Daunting Dream

Chapter 1.

Chapter 1: Making a Mess

Devon Drawson

Today is October 18.

The sun had barely risen over the skyline, casting long streaks of molten gold across the glass façade of Drawson Enterprises. From the street below, the tower looked like a blade of light piercing the clouds, a monument of ambition. Inside, however, the building was quiet, too quiet—like the calm before a storm.

The marble lobby gleamed with sterile perfection, every line of stone polished, every pane of glass spotless. Employees spoke in hushed tones, their shoes whispering against the floor, the kind of silence that carried an edge of fear. Everyone knew what day it was. Everyone knew the CEO’s mood would be razor-sharp.

“Leo!” My voice cracked like a whip across the lobby, ricocheting off the high ceilings. My footsteps struck hard against the marble, each one a warning.

The effect was immediate. A receptionist, wide-eyed, jerked and spilled her coffee across a stack of papers. Two interns panicked, diving into a copy room like fugitives. Keyboards froze mid-typing. The building held its breath.

I had arrived.

At his desk near the elevators, Leonard Lyle Langston—Leo, my assistant—flinched so violently his pen flew out of his hand. Poor man. Loyal, efficient, fast, but eternally nervous, like a deer working in a lion’s den.

“To my office. Now.”

He scrambled upright, nearly toppling his chair, and gathered his notepad and phone with fumbling fingers. By the time I strode into my office, he was on my heels, panting softly.

My office was everything people expected from me: sharp edges, black leather, stainless steel, and silence so heavy it swallowed sound. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framing the skyline like a painting. The kind of space where negotiations ended quickly—either in triumph or disaster.

I dropped my laptop onto the desk with a thud, powering it up. “Today is my mum’s birthday,” I muttered, almost to myself. The words felt strange in my mouth, too personal.

Leo blinked, stunned, as though the Devil himself had just mentioned family.

“Find a reliable baker,” I continued, my tone snapping back to clipped efficiency. “Two-tier cake—chocolate and velvet.”

Leo nodded furiously. “Okay, sir.” His pen scrawled the note, his eyes flicking up, still trying to process that beneath the armor of Devon Drawson existed a son who remembered birthdays.

He left the office in a flurry of steps, phone already pressed to his ear.

“Baby girl!” he greeted warmly once his call connected, his voice instantly softer, lighter, like another man entirely.

“Any bookings today?”

“Nope, why?”

“My boss’s mum needs a two-tier cake. Chocolate and velvet.”

“I’m in.”

“Bye, baby girl!”

“Bye, Leo.”

He hung up and leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly. Dream always came through. She was reliable, steady in a way he counted on. But Leo knew me.

Knew I wouldn’t just accept a casual favor.

I wanted official. Trackable. Something I could measure.

So, he did what any nervous assistant of mine would do. He opened his browser and typed: D&D Cakes.

The site was clean, elegant—pastel themes, glossy photos, raving reviews. A bakery with the polish of luxury, yet the warmth of artistry. Perfect.

When he reentered my office, he kept his voice steady. “Sir, I found a cake shop. Elegant and efficient.”

I didn’t even glance at him as I took the phone, scrolling briefly through the site. Approved.

“Call them. I’ll pick it up myself.”

Leo froze. “You… personally, sir?”

I finally looked up, my gaze slicing into him. “Do I stutter, Leopard?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “No, sir!”

---

At D&D Cakes

The bell above the bakery door jingled softly, announcing my presence. The moment I stepped inside, the air shifted.

The smell hit me first: butter melting into sugar, chocolate thick and decadent, vanilla sweet enough to stick to the walls. It clung to the air like a siren song. For a man who thrived on sharpness and order, the scent was suffocating. Too warm. Too soft. Too… human.

I wasn’t the sweet type. I was the boss. The feared one. But against my will, the fragrance tugged at something buried deep—a memory of my mother humming over a pan of brownies, of laughter before my father’s death had hardened me into steel. I pushed it away instantly, jaw tightening.

“I’m here for a cake,” I snapped.

Behind the counter stood a woman, her hair tied back with flour-dusted strands escaping like stubborn wisps. She didn’t even look up at my tone, just kept her hands busy closing a cake box.

“Drawson Enterprises,” I added, sharper.

“Alright,” she said simply, turning to fetch something. Her voice was calm, indifferent, as if my name carried no weight in her world.

The bakery around me was the opposite of my office: soft colors, pastel blues and pinks, shelves of pastries glowing under warm lights. Little chalkboard signs with curly handwriting announced specials of the day. It was cozy. Disarming. Annoying.

The door chimed again. Small footsteps.

“Mummy!”

The word rang like a bell of its own.

The woman—Dream, though I didn’t know her name yet—had the cake now, a perfect two-tier creation balanced in her hands as she tried to close the lid. Before she could react, a little girl with curls bouncing around her shoulders dashed across the shop and flung herself against her legs.

CRASH.

The cake hit the floor. Buttercream splattered across the tiles. Chocolate and velvet layers collapsed in a glorious ruin.

My jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

That voice. Those curls. Those wide eyes, glistening with guilt.

Them.

“You!!!” The word tore out of me like a roar. “I remember you two! Not again!”

The little girl—Doria—froze, then backed away, her head ducking like a turtle retreating into its shell. “I’m sorry, Mummy,” she whispered, shame dripping from her tiny voice.

“It’s okay, baby,” the woman soothed quickly, stroking her daughter’s hair. “Go see Auntie Leondra in the kitchen.”

“Clumsy fools,” I muttered under my breath, though the words tasted sour even as I spoke them.

Finally, the woman looked at me fully. Dream. Her gaze was steady, unflinching, sharper than any blade.

“You don’t need to insult us,” she said coolly. “I’ll bake another one. Free of charge. Drop your address here.” She held out a notebook.

I scoffed, offended by her calmness. “I’m a CEO. I pay for my cakes.”

Her brows lifted. “Mr. CEO. Mr. Drowning Demon. No wonder you’re rude. I was being nice.”

Before I could snap back, the door slammed open again.

“Dream Davina Dauntson!!! What did you do to my strawberry?! She’s been crying!”

A wild-haired woman stormed in, eyes blazing, apron askew. Leondra, no doubt. She looked like chaos incarnate.

I blinked. Who let this circus out?

“Mad people,” I muttered.

“I did nothing!” Dream shouted back instantly. “He yelled at her!” She jabbed a finger at me like I was the villain in a soap opera.

“I just raised my voice,” I said evenly. “She’s being childish.”

“She’s four, dummy! What do you want? Maturity?” Leondra barked, hands on hips.

“Leondra!” Dream gasped.

“What?!”

The little girl peeked out from behind her aunt, big eyes wet, lip trembling. “He is so mean,” she whispered.

Something twisted in me.

After my father died, I had locked my heart away. Friends, softness, laughter—all of it shut out. Coldness was survival. Harshness was armor. But that small voice, accusing me, pierced through a crack I didn’t know existed.

My fists clenched. Don’t let them see. Don’t let them see.

I straightened, forcing ice back into my veins. Without another word, I turned away.

“I’m leaving.”

At the door, I paused, not granting them the satisfaction of my face.

“Miss Daunting Dream,” I said flatly. “My assistant will collect the new cake. Don’t mess it up.”

And I walked out—dignity intact, chaos trailing behind me like smoke.