The Baker's Billionaire

DEMETRIA

“GIRL, YOUR COOKIES HAD ME MOANING LIKE I JUST ORGASMED!” my dramatic best friend announced, leaning backwards to the kitchen counter.

“Anastasia, shut up. I’m not in the mood for your theatrics,” I said, though the laugh in my voice gave me away.

 “I’m serious, Deme. These flavors are different every time I taste them. What did you put in them this time?”

“That’s my special secret recipe,” I replied. “And no, I’m not sharing it with anyone.”

“You wound me. I’m your sister in all but blood - your secrets are safe with me, remember?”

“Uh-huh. And the second you find my recipe book, you’ll be texting it to half the city.”

“Depends… are you making a batch tomorrow?” she teased.

“Depends… are you paying triple this time?”

“Triple?” She gasped. “That’s emotional abuse. I’m your best customer!”

I rolled my eyes, sliding a tray of cookies onto the cooling rack. 

“You’re my only customer who still owes me from last month.”

“That was one time,” she said. “Besides, I pay in love and loyalty.”

“Yeah, right.” Rolling my eyes.

I’ve loved baking since childhood. I spent school vacations with my grandma, from my father’s side, because my mom died from breast cancer when I was thirteen. It’s mostly been just Nanna and me, even though my dad is still around. The bond Nanna and I shared was different — warm, steady, and exactly what I needed.

I spent long hours in her kitchen, the air always thick with the smell of cinnamon and vanilla, learning how to bake cookies and memorizing the “special secret recipes,” as she called them. I can still hear her soft hum over the clink of mixing bowls, the sound wrapping around me like a blanket.

She passed away two years ago from a stroke, and losing her broke something in me. It even put a strain on my relationship with my ex-fiancé.

But my love for baking—especially those cookies—pushed me forward. It’s what made me enroll in culinary school. Dad did everything he could, enrolling me in one of the best programs in America, The Culinary Institute of America(CIA). Now, I’ve opened my bakery business, “Butter & Bloom” here in Culver City, Los Angeles. My assistant manager, Amanda, and the team help me keep things running smoothly. I’m saving to open a bigger shop one day. It’s always been my prayer… and a promise I made to Nanna.

“Anyway, are you done?” Anastasia asked. Drawing me back to the present.

“Yes, let’s go!”

I didn’t drive today, hence Anastasia is my designated driver. I need a hot bath in my jacuzzi and a glass of red wine, engulfed with the scent of my candles. Keeps me relaxed while thinking of creative ideas for my recipes.

Yeah, I can feel myself wearing out.

As we were about to leave, Amanda called out to me.

“Miss Hernandez, a client would like to meet you tomorrow and discuss an order. She’s requesting a large number of sweets for her upcoming gala for dessert as a starter meal, and the time is scheduled for 10 am. She’d like to meet you for breakfast at Lido di Manhattan. She said when you arrive there, approach the front desk, and they’ll take it from there. Would you be free? If not, I’ll let her know when it is to be rescheduled.”

“No, it’s fine. Set up the arrangement and send the information through my email - I’ll review it later,” I answered.

“Okay, Madam,” she responded. “You look good today, Miss Mendoza.” Amanda complemented, referring to Anastasia.

She is wearing her favorite lightweight blouse, a soft pastel pink that seemed to glow in the bright light. The knee-length black pencil skirt she had paired with it was a perfect complement. On her feet, she wore a pair of Louboutins, and her simple jewelry sparkled in the light, a delicate necklace glinting around her neck that added a touch of elegance to her overall look.

“Thank you, Amanda,” she excitedly said.

Amanda smiled and went back into the bakery. As we were walking to Anastasia’s car, she commented to me, “You don’t look bad either”.

“You always see me in my uniform, woman!” I snickered.

“You look pretty to me,” she added and shrugged.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I quipped.

Just as I was about to enter the car, another car pulled up in the parking space.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Anastasia grunted.

What the hell indeed.

“I’m even surprised. It’s been like what…two years now?” I was taunted.

The person we’re seeing is none other than my good-for-nothing ex-fiancé, standing about six feet away. He’s leaning against his car, looking ruggish, his spiky hair sticking up every which way. His expression reminds me of a child who’s just cried over spilled milk.

“Well, if misery had a face, it’d be his,” Anastasia mumbled, eyes narrowing.

“Hi… Demetria, can I… can I speak with you for a minute, please? I’m sorry for the way I left”. He stuttered, clearing his throat.

“Having second thoughts, Mark?” My best friend teased him. 

I held his gaze, my face a mask, but inside I was cataloging every detail of how low he’d sunk. The slouch in his shoulders. The mess of his hair. The hollow look in his eyes. Miserable didn’t even begin to cover it.

“When I needed you most, where were you?” My voice cracked, but I didn’t care. The heat in my chest was unbearable, spilling into every word.

“I came back from my grandmother’s funeral to find your letter — saying you’d ended things, that we should go our separate ways.” My hands trembled, fists clenching at my sides. 

“Have you forgotten that so easily?”

“What did I do to deserve that?”

He opened his mouth, but I stepped forward, closing the space between us until he had no choice but to meet my eyes. My pulse was pounding in my ears.

“Don’t you dare come to me now, acting like everything’s fine between us.” My throat tightened, the burn of unshed tears mixing with pure rage. “You should be ashamed even to get close to me.”

“That’s why I’m here today,” he stammered. “I’m sorry… forgive me.”

A bitter laugh slipped from my lips. “Forgive you?” I shook my head slowly. “Scum, crawl back to wherever you came from. Your presence isn’t needed here — not now, not ever.”

“Deme —” he started, taking a step toward me as I slid into the car.

“If you come any closer, I’ll call the police and have a restraining order slapped on you! And if I see you again, I’ll slash your damn tires!”

“What?” he barked, shocked.

“Watch me!” I growled, just as Anastasia hit the gas and pulled us away.