays together, but those Sundays were golden.

When he died, I felt like the world had stopped turning. The news hit me like a freight train—I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The grief was suffocating, but Ava was there, holding me together when I was falling apart.

During his funeral, I felt the weight of everyone's pity, their sad eyes following me. I hated it. I didn't want anyone's sympathy. I just wanted him back. My mom left us when I was born, so it was always just me and him.

I never even saw her face, not really. There was a picture from their wedding that Dad kept tucked away, but he never talked about her. When I was little, I remember finding him looking at that photo, sadness in his eyes. I'd always say, "Don't worry, Dad, we're enough for each other." And we were, until we weren't.

A light touch on my shoulder snapped me out of my thoughts. Ava stood there, concern in her hazel eyes. "You okay? You've been daydreaming forever."I blinked, surprised to feel a tear rolling down my cheek. "I was just thinking about Dad," I murmured, wiping it away.

She squeezed my shoulder gently. "I made your favorite..."

But before she could finish, a burnt smell filled the air. We exchanged a horrified look."The kitchen!" we yelled in unison, bolting toward the back. I yanked open the oven, and a thick plume of black smoke billowed out. Ava quickly opened the small window above the stove, letting the smoke escape.

When I pulled out the tray, I couldn't help but laugh. The charred lump on it barely resembled a cake.

Ava doubled over, laughing with me. "I was trying to bake a cake to cheer you up, but...""It's the thought that counts," I said, grinning as I nudged her. The next two hours were spent cleaning up the mess, and even though the cake was a disaster, I appreciated her effort.

By 11:00 am, the bakery was sparkling clean and filled with the aroma of fresh pastries. I decided to use the quiet time to catch up on some studying. Interior design has always been my passion, and I'm determined to make something of it. Ava settled onto the sofa beside me, munching on a croissant she had just baked. I usually skip breakfast, even though it sometimes makes me feel queasy. It's just too early for me to eat.

As I pulled out my notebooks, the front door creaked open. I looked up and froze.A man walked in, exuding an air of quiet confidence. He was tall—easily 6'4"—and wore a sharp suit that hinted at power and authority. His features were bold, his gaze intense. Two equally imposing men followed closely behind him, their presence silently demanding respect.

The man with the suit had dark, wavy hair, and when our eyes met, I felt a jolt run through me. His eyes were a deep brown, warm but guarded, like there was a story hidden behind them. He carried himself with the kind of ease that only comes from being used to command.

He smelled incredible—a mix of woody, smoky, and spicy scents that lingered in the air. For a moment, we were locked in a silent exchange, neither of us looking away.Then he spoke, his voice low and smooth. "Do you work here?"