ENFORCER’S REVENGE

CHAPTER TWO

Abby’s POV

The apartment welcomed me with a soft creak of the door and the familiar scent of vanilla and linen. I stepped inside, locked the door behind me, and leaned against it for a moment, letting the silence soak in.

No ringing bell.

No ovens.

No small talk or pastries or eyes watching me from the shadows.

Just me.

I dropped my bag by the wall, kicked off my shoes, and padded into the bathroom, flipping the switch. The overhead light buzzed to life, casting a warm glow over the tiled space. My reflection met me in the mirror again—only now, she looked different. Still me, but… quieter. A little too thoughtful.

I twisted the faucet and let the tub fill. Steam slowly curled upward, blurring the glass as I added a few drops of lavender oil and vanilla soak. The fragrance was sweet, calming—like melted sugar and sleep.

As I undressed, I noticed the faint smudge of flour still clinging to the inside of my elbow. Bakery battle wounds, always finding ways to linger. I stepped into the tub, the water lapping up around my legs, warm and delicious. A soft exhale escaped my lips as I sank deeper, letting the heat wrap around me like a heavy blanket.

My eyes fluttered shut.

The city, the bakery, the world… all of it faded for a moment.

And then—him.

He was back again in my thoughts. That man. The stranger.

The weight in his eyes. The calmness in his voice. The way he watched the world, not like he belonged to it… but like he was studying it from the outside. And that moment in the alley tonight—him standing there, not saying a word.

He could’ve followed me.

He could’ve hurt me.

But he didn’t.

Why had he come back?

I let my head fall back against the edge of the tub, staring up at the ceiling, watching a drop of condensation trickle down the tile. Maybe I was being ridiculous. Maybe he was just a customer. A quiet, broody, extremely attractive customer who liked plain bread and had the presence of a gothic novel anti-hero.

I laughed softly under my breath, bubbles drifting around my knees.

Still… something about him didn’t feel like coincidence.

And that should’ve scared me.

But it didn’t.

It just made me feel… awake. More awake than I’d felt in months.

By the time I stepped out of the bath, my muscles felt like melted taffy. The tension in my shoulders had dissolved into the lavender steam, leaving me wrapped in a haze of warmth. I toweled off slowly, slipped into my favorite cotton sleep shirt—gray, oversized, with a cracked “Stay Soft” print across the front—and padded barefoot into the bedroom.

My apartment was modest. Cozy. The kind of place you light candles in, not because you’re trying to be romantic—but because it makes the shadows feel less lonely. A bookshelf full of old cookbooks and dog-eared novels lined one wall. String lights curled around the window frame like sleepy fireflies.

I pulled back the covers and sank into bed with a soft groan, dragging the comforter up to my chin. My phone buzzed on the nightstand just as I exhaled, and I reached over without looking.

Camille ……Calling…

I smiled.

“Hey,” I answered, voice soft and a little hoarse from the steam.

“Oh my God, finally,” Camille said dramatically. “I thought you’d ghosted me. Did you fall into the oven again?”

“Just got out of the bath,” I murmured, eyes half-lidded. “You called at the exact moment my bones turned to soup.”

“I’m honored,” she said. “I figured you’d be passed out by now. How was work?”

I stretched, listening to the crinkle of sheets. “Busy. Someone bought the entire batch of blueberry danishes. Mr. Martinez had an anniversary. And… a guy came in.”

“Ooooh. A guy?”

“Camille—”

“No, no. I know that tone. You said ‘a guy’ like you just read about him in a spicy romance. Tell me everything.”

I hesitated. “He was just… different. Quiet. He bought plain bread.”

“Bread-boy. Classic. Did he ask for your number?”

“Nope.”

“Did you offer it?”

“I—No!”

She laughed. “So you stared at each other like confused lovebirds and then he disappeared. Sounds like the plot of every book on your shelf.”

I groaned, covering my face with the blanket. “It wasn’t like that. I don’t even know his name.”

“But you will,” she teased. “Abby, this could be your meet-cute.”

“Or he could be a serial killer.”

“A hot serial killer,” she added. “Just… be careful. You attract mysterious broody men like sugar attracts ants.”

I laughed despite myself. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You better. Sleep well, sugarplum.”

“You too.”

The call ended, and silence fell again. But it didn’t feel heavy anymore. Just quiet.

I set my phone down, rolled onto my side, and let the soft hum of the night carry me away.

Dream Sequence

I was back in the bakery.

But it wasn’t my bakery.

Everything looked just slightly… off.

The walls were taller. The lighting was dimmer. The desserts sat untouched in the display case, their colors faded, like paintings drained of warmth.

I stood behind the counter in my apron, but my hands were bare. Clean. Too clean.

Then the doorbell jingled.

I looked up—and he was there.

Bread-boy.

Except this time, he wasn’t wearing a sweater. He was dressed in black, a long coat swirling around his legs like smoke. His eyes met mine across the room. Still quiet. Still unreadable.

But this time… I felt it.

Danger.

And something else.

Something that whispered, You know him.

He stepped forward. The room pulsed.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, voice softer than wind but heavy as stone.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

His eyes darkened.

“You should.”

Then a flash—

Red.

Bright red.

An envelope. On the floor. My hand reaching for it—

Blood.

Every cake in the shop suddenly split down the middle, frosting bleeding out in ribbons.

And I—

I gasped.

I sat upright in bed, heart pounding, breath shallow.

My apartment was still.

The string lights glowed softly.

The night was intact.

But the feeling lingered—like cold fingers trailing across the back of my neck.

I swallowed hard, brushed my hair back, and laid down again slowly.

It was just a dream.

That’s all.

Just a dream.

The sheets were tangled around my legs, my skin clammy despite the cool air drifting through the cracked window. The dream—the bakery, the red envelope, him—still clung to the edges of my mind like fog. Even as I blinked into the soft morning light, the chill of that moment refused to leave me.

It was just a dream, I told myself.

But my heart wasn’t so easily convinced.

I dragged myself out of bed and headed straight for the shower, trying to wash away the lingering unease. The warm water helped a little, loosening the tight knot at the base of my spine. I dressed quickly—cream-colored sweater, jeans, my favorite black flats—and tied my curls into a low puff before grabbing my keys and heading out.

The streets were still waking up as I made my way to House of Pastry. The scent of coffee shops opening, newspaper stands unfolding, and soft city noise grounded me. The ordinary rhythm of my world. Safe. Familiar.

I unlocked the bakery’s door and stepped inside, flipping on the lights. The soft hum of the ovens and the gentle glow of the overhead bulbs felt like a hug from home. Whatever weirdness I’d felt from that dream—I left it at the door.

Mostly.

By 8:30 a.m., the bakery was alive again—warm sugar in the air, steady flow of customers, orders coming in for birthday cakes and office treats. I was in the middle of icing a fresh tray of vanilla cupcakes when the bell over the door rang.

And everything inside me paused.

He stood there again—him. The stranger. As calm and silent as ever.

He wore a navy sweater this time, clean and simple, and his black hair was slightly damp, pushed back like he’d been out in the light rain. His presence filled the room even without a word. The customers behind him blurred. The sound of the playlist faded.

It was like the world tilted around him.

And he was staring right at me.

“Hi,” I said, a little breathlessly. “Welcome to House of Pastry. What can I get for you today?”

His eyes flicked to the display case, then back to mine. “Can I have some cupcakes?”

“How many?”

He lifted four fingers without saying a word.

I nodded, quickly placing the cupcakes—still warm—into a box. “Anything else?”

He shook his head. “No. Thank you.”

He paid in cash. Exact change. His fingers brushed mine for just a second as he took the box, and I swear I felt it in every part of my body.

“Come again,” I said softly.

But he didn’t reply. He turned and left the shop without looking back.

And still, I stood there—watching the door like he might change his mind.

But he didn’t.

⸻

The rest of the day passed in a blur of frosting and customer chatter. But even with all the noise, I kept seeing him. In flashes. In the reflection of the glass. In the quiet moments between orders. Every time the door chimed, my heart jumped in my throat.

By 9:00 p.m., the bakery was closed and cleaned, and I was on my way to the taxi park a few blocks down.

The air had turned cold, the kind of cold that warned of rain. The streets were quieter now, the crowd thinned, the light from the storefronts flickering in puddles forming along the curb.

I wasn’t surprised when I reached the taxi stand and found it empty.

Everyone else was already home. With their families. With warmth.

And then, like the universe needed to rub it in, the sky cracked open.

Heavy rain poured without warning, drenching me in seconds. My hair, my clothes—soaked through. My bag clung to my shoulder like a second skin, and my flats squished with every step.

Still, I didn’t move from the curb.

I was cold. I was frustrated. But I wasn’t going to cry.

I was about to give up and start walking when I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. A shadow. A figure. Someone was approaching through the curtain of rain, holding a large black umbrella.

Good, I thought. Someone else waiting for a taxi. At least I’m not alone now.

But the relief died quickly.

Because the figure didn’t stop.

He walked right past me.

And just as I turned to look back—

An arm wrapped tightly around my waist.

I gasped.

A sharp, chemical-sweet cloth pressed over my nose and mouth.

Panic exploded in my chest.

I tried to scream, tried to twist free, but the grip was iron. I fought to hold my breath, but the chemical seeped in anyway—hot and dizzying. The edges of my vision blurred. My legs gave way. The last thing I felt was the ground slipping from under me—

And then arms. Strong. Steady. Catching me.

The rain vanished.

I was inside a car. Soft leather. Dim lights. My breathing shallow.

The stranger was still there—beside me.

Watching.

And then everything went black.