𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝟏𝟒

Sunday mornings were supposed to be my refuge—a quiet reprieve from the madness of the week. But today was different. My head felt like it was spinning in a dozen different directions, unable to focus. I sat at my kitchen island, fingers lightly tracing the rim of my raspberry tea cup, the warmth seeping into my skin.

Steam curled up lazily from the surface, carrying the scent of honey and fresh raspberries, a sweetness I usually loved, but today, it did little to calm my nerves.

My condo, usually a sanctuary, felt too quiet. The white marble floors with striking gray veins gleamed beneath the natural light streaming through the oversized windows.

They stretched from floor to ceiling, framing a view of the city that most would envy. I always loved how the light hit the glass, casting a soft glow across my minimalist furniture. The modern, clean lines of the white sofas and sleek coffee table gave the space a sense of calm. Usually.

Today, everything felt out of place.

I glanced at the black-and-gold business card Davis had given me, sitting next to my half-empty tea. His name stared back at me like a challenge, daring me to make the call.

My hand hovered over my phone for a second before I finally picked it up and dialed the number. The line rang, each ring echoing through the stillness of the condo, making my foot tap nervously against the cool floor.

"Good morning, Davis Maclean's Law Firm, how may I assist you?" a woman answered, her voice crisp and professional.

I cleared my throat, trying to shake the sudden tightness in my chest. "Hi, this is Sadira Kingston. I'm trying to reach Davis Maclean."

"One moment, please." The sound of rapid typing filled the line. I rubbed my temples, feeling the weight of the entire situation pressing down on me. My shop. My name on those papers. Davis's sudden appearance. None of it made sense.

"Sadira Kingston?" she asked, her voice interrupting my thoughts.

"Yes."

"He's currently in a meeting, but he mentioned you'd call. For representation, his fee is 50K."

The number hit me like a punch to the gut. "Fifty thousand dollars?" I repeated, my voice barely masking my shock.

I stood from the stool and paced the length of my kitchen, the marble floor cool beneath my feet.

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Maclean is one of the best in the city."

I shook my head, leaning against the counter. The thought of dropping that kind of money on legal fees made my stomach turn. I had the money—I wasn't worried about that. But 50K? For what?

"I'll be there tomorrow," I said, keeping my voice even, though annoyance bubbled up inside me. "Just make sure he does his damn job. Fifty thousand, huh? Tuh."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, probably from my tone, but I didn't care. I was too frustrated to play nice. I hung up, tossing my phone onto the counter and sinking back into my chair.

I took a long sip of my raspberry tea, but it had cooled too much. The sweetness tasted off now, too sugary.

I set the mug down and pressed my palms into the marble counter, the smooth surface grounding me for a moment. My condo felt too pristine, too calm for the chaos running through my mind.

The light poured through the windows, catching the glint of the marble floor, the gray veins swirling like smoke. Everything was so still—too still for what was happening in my life.

My mind raced back to the papers Davis had handed me, the name Tariq St. Patrick glaring back at me in bold type. I'd heard the rumors, whispers about the drug exchange gone wrong. Some people said Tariq might have been involved.

The name brought back memories of that day—the police, the tape around my bakery, and the headlines that followed. But why did any of it involve me? My bakery wasn't some hub for crime. It was just... mine. A place where people came for coffee, pastries, and a moment of peace.

And now, somehow, I was tangled up in this mess.

I exhaled, leaning against the kitchen island. Tomorrow, I'd face Davis Maclean. I'd find out why my bakery had been dragged into this, and I'd make sure he earned every penny of that absurd fee.

But the thought of facing him again—his confidence, the way he seemed to already know more than he let on—unsettled me.

Fifty thousand dollars, I thought, shaking my head. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.