Mic Drop, Toast Girl

The morning started with burnt toast.

Isla glared at the smoking slice like it had personally betrayed her. Her attempt to prove she was over everything had already gone up in ash. She shoved it aside, grabbed another loaf, and told herself she didn't care that her face was now on the cover of Royal Roast Weekly.

With a crown doodled on her head. And a caption:

"Baker's Bitter Bite—Nation's New Favorite Meme."

She shut the magazine stand door a little too hard and marched into her bakery. At least the sign still read Reed's Knead, not Royal Disaster Café.

Inside, it smelled like heaven—warm sugar and cinnamon and safety. The usual morning rush had trickled in; customers filled the small space with quiet chatter and curious glances, some pretending not to notice the now-infamous baker behind the counter. Isla kept her head down, kneading dough, checking the espresso machine, trying to keep busy enough not to spiral.

"Cinnamon roll, please!" someone called from the corner.

She turned—then brightened. "Morning, Mrs. Albury."

Mrs. Albury was dressed in a smart navy skirt suit, heels already in action. Her phone was tucked under one ear, and she waved with the hand that wasn't holding her commuter tote. A working woman in her mid-to-late forties, she was a regular at Reed's Knead—partly for the cinnamon rolls, partly because it was five minutes from her office, and mostly because Isla always had her order ready without asking.

"I figured I'd enjoy the scandal with something sweet," she said, flashing Isla a grin like this was all just morning entertainment. "You're causing quite the stir, darling. You're famous."

Isla groaned. "Don't start."

"Too late. I saw your face on a biscuit tin this morning. Thought, 'Well, she's either having a terrible week or she's a marketing genius disguised as pastry girl.'"

"I'm neither," Isla muttered. "Just someone who made a joke and forgot there were microphones."

Mrs. Albury raised a brow. "And yet the nation remembered."

Before Isla could respond, the door swung open again.

A man in a dark blue courier uniform entered with military stiffness, scanning the room like he was looking for a threat, not a baker. When his eyes landed on Isla, he strode over with purpose.

"Miss Isla Reed?"

"Yes...?"

He presented a rolled parchment with the gravity of someone delivering a royal verdict. "By order of the Royal Press Office."

Isla accepted it slowly. "What is it?"

"An invitation." His voice was all business. "You're expected at the Royal Press Brunch. Sunday. Attendance strongly encouraged."

And with that, he pivoted and walked out like his job was done and he didn't get paid to chit-chat.

Customers gawked.

"Did they just summon her?"

"Oh wow, she's in it now."

The parchment felt ridiculous in her hands—embossed, gold-lined, the kind of thing you'd expect to come with a glass slipper. She unrolled it.

"You are cordially invited to a Royal Press Brunch, hosted this Sunday by the Crown Family, to publicly conclude the misunderstanding that occurred at the recent charity gala."

She read it again. And again.

Then dropped it on the counter like it was radioactive.

Mrs. Albury leaned in. "You going?"

"Nope," Isla said immediately. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not brunch. It's a staged apology where I get to look stupid next to a prince in a three-piece suit while cameras zoom in on my regret."

Mrs. Albury chuckled. "At least wear something with pockets. That way you can steal a croissant on the way out."

By mid-morning, the shop was buzzing—not just with orders, but with half-whispers and stolen glances.

"This is historic," a teen whispered to her friend as they stood near the display. "It's like eating where a legend was born."

"You think she'll yell at us if we ask for oat milk?" the friend whispered back, giggling.

"Only if you deserve it," Isla muttered under her breath, then forced a smile as she rang up their scones. "Next please."

She barely had time to ring up another order when her phone buzzed against the counter.

[Tyler 💛 calling...]

She swiped to answer, shifting her weight onto one foot. "Hey."

"Hey," Tyler said. His voice was warm but crackly, like he was in a rush. "You good?"

"Well, I haven't fled the country yet," she said dryly. "So that's something."

He chuckled. "I saw your face on three memes before breakfast. You're killing it."

"Oh great. I always dreamed of being known as the girl who insulted royalty with toast."

"Don't sweat it. People forget fast. By next week, some influencer will fall into a fountain, and you'll be yesterday's headline."

"By next week? Tyler, there's already merch. Someone's selling T-shirts with my face and a loaf of sourdough."

"Okay, that's kind of iconic."

"I'll frame one for your birthday."

He laughed again. "Just called to check in and to make sure you haven't been thrown in a dungeon."

"Not yet. But the day's still young."

"I'll see you around then. Hang in there, Toast Girl."

She sighed. "Thanks."

The line clicked off.

The rest of the day dragged. The bakery didn't slow down, and neither did the rumors, the glances, the people ordering things they didn't even want just for the chance to say they were there.

By evening, Isla was tossing a trash bag into the alley dumpster when a voice startled her.

"Isla Reed? Hi! Can we chat for a sec?"

She turned—and immediately regretted it.

A bright-eyed woman with perfect teeth and a press badge leaned forward, mic in hand. Behind her, a cameraman hit RECORD.

"Oh," Isla said flatly. "This isn't suspicious at all."

"It's just a quick update piece! The country's rooting for you. Really!"

Isla gave a tired laugh. "No offense, but the country was rooting for me to get executed two days ago."

The reporter tittered. "Oh, they don't mean it. You're relatable. It's refreshing!"

"Right. Nothing says 'relatable' like being mocked on breakfast cereal."

The woman stepped closer. "What would you say if Prince Dorian were watching right now?"

Isla rolled her eyes. "That he should learn how to butter his own damn toast."

And then she realized the mic was still hot.

The reporter beamed. "Thanks, Isla! That's perfect!"

The camera shut off. The crew wheeled around, the van already pulling away.

And Isla just stood there, trash bag still in hand, dread crawling up her spine like spilled syrup.