Chapter 2.
1355 Words
Chapter 2: The New Cake.
Dream Dauntson.
My name is Dream Davina Dauntson, but my friends call me Davey.
The evening sun cast long shadows through the bakery window as I leaned over the counter, my hands dusted in flour, chocolate streaked across my apron. The smell of velvet cake wafted through the room like a rich, comforting cloud, but my expression was anything but relaxed.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, aggressively whipping the frosting like it owed me rent. “Who yells at a kid for hugging her mother? Who shouts like a deranged rhino in a bakery?”
Meet Lucinda Leondra Lincoln—my best friend and assistant baker. She’s also a banker: bank in the morning, bakery in the evening.
She’s my gist partner, my partner in crime and chaos.
I call her Lucy for short.
Leondra sat nearby with a cup of tea, scrolling through her phone and peeking over the rim with amusement.
“You know,” Lucy said, smirking, “you’re putting more venom in that buttercream than necessary. That cake’s going to bite someone.”
“Good,” I snapped, slamming the piping bag onto the counter. “I hope it bites him right in the ego. Mr. Drowning Demon thinks because he has money, he can walk into people’s lives and bark orders.”
Leondra chuckled. “And yet, here you are, baking him another cake.”
“For his mum, not for him,” I said. “His mum deserves sweetness. He deserves dry bread.”
From the corner, Dorey peeked in, hugging her teddy bear. “Mummy? Are you mad at the yelling man?”
My expression softened. I crossed the kitchen and knelt by my daughter.
“No, baby. Mummy’s just… whisking away some stress. Want to help me decorate the new cake?”
Dorey nodded eagerly and scampered in, dragging a stool next to the counter.
Leondra sighed dramatically. “This cake better win an award. Or burn his mansion down. Either works for me.”
I started baking at twenty when I left the orphanage.
I took interest in baking because my late mum was a baker, from stories I heard from Mrs. Wilma Wonder Williams.
Mrs. Wilma Wonder Williams—my mum’s best friend—took me in when no one else did. She brought me to her orphanage and raised me as her own. She became my father, my mother, my everything.
I call her Mum, or Mrs. Willy when I want to tease her.
Sometimes, when the bakery smells just right—sugar caramelizing, butter melting—I can almost hear Mrs. Willy’s voice telling me I inherited my mother’s hands. Hands that create warmth. Hands that heal with food. Hands that, apparently, now bake for arrogant CEOs with too much jawline and not enough manners.
The memory grounded me, slowed my breathing. My whisk softened its pace, the frosting smoothing into glossy perfection. Still, my shoulders were tense. His voice lingered in my head, sharp as a whip: You!!! I remember you two! Not again!
Not again? What did he even mean by that? I shook the thought away.
Ten minutes after Dammy’s stormy exit, the door opened again. This time, the air didn’t shift with tension. Instead, a breeze of familiarity swept in as Leo stepped inside, sunglasses still on, phone in hand.
“D&D Cakes, sweet heaven,” he muttered, scanning the room.
“Baby girl?” he called out playfully.
From the kitchen, I emerged—flour smudged on my cheek, an apron that read Bake it ’til you make it, and that radiant smile he’d always adored.
“Leo Leopard!” I beamed, spreading my arms. “Come here, you beautiful nuisance!”
We hugged like old friends who’d seen too many years and picked up like it was yesterday.
Leo held me at arm’s length. “You look like a cupcake exploded on you.”
“And you look like a stockbroker trying to be cool.”
We both laughed.
“How bad was it?” he asked.
“On the scale of one to catastrophe?” I said, picking cake crumbs off the counter. “Epic. Your boss is a disaster in tailored suits.”
“Yeah, that sounds like him.” Leo shook his head. “He told me to pick up the new cake. Is it ready?”
“Almost,” I replied, gesturing to the oven. “And this time, no cake meets the floor. Promise.”
A small voice peeked from behind the curtain. “Uncle Leo?”
Leo turned and dropped to his knees. “Dorey-girl! Come give your favorite uncle a hug!”
Dorey sprinted into his arms and he scooped her up like a feather.
“I missed you,” she said, burying her face into his neck.
Leo’s eyes softened. “I missed you too, strawberry.”
Leondra walked in with crossed arms. “Well, well, if it isn’t Dream’s other boyfriend.”
Leo grinned. “Leondra, still terrifying I see.”
“All hail the Lioness,” I chipped in.
“Still irritating, I see,” she snapped back.
I rolled my eyes. “Can we get this cake done before World War Four starts?”
“You two should get married already,” I murmured under my breath.
Lucy leaned closer and whispered to Leo, “She called him Mr. Drowning Demon.”
I choked on my laughter. “Because he’s drowning in arrogance.”
We all erupted in laughter, the shop filled with warm chaos, childhood echoes, and the sweet smell of redemption-in-the-making.
In the corner, the new two-tier cake cooled patiently—a silent witness to the beginning of something big.
The bakery glowed under the golden light, frosting bags scattered, bowls stacked, sugar dust glittering in the air like magic. It wasn’t just a kitchen anymore—it was my battlefield, my sanctuary, and apparently the stage for fate to meddle again.
---
Later that evening, Devon entered his mother’s quiet mansion. The clink of keys, the muted beep of the alarm system.
“Mum?” he called softly.
Dakota Dariela Drawson peeked from the sitting room with a warm smile.
“There’s my Dammy. You’re late.”
“Cake drama,” he muttered, removing his tie.
“Did you get it?”
“Not exactly. There was… an accident. But they’re baking another one.”
“You didn’t shout at anyone, did you?”
Devon hesitated.
Dakota raised a brow. “Dammy.”
“Fine. I might’ve raised my voice.”
She shook her head. “That poor baker.”
Devon walked into the kitchen, rolled his sleeves, and started prepping dinner like he did every evening. The mansion was luxurious—crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains, marble countertops—but the kitchen was the heart. Here, he could control something. Chop, measure, season. Predictable, unlike people.
“You don’t need to cook, darling.”
“It’s tradition. Besides, the smell of velvet cake still haunts me.”
As he chopped onions and set the chicken to roast, Dakota watched from the doorway. Her eyes, warm and wise, saw more than he ever wanted to admit.
“You work too hard, you know. And push people too far. One day, someone will stand toe-to-toe with you and not back down.”
Devon looked over his shoulder.
“Already happened. Today. She called me Mr. Drowning Demon.”
Dakota burst into laughter. A genuine, belly-deep laugh that filled the mansion with warmth. “She sounds perfect.”
He grumbled under his breath but couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at his lips.
“Dammy?”
“Yeah, Mum?”
“I hope she makes that cake with love. And I hope… she gets under your skin just enough to remind you how to feel.”
Devon stirred the pot silently.
Too late, Mum. She already did.
The clock ticked softly. The scent of roasting chicken filled the kitchen, but beneath it, Devon still smelled velvet cake—warm, soft, dangerous.
And for the first time in years, he felt unsettled.
- Writer
