Sugar on His Lips

Chapter 2: Allergy Warning

The first time Callum Wolfe almost died, he was eight years old.

It was his birthday. Chocolate cake with vanilla buttercream. His mother made it from scratch because “bakery frosting tastes like regret, anak.” She’d piped his name in blue, crooked letters. He’d blown out nine candles one to grow on and taken a bite.

Thirty seconds later, his throat closed.

He remembers the ceiling tiles. White. Square. Counting them while his mother screamed for an EpiPen she didn’t have. He remembers the paramedic’s hands, the oxygen mask, the way his father didn’t cry at the hospital. His father only cried once, three months later, at her funeral.

The cause of death wasn’t listed as chocolate cake. It was anaphylaxis secondary to undiagnosed tree nut and glucose intolerance, complicated by delayed epinephrine administration.

Callum was allergic to sugar. All of it. Sucrose, glucose, fructose. Even the trace amounts in “sugar-free” labels. His body treated sweetness like poison because, for him, it was.

He learned three things that year:

1. Love tastes like death.

2. Never eat what someone made for you.

3. Bakers are liars. They say “just one bite” like it’s mercy.

He didn’t sleep after the gala.

He sat in his penthouse kitchen at 3:17 a.m., jacket still on, staring at his thumb. The one he’d licked.

Stupid. Reckless. Childish.

His assistant, Marco, was already drafting the apology email to the Swiss investors. “Minor catering miscommunication. No reflection on Wolfe Industries’ commitment to local partners.”

Local partners. Like Lola’s Panaderia.

He’d had the building report on his desk for six weeks. Anda Street rezoning. “Pedestrian improvement initiative.” The wall was his. The permits were his. The engineer who’d shrugged at her was his.

He hadn’t known the bakery was hers. He hadn’t known she existed until she put pan de sal on his table like it was a challenge.

Like she knew him.

He pulled out his phone. Typed Lila Reyes Davao before he could stop himself.

First hit: Lola’s Panaderia f*******: page. 1,204 followers. Last post three days ago. Photo of an old woman in a hospital bed, holding a pan de sal. Caption: Lola Fe says the bread tastes better when Lila is mad. So we’re always mad. #DavaoStrong #SupportLocal

He clicked the photo. Zoomed in. The old woman’s hands were Lila’s hands—smaller, age-spotted, but the same square nails, same flour in the cuticles.

His chest did something it hadn’t done since he was eight.

It ached.

He threw the phone across the room. It hit the Sub-Zero fridge and clattered to the floor.

His throat was fine. No hives. No swelling. It had been a crumb. A nothing.

So why could he still taste it?

Marco found him at 6 a.m.

“You look like death,” Marco said, setting coffee on the island. Black. No sugar. Never sugar. “The board wants a statement about the ‘bread incident.’ Some guest posted a video. You’re trending as #PanDeSalCEO.”

Callum didn’t look up from his tablet. He was reading her BIR filings. Lola’s Panaderia. Net loss, three years running. Outstanding loan: ₱1.2M Collateral: the building.

Due in 90 days.

She’s going to lose it, he said.

Who?

He closed the tablet. “No one. What video?”

Marco turned his phone around. Shaky footage from the gala. Callum, back to camera, picking up the pan de sal. The tear. The bite. The way he’d frozen after. Then Lila, face blurred, stepping into frame. Her voice, tinny: “If you’re going to insult my city, at least do it accurately.”

The comments were vicious.

@FoodieDVO: He ate it!#BillionaireHypocrite

@WolfeWatch: Mr. “Nostalgia doesn’t build cities” eating nostalgia. The irony.

@LolaFeDefenseSquad: Leave Lila alone you concrete monster

Concrete monster. Accurate.

“Kill it,” Callum said.

“We can’t. It’s organic. But we can bury it. PR’s drafting a piece about your childhood in Davao, your commitment to—”

“No.”

Marco blinked. “No?”

“No puff piece. No statement.” Callum stood. His head swam. He hadn’t eaten in fourteen hours. “Where is she now?”

“Lila Reyes? Probably her bakery. Why—”

“Get the car.”

Lola’s Panaderia looked smaller in daylight.

The wall he’d built cast a shadow over the doorway at 10 a.m. Inside, it smelled like yeast and defeat. The glass case was half-empty. A hand-written sign: No leche flan today. Fridge kaput. Sorry po.

She was behind the counter, hair in a messy bun, flour on her cheek. She wore the same chef’s coat from last night, sleeves rolled up. There was a smear of something green on her forearm. Pandan. She’d been baking.

She didn’t see him at first. She was arguing with an old man over the price of pan de coco.

“Tay, it’s ₱15 now. Flour went up.”

“Before, ₱10 lang!”

“Before, your jeepney fare was ₱7. Now it’s ₱15.You want me to sell at a loss so you can feed your apo?”

The old man grumbled but paid. He left muttering about “Wolfe’s wall.”

Then she saw him.

Her face went still. Not scared. Not angry. Blank. The way people get when they’re bracing for a punch.

“We’re closed,” she said.

“It’s 10:12 a.m.,” Callum said. “Your hours say 5 a.m. to 6 p.m.”

“We’re closed to you.”

Jem appeared from the back, lip ring glinting. Took one look at Callum and grabbed a rolling pin. “You got five seconds to leave before I make ube pin out of your head.”

“Jem,” Lila said. Quiet. Jem lowered the pin but didn’t let go.

Callum stepped inside. The bell over the door jingled. It sounded like an apology.

“I came to pay you,” he said.

Lila’s eyes narrowed. “The second half of the contract. It was due last night.”

“It’s being processed.”

“It was due on delivery. We delivered.”

“You delivered bread I told you to remove.”

“You ate the bread you told me to remove.”

Checkmate.

Jem made a small ohhh sound.

Callum’s scar pulled. That was—

“A crumb,” Lila finished. “Yeah. I was there.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “You don’t owe me money, Mr. Wolfe. You owe me an explanation. Why did you run last night like I poisoned you?”

Because you did, he thought.

He said, “I have a condition.”

“We all have conditions. Mine is debt. What’s yours?”

He couldn’t say it. Not here. Not with the smell of pan de sal in the air and her looking at him like he was a man, not a market cap.

“Marco will wire the payment today,” he said instead. “With a late fee.”

“I don’t want your late fee.”

“Everyone wants my money.”

“I want my sidewalk back.”

There it was.

The wall. The permits. The reason her walk-ins dropped 80%. The reason her fridge died and she couldn’t fix it.

Callum looked at the photo above the oven. Lola Fe, 22, victorious. For the first time, he noticed the bakery behind her in the photo. It wasn’t this building. It was smaller. Wooden. Anda Street, 1979. Acacia trees out front.

His mother had grown up two blocks from there.

“I’ll have it removed,” he heard himself say.

Lila blinked. “What?”

“The wall. It was temporary. For construction. We’re done. I’ll have it down by Friday.”

Jem dropped the rolling pin. It clattered.

Lila didn’t move. “Why?”

Because you looked at me like I was poison and I didn’t want to be.

Because your lola’s hands look like yours.

Because nostalgia doesn’t build cities, but it keeps them alive.

“I don’t like bad PR,” he said. It was a lie. He didn’t care about PR. He cared about the way her name tasted in his mouth when he said it. Lila. Like lilac. Like something that could grow through concrete.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

“You don’t have to. Just send me the invoice for the fridge.”

“I’m not taking your money.”

“Then take the wall.” He turned to go. At the door, he stopped. “One more thing.”

She waited.

“The pandesal. It wasn’t dry.”

He left before she could answer.

Marco was waiting in the car. “You bought her a new wall?”

“I removed one.”

“That’s not in the budget.”

“Put it under ‘community relations.’”

Marco stared. “You ate the bread. Didn’t you?”

Callum didn’t answer.

“You have an EpiPen in your glove box,” Marco said quietly. “And in your jacket. And your office. You haven’t used one in six years. You don’t eat anything not made by Chef Arnaud in a sterile kitchen. What happened?”

Callum looked at his thumb. No hives. No swelling.

“I don’t know,” he said.

And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

Lila watched the crew tear down the wall three days later.

It took twelve hours. Jackhammers Dust Anda Street reopened like a wound.

Customers trickled back. An old woman bought two dozen pan de sal and cried into her eco bag. “I thought you closed, anak.”

Lila didn’t correct her.

At 5 p.m., a black SUV parked out front. Marco got out. He carried a small box. Didn’t come in. Left it on the counter and left.

Inside: a new compressor for her display fridge. Top of the line. Note attached, typed.

For the leche flan. – C.W.

No signature. Just initials.

Jem whistled. “He’s either stalking you or in love with you. Both are illegal.”

“He feels guilty,” Lila said. But her hands shook unboxing it.

That night, she baked. Leche flan. Perfect. No burnt sugar. She sent a tray to Lola’s hospital room with a note: From the man who tore down the wall.

Lola Fe ate two.

Aling Marites texted at 9 p.m.She asked if he’s handsome. I said yes. She said “Good. Tell Lila to feed him. He looks hungry.”

Lila stared at the text.

Feed him.

She thought of his grey eyes. The scar. The way he’d licked the crumb off his thumb like it was a sin.

The way he’d run like she was poison.

I have a condition, he’d said.

Lila pulled up Google. Typed *Callum Wolfe allergy.

Third result: BusinessWorld, 2016.

Wolfe heir hospitalized after charity gala. Sources say severe allergic reaction. Wolfe Industries declined comment. Speculation ranges from shellfish to—

The article was cut off. Paywall.

Lila’s stomach dropped.

She typed Callum Wolfe sugar allergy.

Nothing.

She tried Callum Wolfe anaphylaxis.

One hit. A Reddit thread from 2019. DavaoBlind.

“My cousin was a nurse at DMC. Says Wolfe Jr. is allergic to like, everything. Sugar, nuts, even rice? Idk. Family keeps it quiet. Dude travels with like 5 EpiPens.”

Comments: Fake Source: trust me bro.

Lila’s hands went cold.

She looked at the pandesal on her cooling rack.

She thought of him biting it. Chewing. Swallowing.

She thought of him running.

I have a condition.

You ate the bread you told me to remove.

That was—

A crumb.

Lila stood up so fast her chair fell.

He was allergic.

To sugar.

And she’d fed him pan de sal.

And he’d licked her crumb off his thumb.

“Oh my god,” she said to the empty bakery.

She’d tried to kill Callum Wolfe.

End of Chapter 2