Chapter 3: Sealed With Sweets

DEMETRIA

Arriving at the venue for my client meeting, I scanned the lot for a parking space. Just then, a car backed out, and I slid neatly into the spot. Grabbing my bag, I stepped out and pressed the remote to lock the car. 9:46 a.m. A few minutes left. Remembering Amanda’s instructions, I headed for the front door.

The moment I stepped inside, I was hit by the sheer elegance of the place. Plush, polished, and dripping with quiet luxury. The air buzzed with life—soft conversations, the clink of glasses, polished shoes tapping across glossy floors. Unlike my little bakery, this place could seat hundreds without breaking a sweat.

I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips.

One day, my bakery would be this big.

Walking up to the front desk, I approached the Black woman behind it.

“Hi, good morning. Welcome to Lido di Manhattan. How may I be of service?” She started.

“My name is Demetria Herna— ”

“Oh! The Baker, right?”

“Yes, I'm the one”. I'm curious, but I refused to ask questions. Let's wait and see....

“You're welcome,” she greeted, beaming at me. “Hey, Collins!” She called out to a waiter passing by, “Please send her to the VIP room.”

“Okay, Madam, please follow me,” he said.

“Please lead the way”. I said.

He headed toward a pathway tucked into the right corner, the marble floor curving into a private elevator.

Whoa!

Am I meeting the First Lady or something? Because whoever this mysterious woman is, she must be someone important in this city. With this level of special treatment, I know one thing for sure—if it weren’t for her influence, there’s no way I’d be getting escorted like royalty just to eat breakfast alone.

The elevator now opened.

“Please, we've arrived, I'll take my leave now. Someone will— Oh, he's here. Have a nice day.”

The elevator doors slid shut, leaving Collins standing alone inside.

“Follow me”, the newcomer commanded. How he’d managed to appear out of nowhere was a mystery worth studying. Okay… Hulk.

I stared at his back — bulky, bald, dressed in an all-black three-piece suit. He had to be at least a foot taller than my 5'5, because during our brief exchange a few seconds ago, I’d had to crane my neck to meet his eyes. We stood outside a door.

“We’re here,” he grunted, communicating through a coiled earpiece tucked neatly in his ear.

The door opened instantly. Another man, dressed almost the same but without the suit jacket, motioned me inside without saying a word. A phone was pressed to his ear, and I guessed they were communicating.

I stepped further into the room, taking in the space, my eyes sweeping over the decor—soft gold accents, crisp white marble, the kind of arrangement that whispered old money with every perfectly curated detail. Even the air smelled like wealth.

Just then, a voice cut through my thoughts, addressing me.

“Hello, Miss Hernandez, welcome, please have a seat and join me,”. The voice is so melodic in my ears. I turned to my right, looking at the person who owns the voice.

 I dragged my feet, going in her direction.

“Thank you for having me, Madam,” I responded, clearing my throat after that, a bit nervous.

“Please, feel free, I don't bite unless I have to,” she teased.

I smiled awkwardly, glancing at the meal displayed in front of me as I sat.

“Help yourself to any of them.”

“I would, I'm famished,” I joked.

She laughed, saying, “I like you already,” as she placed a piece of linen neatly across her lap.

I studied her. She had to be in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, yet she looked far younger. Everything about her was polished—elegant in that effortless, expensive way only money and impeccable taste can buy. Even her outfit, tailored so perfectly it might as well have been sculpted onto her, looked like it could cover my rent for the next two years.

“...and I didn't introduce myself,” she continued. “My name is Mrs. Charlotte Whitfield.”

She held my gaze with an expression that practically asked, Don’t you know who I am?

I reached out and took her hand in greeting.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Whitfield.”

She smiled, acknowledging me. “Let's eat, shall we?”

I nodded, placing a piece of linen on my lap. There are so many varieties to choose from: croissants, fluffy pancakes, grapes, watermelon, sausage, bacon, fresh orange juice, a cup of tea, and baked beans... everything you could think of eating for breakfast.

I helped myself with pancakes, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, baked beans, and the juice.

Within the next 20 minutes after our meal, I was satisfied.

“Let's move to the desk,” Mrs. Whitfield began. I stood at the dining table, packing the dishes.

“Please, leave it and come sit here; the servers would be called to do that,” she said.

Okay…I took my bag and walked to sit in front of the desk, taking out my notes to jot down whatever we were about to discuss.

“Okay, now that we've filled our stomachs, let's talk business.” 

“I'm all ears,” I said.

“I got to know about your business through one of the board members of my charity foundation,” she began. “Her daughter-in-law ordered cakes and cookies from your bakery for her granddaughter’s party. She recommended you when we were planning desserts for the gala. I looked into your business, saw the customer reviews, and, young lady, you’re talented. I’m impressed.”

She smiled, a hint of nostalgia in her eyes. “I’ve tasted some of your goodies before. My oldest son enjoys them. Whenever he visits, he always asks for sweets, especially your cinnamon cookies.”

I felt my chest warm at the compliment, but then she continued, businesslike. “So, here’s my offer: I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars to serve cookies at the gala before the main course. Here’s the contract. You can review and sign it later. My driver will collect it on Monday. The gala is two weeks from now. If that figure is too small, tell me now so we can negotiate.”

Too small? Negotiate? Are you kidding me? 

“No— no…”  I stuttered. “It's more than enough. I'm just shocked....dumbfounded, like—”

“My daughter, with the amount of hard work, effort, and talent you put into your work as a baker, you should be expecting more. If my guests taste your sweets, I'll start recommending you to them. Who doesn't have a sweet tooth?”

“Thank you so much, I'm just speechless at this moment. I'm grateful.”

“You're welcome, my dear”. Glancing at her watch, she said, “I need to head to my office. I have a meeting in an hour, and I need to prepare.” She stood from her chair elegantly like the queen she is. With her arms open, we hugged warmly.

“I’ll let my son know. And meet his favorite baker on Thursday,” she admitted excitedly. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise, ma’am.”

Favorite baker?

Just who is this man? And why did my heart skip a beat hearing that?

“Shall we?” She asked, stretching her hand towards the door.

“After you”. I responded, but a strange chill ran down my spine, as though stepping out of that office would change everything.

Who could this son be? And why did it feel like my whole life was quietly shifting without my permission?