[Christy]
The oven died at exactly 9:00p.m.
I remember the time because I looked at the wall clock right after the smoke hit my face. The old thing had been coughing and wheezing all week, but tonight it gave one loud bang, a puff of black smoke, and then silence. Dead. Gone. Like my hope for the holiday season.
I stood in the middle of Christy's Treasures, my little bakery on my Church Street. Flour was all over my black jeans and black apron. My hands were sticky from frosting. The smell of burnt sugar filled the air, sweet at first, then sharp and sour, like a lie you can't wash off.
I yanked open the oven door. Heat rushed out and slapped my cheeks. Inside sat twenty four peppermint mocha cupcakes I had been counting on for tomorrow. Now they were black lumps, hard as rocks. I had promised Mrs. Gavin, the church lady, that I would have them ready for her Christmas tea party. She was bringing thirty people. That order was supposed to pay the electric bill.
"Perfect," I said out loud. My voice filled with sarcasm sounded small in the empty shop. "Just perfect."
I grabbed the hot tray with the help of my napkin and dropped it on the steel counter. The metal clanged loud enough to make me jump. Crumbs flew everywhere. One landed on my shoe like a tiny burnt snowflake.
Outside the big front window, snow was falling hard. The Christmas lights on the street blinked green, red, and gold. People walked by in thick coats, laughing, carrying shopping bags. The town was getting ready for the big Christmas market tomorrow. Everyone was happy. Everyone except me.
I pulled out my phone from my apron pocket. A new email waited. The subject line made my stomach twist:
FINAL NOTICE: FORECLOSURE IN 30 DAYS
I opened it with shaky fingers. The bank was done waiting. I owed $30,000. If I didn't pay in the next thirty days, they would take the bakery. My bakery. The one my mom started sixteen years ago. The one she left me when she and Dad died.
I sat down hard on the wooden stool behind the counter. My legs felt like jelly. The shop was quiet now. Just the soft hum of the fridge in the back and the tick tock of the clock. I looked around slowly.
The brick walls were painted in light pink. My mom had picked the color. The chalkboard menu still had my handwriting on it… A cocktail $4.50, Gingerbread Men $2 each. The fairy lights above the counter were shaped like tiny snowflakes. They twinked even though the shop felt dark inside me.
This place was everything. After the accident, it was the only thing that kept me going. I was twelve when they died on Christmas Eve. Dad was driving too fast to get home with more sprinkles. The car hit a tree. I got the call at my friend's house. I still remember the police officer's voice… "Am I speaking to Christy? You need to come to the hospital."
I never got to say goodbye. Mom was already gone. Dad lasted for only an hour. I held his hand while the machines beeped slower and slower. Then nothing.
After that, Aunt Beatrice took me in. But the bakery stayed closed for a year. When I turned eighteen, I reopened it. I learned to bake from Mom's old recipe book, the one with coffee stains and notes in her curly writing. Add extra vanilla for love, she wrote on the sugar cookie page.
Now the bank wanted to take it all.
I rubbed my eyes. They were wet. No time for tears. I needed a plan. Fast.
Option one, the Christmas market tomorrow. If I sold every cookie, every latte, every cupcake, I might make $800. Not even close to $30,000.
Option two, call Aunt Beatrice. She had money. But she would lecture me for an hour about "getting a real job" and "stop living in the past." No thanks.
Option three, sell the recipe book. Or the mixer. Or my kidney. Kidding. Maybe.
I stood up and started cleaning the mess. I scraped the burnt cupcakes into the trash, the smell made me gag. I opened the back door to let in cold air. Snow blew in and melted on the floor.
That's when the bell above the front door jingled.
I turned fast, wiping my hands on my apron. A man stepped inside. He was tall, way over six feet. His dark wool coat was covered in fresh snow. He shook it off like a big dog after a bath. Water droplets flew everywhere.
His hair was black and a little messy, but in a rich way, like he paid someone to make it look perfect. His face was sharp. strong jaw, high cheekbones, gray eyes that looked like a storm was coming. He didn't smile. He just closed the door and looked around the shop like he owned it.
Then his eyes landed on me.
"Evening, Christy James," he said so casually.
My heart stopped. "How do you know my name?"
He didn't answer. He walked to the display case. His boots left wet prints on the wood floor. Inside the case sat six brownies, four gingerbread men, and two sad blondies. Everything else was gone, or burnt.
"Cupcakes," he said. His voice was deep and calm, like he was ordering coffee, not talking in a failing bakery. "One hundred. Peppermint mocha."
I laughed. It came out high and nervous. "Uh… sir, the oven just died. Like, five minutes ago. I have gingerbread. Or brownies. I can give them to you for free since it's late and snowy."
He looked past me at the burnt tray on the counter. His gray eyes moved slow, taking in every detail. The smoke marks, the broken cupcakes, the foreclosure email still glowing on my phone screen. Then he looked back at me.
"Two hundred cupcakes," he said. "Whatever you can bake by morning."
My mouth opened. Nothing came out. Two hundred cupcakes? In one night? With no oven?
He reached into his coat and pulled out a black credit card. He slid it across the counter. The name on it was DAMON MICHAELSON
I knew that name. Everyone in the city did. The Michaelson Industries. Oil Tech. Billions. They had the kind of money that can buy the whole town, not cupcakes. I have heard rumors about how cold, intimidating and ruthless he could be. Why was he here?
"I can't," I said. My voice cracked. "The oven is broken. I don't have enough sugar. Or eggs. Or time."
He didn't blink. "Deliver them to the Michaelson's Hotel, Room 1400. 6:30a.m. Cash when you arrive."
"Cash?" I asked.
"Two million dollars."
I stared at him. Two million dollars. For cupcakes. My brain couldn't compute. Was this a trick? A prank? Was I on some rich guy reality show?
"You didn't answer my question," I said. My voice was stronger now. "How do you know my name?"
He leaned forward a little. Close enough that I smelled his cologne, wood and smoke and something cold. His eyes locked on mine.
"I know what's worth saving," he said.
Then he turned and walked out. The door closed with a soft click. Snow swirled in for a second, then settled on the mat.
I stood frozen, holding his black card. It was heavy. Cold. Real.
Two million dollars.
Enough to pay the bank. Fix the oven. Buy new mixers. Hire help. Breathe.
I looked at the clock. 9:30 p.m. Nine hours until 6:30a.m.
I grabbed my phone and texted Sophia, my best friend and only employee.
SOPHIA!! CODE RED. GET HERE NOW. BRING EVERY EGG YOU OWN.
Then I ran to the walk-in fridge. I had:
20 pounds of flour
15 pounds of sugar
6 dozen eggs
3 bottles of peppermint extract
Cocoa powder, butter, milk
Not enough for two hundred cupcakes. But enough for fifty. Maybe sixty if I could stretch and manage it.
I grabbed my keys and ran out the back door. The 24 hour grocery store was three blocks away. Snow soaked my sneakers. The cold bit my face. But I didn't care.
I bought: 10 more dozen eggs
20 pounds sugar
15 pounds flour
5 bottles peppermint
3 blocks of chocolate
2 gallons milk
The cashier raised an eyebrow at my crazy eyes and messy hair. I paid with my last credit card. Maxed it out. Didn't care.
Back at the bakery, Sophia was waiting. She wore pajamas under her coat and had flour in her curly hair already.
"What is happening?" she asked. "You said code red. Is the shop on fire?"
"Worse," I said. "A billionaire wants two hundred cupcakes by morning. And he's paying two million dollars."
Sophia blinked. "Say what now?"
"No time. Help me."
We turned on every portable oven, every hot plate, every burner. The kitchen became a war zone. Bowls clattered. Eggs cracked. Sugar spilled. The radio played Christmas songs, Jingle Bells never sounded so stressful.
By 11 p.m., we had sixty cupcakes baked in the small backup ovens. They weren't perfect. Some were lopsided. Some had too much peppermint. But they were edible.
By 1 a.m., we hit one hundred. My arms ached. My back screamed. Sophia's eyes were red from no sleep.
By 3 a.m., we reached one hundred fifty. We used every pan, every liner, every drop of batter. The last batch went in at 3:30. We collapsed on the floor, backs against the fridge, eating raw cookie dough from the spoon.
"You think he's serious?" Sophia asked. "Two million?"
"I hope so," I said. "Because I just spent my last dollar on eggs."
At 5 a.m., we boxed them. Green and red ribbon. Little tags that said 'Christy's Treasures. Made with Love'. My hands shook as I wrote the last one.
At 5:30, I called an Uber. The driver helped load the boxes. Twenty in total. We smelled like sugar and sweat.
At 5:55, we pulled up to the Michaelson's Hotel. Fancy gold doors. Doormen in black and red coats. I looked like a crazy baker who hadn't slept in a week.
Immediately I told the receptionist Room 1400, she immediately showed me the way to the hotel room as though she had been me.
I knocked.
The door opened.
Damon Michaelson stood there in a black sweater and jeans. No coat. No snow. Just him. His gray eyes looked me up and down, messy hair, flour on my cheek, boxes in my arms.
"You came," he said.
"One hundred fifty," I said. "Best I could do."
He stepped aside. "Bring them in."
I walked into the biggest hotel room I'd ever seen. Floor to ceiling windows. Snowy lake view. A fireplace crackling. A table set with coffee and fruit.
He took the boxes. Set them down. Then pulled out a thick envelope.
"Two million," he said. "As promised."
I took it. My hands shook. It was heavy. This is actually real!!
"Why?" I asked. "Why so generous towards me?"
He looked at me for a long time.
"Because," he said, "I need something from you"
My heart stopped again.
This wasn't about cupcakes.
This was about something bigger.
And I had just walked right
into it.