ENFORCER’S REVENGE

CHAPTER ONE

Abby’s POV

I studied myself in the mirror one last time, smoothing a stray curl behind my ear and dusting flour off my cheek. My apron was clean—well, clean enough—and my lipstick had somehow survived the morning rush of baking and frosting.

“You’ve got this,” I whispered to my reflection, flashing a small, hopeful smile.

My name is Abby. Twenty-five. Daughter of the best baker I know and assistant manager of House of Pastry, the little corner bakery my mom opened when I was ten. Some people grew up around farms or parks—I grew up around cinnamon rolls, croissants, and the smell of melted butter.

Honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Mom says we sell memories, not just pastries. She’s not wrong. Customers come in for a treat and leave with something warmer—comfort, nostalgia, even a little slice of joy wrapped in a paper box. It’s not glamorous, but it’s real.

I stepped out of the back room into the golden glow of the shop. Sunlight poured through the display windows, warming the glass counters filled with cakes, pastries, loaves of bread, and sugar-dusted memories. A soft indie playlist drifted from the speakers, mixing with the comforting scent of fresh dough.

I scanned the dessert display with a little sigh. The strawberry shortcakes were slightly off-center, and the chocolate eclairs had a tiny drizzle inconsistency only I would notice. But still—I was proud of this place. It was home.

The bell over the door rang, pulling me from my mental checklist.

“Hi, welcome to House of Pastry,” I called out automatically, turning toward the entrance with a practiced smile.

And then I saw him.

He stood framed in the doorway, the early sunlight casting a faint halo around him. Tall, broad-shouldered, quiet. His skin was pale, and his hair was jet black, cropped clean but tousled like he didn’t care to fix it. He wore a white cotton sweater that clung just right, paired with grey khakis and unassuming flat shoes.

My throat went dry.

There was something about him—something arresting and still. He didn’t move like a man who wanted to be noticed. He moved like a man who expected not to be.

“Feel free to walk around until you know what you’d like to get,” I said, forcing a light tone into my voice.

He nodded once. Not cold, but reserved. Watchful.

And then, without a word, he started to browse. His eyes swept over the shelves, not with the wide curiosity of most first-time customers—but like someone used to evaluating places quickly. Efficiently. Silently.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice how his gaze lingered on the breads—our signature loaves, lined up like soldiers behind the glass.

He finally stopped in front of the sourdough.

I hurried over, brushing invisible crumbs from the counter. “Can I help you choose something?”

He glanced at me, his eyes like midnight—dark, unreadable, but not unkind.

“What kind of bread do you have?”

I smiled. “All kinds. Traditional white, sourdough, sugar loaves, butter rolls, even banana bread if you’re feeling fancy.”

He didn’t smile, but a tiny corner of his mouth twitched. “Just the regular bread. Plain.”

“Coming right up.”

I wrapped the loaf carefully in wax paper and sealed it with a burgundy ribbon—one of Mom’s touches. He pulled out cash, paid in exact change, and took the bread like it might break in his hands.

“Come again next time,” I said as I handed it over.

He met my eyes for a second. Just one heartbeat too long. “I definitely will.”

And then he was gone. Just like that.

The door jingled behind him, and the scent of cold air rushed in—chased by the warmth he left behind.

I stood there for a long second, still holding the ribbon spool in my hand.

Who was he?

I tried to go back to organizing the pastries, but my mind kept drifting—to his voice, his eyes, the way he stood like he didn’t belong but somehow fit here anyway.

God, get a grip, Abby.

The bell rang again.

“Hello, I’d like to buy a red velvet cake,” a deep voice said, jarring me out of my daze.

I turned to see a middle-aged man at the counter, his kind eyes crinkling with patience. I hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Oh! I’m sorry. Whole or sliced?”

“Whole, please. It’s for my anniversary. Thirty years, if you can believe that,” he said with a chuckle.

“Congratulations! That’s incredible.” I smiled as I turned to grab one of the fresh velvet layers from the cooling rack. “Any special design requests?”

“Nope. I trust you.”

That made me smile wider. “Coming right up.”

As I piped cream cheese icing into soft peaks, my fingers moved on autopilot. I found myself humming softly—an old jazz tune Mom used to play in the kitchen. The rhythm was soothing. Familiar. Nothing like the storm the stranger had stirred in my chest ten minutes ago.

When I finished, I turned the cake gently toward him. “Do you like it?”

He nodded, his eyes lighting up. “It’s beautiful.”

I boxed it carefully, then slid an extra pastry box across the counter.

“I only ordered one, dear,” he said.

I shook my head. “It’s on the house. Happy anniversary, sir.”

He looked touched—surprised, even. “You’re too kind.”

“You deserve it.”

He paid, thanked me again, and walked out with both boxes balanced in his arms.

And just like that, the bakery felt quiet again.

Too quiet.

My eyes drifted to the door, as if half-expecting the stranger to come back and say he’d forgotten something. But of course, he didn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Still… something about him had lodged itself under my skin. It wasn’t just his looks—though, God, those were unfair. It was something else. A sadness behind his eyes. A stillness that felt practiced.

Like a man who’d been running, and finally stopped.

I shook the thought away, forcing myself to focus on reorganizing the dessert shelf.

This was going to be a long day.

~•~•

The last customer left just before nine, taking with him the final slice of pecan pie and the warm, cinnamon-sweet smell of the bakery. I flipped the open sign to CLOSED, then turned the deadbolt with a soft click. The street outside had quieted, the laughter of the daytime crowd replaced by the occasional hum of tires and the rustle of wind through trees.

It was my favorite time of day.

Still, tonight, something felt different. Not wrong—just…off. Like the calm before a summer storm.

I turned off the front lights, leaving the bakery bathed in a gentle amber glow from the under-counter bulbs. The dessert display looked bare now, a few lonely eclairs and a caramel tart staring back at me like they’d missed all the fun.

“Mom,” I called toward the back kitchen, “I’m wiping down the front before heading out!”

“Okay, baby,” came her voice, muffled by the hum of the dishwasher. “Don’t forget to lock the side door!”

“Already did.”

I grabbed a cloth and started wiping the counters, letting the motions soothe me. But my mind kept drifting… to him.

He hadn’t said much. Barely a full sentence. But there was something in the way he stood, the way he looked at me—not like a man flirting or being polite. More like he was… trying to remember something. Or trying not to.

And God, that voice. Low. Controlled. Just enough gravel to make me think about it way too much hours later.

Snap out of it, Abby.

I shook my head and went back to wiping the espresso machine. Crushes on mysterious strangers didn’t pay bills.

From the corner of my eye, something flickered past the front window. A figure.

I paused.

It was quick—almost like a shadow moving past. I leaned a little, squinting through the glass, but saw nothing except the blurred streetlights and the reflection of my own face.

I told myself it was just someone walking their dog or heading home. Happens every night. But I still felt a small prickle on the back of my neck.

“Mom, you almost done?” I called, louder this time.

She stepped into the front, wiping her hands on a towel, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a high bun. “Yep. Everything’s rinsed and sealed for the morning.”

I nodded, grabbing my coat and slipping it on. “Want me to walk you to your car?”

She gave me a look. “Baby girl, I’ve been walking to my car since before you had teeth.”

I laughed, but the tension didn’t fully leave my chest. “Yeah, but still.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s a safe neighborhood. Your dad and I picked this spot for a reason.”

She kissed my forehead and gave me that mom look—the one that said I see right through you, but I’ll let it slide.

“Go on, I’ll see you in the morning.”

I watched her leave through the back entrance, waited until her car started, and only then let myself breathe fully again. I flipped the final light switch and stepped out into the night.

It was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful.

The kind that listened.

I started walking, the chilly breeze threading through my sleeves as I hugged my coat tighter. The bakery was only a few blocks from my apartment, and normally the short walk was my time to unwind. But tonight… the silence pressed in.

As I passed the alley near the corner, I glanced left out of habit.

And stopped.

Someone was standing there.

Just at the edge of the streetlight’s reach—half-shadowed, still. Too still.

My heart skipped.

It wasn’t fear exactly. More like instinct. Every nerve in my body sparked to attention.

And then he stepped forward.

It was him.

The man from earlier.

Same sweater. Same quiet presence.

Only now… he looked different. The light didn’t soften him. It made him seem carved. Sharper. Like whatever he’d been hiding during the day was now leaking out through the cracks.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at me.

Our eyes met—and held.

I should’ve said something. Can I help you? or Do you need directions? or even Why are you lurking like it’s a horror movie scene, sir?

But I didn’t.

Because something in his expression told me he wasn’t here to hurt me.

He was watching. For what, I didn’t know. But I wasn’t afraid.

“Are you…” I started, but he took a step back, melting into the alley like smoke.

Gone. Just like that.

I stood there for a second longer, staring at the empty space where he’d been. My pulse thrummed in my ears.

And then I kept walking.

When I got home, I double-locked my door, made tea, and sat on my couch with the TV on low volume. A baking show played in the background, but I wasn’t really watching.

I kept thinking about his eyes.

About that strange feeling in my chest.

Like something big was coming—and I had no idea what.