Chapter 3~The Dinner Ambush

Elodie’s POV

The screen glows brighter than it should in the dark office. 

€500,000. 

This Christmas. The words blur for a second, then snap back sharply. Hart Holiday Bake-Off. National television. Live finale on Christmas Eve. Open entry for passionate bakers. Winner takes the prize and a lifetime partnership with Hart Culinary House.

My thumb hovers over the “Apply Now” button.

I sit up so fast the cot creaks. Heart hammering. This can’t be a coincidence. Not today. Not after the red notice. Not after Mama Vee walked out and took half the town with her. €500,000 would wipe the debt clean. It would help with the bank, restock everything, prove to everyone, including myself, that I’m not the failure they all think I am.

I tap the button before I can talk myself out of it.

The form loads. They ask for my name, age, bakery name, a short bio, why I deserve to compete and to upload a photo of my best creation.

My fingers fly. Filling the form in one breath.

I attach a photo of my Kaiserschmarrn (shredded caramelized pancake with fruit compote) that always sells out first. The ones Granny said tasted like home.

Submit.

A confirmation pops up instantly. “Application received. Preliminary review in 48 hours. Good luck, Elodie Voss.”

I stare at my name on the screen. My real name. Not the girl who just lost her best customer. Not the disappointment. Just… me.

For the first time in weeks, something like hope flickers in my chest. Small. Fragile. But there.

I fall back on the cot, phone clutched to my chest. Outside, snow taps the window like it’s trying to get in. I close my eyes and let myself imagine it: the prize money hitting my account. The bank letter settled and torn up. Customers coming back. Granny’s photo on the wall smiling down because I finally didn’t let her dream die.

Then reality creeps back.

It's a few hours until my family dinner. A few hours until I am the centre of criticism from my family. God knows what they want to discuss about me.

But the application confirmation is still open on my phone. I stare at it until my eyes burn.

This Bake-Off will be enough. I just need to win.

I laugh into the dark. It sounds broken.

My phone buzzes. A text from my mother.

“Dinner venue attached. Don’t be late. No excuses.”

I drop the phone on the floor.

Twenty-one days.

I have twenty-one days to save everything.

And right now, I have no idea how.

I pull the blanket over my head and let the headache win. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but when it does, I dream of winning the competition and tomorrow’s dinner.

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I wake up on the cot to sunlight streaming through the curtain on my face in the office, neck stiff. My mind quickly goes to the red notice that is still folded in the drawer like a sleeping snake. I sit up slowly, the blanket pooling around me. The bakery is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. I think of the competition. A chance. Hope feels dangerous right now.

I drag myself to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, tie my hair back. The mirror shows red-rimmed eyes and flour still dusted on my cheeks. I wipe it off, force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. Customers will be here soon. Or maybe not.

The morning is slow. Painfully slow. Only three people came in. One asks for a refund on yesterday’s order. I give it without argument. The second buys a single croissant, looks around like the place is cursed, and leaves fast. The third is a regular who doesn’t say much, just takes his coffee and goes. I over-apologize to all of them, and hand out extras. 

By noon the shop was empty. Mara didn't show up and I didn't bother calling to know why. I clean the counters until they shine, scrub the display case, and check every tray for crumbs. Anything to keep my hands busy so my mind doesn’t spiral. But it spirals anyway. Mama Vee’s face keeps flashing in my head. The way Paula looked at me in disgust.

I lock the door for an early lunch break I don’t take. Instead I sit behind the counter with the expense book open, staring at numbers that don’t add up. The red notice deadline burns in my brain. Christmas Day. Everyone else will be opening presents, me watching my grandmother’s legacy get sold out by the bank.

*phone rings*

I look at the screen. Mother’s name on the screen. I let it ring once, twice, then answer.

“Elodie. The dinner is tonight. Don’t be late. We have important things to discuss.”

“I know,” I say quietly.

“Good.” She hangs up.

I stare at the blank screen. Important things. It’s always important things with them. Never just a family dinner.

The rest of the afternoon drags. I bake a small batch of Mohnnudeln (Potato dough noodles tossed in butter and poppy seeds), Granny’s best recipe. I eat one standing up, the butter melting on my tongue. It tastes nostalgic, tears bite at my eye as I remember when she taught me this recipe.

At six, I close early. Lock up. Walk home. Christmas lights are starting to be placed on windows. Garlands on doors. The town looks like a postcard. I feel like the smudge on the corner.

I change into something simple—jeans, sweater, coat. Nothing fancy. They never notice anyway.

The restaurant is crowded when I arrive. Holiday music plays low. My family is already seated in the corner booth. Mother in her pearls, Father scrolling his phone, Selena on her phone too, perfect nails tapping the screen. No one acknowledges me when I walk up. Just a glance.

“Elodie,” Mother says. “Sit.”

I slide in next to Selena. She shifts away slightly. Father puts his phone down.

“We have news,” Mother says, voice bright like it’s a gift. “Luca called us yesterday. He wants to marry you and…” She smiles brightly. “We’ve accepted on your behalf.”

My world blurs.