Freya – Mini Cakes & Divorce Papers

“So we’re thinking a four-tier wedding cake. Each layer with a different sponge flavour, two varieties of cream between the tiers, sugar flowers, and a sculpted figure of us on top.”

The bride-to-be explains all this while flipping through a pile of wedding magazines. Her fiancé is noticeably absent.

It’s been raining since Thursday. Thin at first, then the kind of relentless downpour that turns the streets into mirrors. I had to cancel the kids’ training, which they took as a tragedy, and I took as a sign the universe was matching my mood. Everything feels heavier in weather like this. Slower. Like the sun from Wednesday’s practice was a lifetime ago.

I’ve been listening to her for the last twenty minutes, nodding and smiling as she goes on and on, though she still refuses to taste any of the sample cakes.

“I already bought my wedding dress,” she’d said earlier. “Do you want me to have a nervous breakdown?”

“Of course, that wouldn’t be a problem,” I tell her.

A lie.

I’ve never made a wedding cake this outrageous in my life.

“The wedding will be at The Old Mill. A reporter will be attending as well, so you’re very lucky we chose this run-down bakery. Your cake might even be featured in a magazine.”

Her posh voice drips with superiority, like everyone within a ten-metre radius is beneath her.

My eye twitches, and a cramp shoots up my leg at her rudeness. But the bakery is busy, and the last thing I need is a scene. I swallow it down, smile glued in place.

Somewhere out front, I hear Mia’s voice, soft but unmistakable, probably buying bread with her mother.

My stomach flips.

Her blunt question from the car flashes through my head.

“Coach Kaiden, do you have a girlfriend?”

It overwhelmed me almost as much as it overwhelmed him. I spent the rest of that drive staring out the window, seeing everything and nothing.

At the club afterwards, I grabbed my bag, mumbled a goodbye, and practically bolted home.

This morning, I texted Kaiden to ask if I’d left the locker keys in his car. I’ve torn the house apart looking for them. No sign.

“Uh… are you even listening?” the bride snaps.

“Yes, of course,” I say too quickly. “You… think the bakery is a run-down shop.”

Her lips pucker, judgmental and unimpressed.

“Anyway,” she continues, “since this wedding could bring your little bakery some publicity, I think a discount on the cake is in order. Compensation and all.”

I let out a laugh.

She doesn’t.

I choke mid-laugh as she stares at me, dead serious. “Uh… yeah.” I straighten, refusing to let myself or the bakery be used like this. “That’s not happening.”

The woman pauses, holding her posture as if she can intimidate me into backing down.

“I really think you should reconsider your answer,” she says, lifting her chin. “An opportunity like this won’t come again.” Her fingers lace together, like she’s praying for me to see reason.

The bell above the door chimes, sharp against the low hum of the bakery.

Mia freezes by the bread rack, eyes lighting up for a second too long.

My nose catches a familiar scent, warm coffee and the faint hint of cologne, just a second before I hear his voice.

“She said no.”

My heart jolts, warming in spite of myself.

I turn, and there he is.

Nathaniel stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, as if he’s been watching this whole time.

The bride rises, chin high.

“Well, this bakery has just missed an incredible opportunity to make a name for itself.”

Before I can answer, Nathaniel steps forward, voice steady.

“This bakery doesn’t need your opportunity. It’s packed to the brim with real people who actually live here.”

The chatter in the bakery dips, like everyone’s waiting to see how this ends. Even my grandmother pauses, hands stilling on the counter.

Her eyes widen, but he’s not done.

“And trust me,” he adds, “this place will still be here long after your divorce papers are signed.”

A sharp gasp snaps through the bakery.

My stomach drops.

Nathaniel looks completely unfazed.

The bride clutches her designer bag like we’re about to mug her and storms out, heels stabbing the floor. The door slams behind her.

A few customers exchange looks, half impressed, half amused.

“About time,” someone mutters under their breath.

Nathaniel meets my eyes.

He looks proud. Too proud.

And all I can think is that Kaiden is going to hear about this. And it’s going to land right in his lap.

“You didn’t have to play Prince Charming,” I say softly. I want to sound annoyed, but the truth is, I’m glad he stepped in. The sunlight frames him as he walks straight out of some heroic fairytale, and I hate how easily he fits the role.

It makes my legs weak and my pulse spike, just like the first time he got me to go on a date with him.

Back then, a couple of guys at the club had been giving me a hard time, half intimidating me, half trying to flirt. They wouldn’t back off until Nate stepped in. He offered a match, him and me against them.

They accepted. They lost.

I can still hear him afterwards, breathless and cocky, smirking like he’d planned it all along.

“Guess I’m the one taking you on a date.”

I fluster as the memory floods back, heat rising to my cheeks.

“When I see a damsel in distress,” Nathaniel says, shrugging like it’s obvious, “it’s my sworn duty to step in and look all awesome.”

He drops into the chair the bride had been using, and for a moment, he sounds exactly like the Nathaniel I used to know.

But his eyes… There’s something off.

Restlessness. Tension.

His posture is stiff, his shoulders too tight, like he’s holding something he won’t say. It unsettles me more than I’d like.

“You want to have dinner tonight?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them. “I might even save some of the mini cakes for dessert.”

His expression softens instantly. “I’d love to,” he says.

He stands, leans down, and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.

The bakery suddenly feels too warm.

Across the counter, my grandmother gives me a look, one eyebrow raised high in quiet disapproval.

Nathaniel doesn’t seem to notice.

He gets up, walks to the counter, and sets a few coins down without checking the price, like he’s done it a hundred times, grabbing two coffees like it’s routine. Then he’s already heading for the door, not explaining why he came here in the first place, or where he’s going now.

The bell rings again as he steps out, the noise of the street swallowing him up.

The bakery slowly fills back in, like nothing just shifted—but it did

❤️ Maliyka ❤️