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When Isla Reed's phone buzzed for the thirty-seventh time before 8 a.m., she made the mistake of checking it.

Then immediately regretted being conscious.

@RoyalTeaBlog: "Did that baker girl just say Prince Dorian's never buttered his own toast? ICON. 😂🔥 #ToastGate #RoyalRoast"

There were screenshots. Memes. Edits of her face on butter knives. Someone had autotuned her insult. Someone else had printed it on a T-shirt.

"Oh no," she whispered, holding her phone like it might bite her.

The bell above her door jingled—again.

"Coming!" she shouted, setting her phone down beside a half-iced batch of raspberry danishes.

Her bakery, Reed's Knead, was not built for fame. It was built for croissants, early risers, and loyal locals who appreciated flaky crusts and decent coffee.

It was not meant to handle a line of twenty people at the door before sunrise, half of them holding their phones like they were waiting to meet a meme.

The first woman through the door squealed. "You're her, right? Toast Girl!"

Isla blinked. "I… bake things."

"She said it again," someone behind her laughed.

A flash went off.

Someone took a photo.

And suddenly it was happening—the worst kind of publicity storm: viral, unscripted, and deeply unwanted.

By 8:40 a.m., they'd sold out of chocolate chip muffins, cinnamon buns, and all but two gluten-free scones that no one ever bought unless desperate. She'd burned her thumb on the espresso machine. Her inbox was a war zone of interview requests, podcast invites, and one ominous message from the Royal Press Office simply titled, "Statement?"

She hadn't opened that one yet. It felt cursed.

"Don't panic," she muttered to herself, shoving another tray of dough into the oven. "They'll forget. People move on."

The bell jingled again.

"Fat chance," came a dry voice from near the sugar counter. "You went and became a symbol, love. The working class thanks you."

Isla turned.

Mrs. Alder, her most opinionated and longest-surviving regular, was seated in her usual corner with her usual tea—jasmine, and an entire newspaper spread in front of her.

"You're in here, too," she added, flicking the front page with one liver-spotted hand.

Isla groaned.

There, in full color, was her blurry photo mid-blink, holding a pastry bag and looking deeply confused. The headline above it read:

"Royal Shade: Baker's Burn Sparks National Toast Debate"

"I swear to everything," Isla said, "I didn't even know the mic was on. I wasn't trying to… roast him."

"Of course not." Mrs. Alder sipped her tea, unbothered. "But you did. And it was delightful."

"I told him he looked like he'd never buttered his own toast."

"And was it a lie?" the old woman asked sweetly.

Isla sighed, collapsing onto the bar stool behind the counter. "What am I supposed to do with this? Bake faster? Trademark my sarcasm?"

Before Mrs. Alder could reply, the bell chimed again—and this time, the man who entered wore a sleek blazer and mirrored sunglasses despite the overcast sky.

He scanned the bakery like a bodyguard checking for explosives.

Isla froze.

The man gave a small nod, stepped aside—and a royal courier stepped through the door, holding a white velvet box with the royal crest pressed in gold.

"Oh no," she said aloud. "Please no."

The courier offered her a stiff bow. "Miss Reed. His Royal Highness Prince Dorian sends his compliments."

Isla stared at the box like it might contain a bomb. "Compliments… in a coffin?"

"It's coffee, actually," the man said. "A blend he recommends for strong personalities."

Isla blinked.

Mrs. Alder snorted.

The courier placed the box carefully on the front counter and left without waiting for a response.

There was silence.

Then someone near the door muttered, "Is that… flirting?"

Isla looked to the heavens, whispered a prayer that sounded suspiciously like a swear word, and picked up the box.

Inside was a bag of custom-roasted beans from a brand she couldn't even pronounce. And a note.

Just two lines, scrawled in the kind of handwriting that said I was raised by tutors and low expectations:

Hope this helps you stay sharp.

D.

Mrs. Alder peered over her paper. "Well. Looks like the prince plays dirty."

Isla dropped her head to the counter and groaned.