Toast Girl Strikes Again

Isla woke to the sound of her phone buzzing aggressively against her nightstand. Not a polite ping. Not a sleepy chime. This was war.

She groaned and buried her face into the pillow. "Unless it's a lottery win or the apocalypse, I don't want to know."

The buzzing stopped for all of three seconds. Then started again, this time louder. Persistent.

With a groggy sigh, she grabbed it.

Incoming Call: Callie

She frowned, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Why was she calling this early?

She answered. "What?"

"Toast Girl strikes again!" Callie voice boomed cheerfully through the speaker.

"What are you on about?"

"You haven't seen it yet?" She sounded personally offended. "You're trending. Again. You're basically a national treasure."

"What—"

"Check the news. Or don't. Actually, no, check the comments under your bakery page first. It's chaos. Pure, toasted chaos."

Isla winced as she slid out of bed and reached for her tablet. "If this is another meme—"

"It's worse," Callie said gleefully. "You've been officially knighted by the internet. Prepare to cry."

She blinked against the screen glare, fingers flying as she opened the feed.

There it was.

"BAKER BITES BACK — Esrea's New Folk Hero?"

And right under the bold headline was a freeze-frame from the charity night: her standing behind her counter, arms crossed, staring at the prince like she was two seconds away from handing him a broom.

She scrolled. The comment section was a full-on circus.

"Someone please tell me where her bakery is. I want to order a cake shaped like his ego."

"We don't deserve her. We really don't."

"Lemme know when the merch drops. #ToastGirl"

"Loudmouth nobodies think they're brave these days."

"Must be nice to be petty and broke."

She sighed and rubbed her temples. "You have no idea how badly I want to disappear."

Callie laughed. "Oh come on, admit it. A small part of you likes the fame."

"I like selling pastries. Not becoming one."

By the time Isla opened the bakery that morning, she'd already seen three memes, two fake product ads, and one conspiracy thread claiming she was a secret agent planted by a rival royal house.

Isla stepped back into the bakery just as the bell above the door jingled—someone else had come in. She barely noticed. Her hands still smelled faintly of sidewalk chalk. Out front, someone had scribbled "#ToastGirl2025" in big, looping letters on the chalkboard, complete with a doodle of her glaring at a stick-figure prince.

Inside, the café was louder than usual. Not chaotic, but definitely louder. A low hum of excited chatter buzzed beneath the hiss of the espresso machine. The display case had fogged from how often people leaned in to peek, and Isla had already caught two teens pretending to pose for selfies while sneakily filming her behind the counter.

"Morning," she muttered to the growing line, tying her apron tighter.

Some customers whispered. Others giggled. A few stared openly, eyes flicking between her and the now-iconic spot behind the counter—where most of those viral clips had been taken, arms crossed and face unimpressed. That patch of tile was practically a national landmark now.

To be fair, it was a great backdrop. Unfortunately.

Isla kept her head down and her hands busy—kneading dough, prepping croissants, taking orders in a voice that teetered between cheerful and "please leave." Most people were polite. A few offered knowing smiles. One customer tried to hand her a slice of toast with the words "Queen of Sass" burned into it, which she quietly slid into the bin.

Still, the buzz in the room wasn't all friendly. Some voices were louder than others—critical, pointed, annoyed. A group near the window laughed a little too loudly about "people desperate for attention." Another customer muttered something about "respect" under their breath as they walked out.

Isla ignored it all. Or tried to.

"Morning, Isla. Still standing, I see." Mrs Albury greeted.

"Barely," Isla said, already reaching for the cinnamon rolls. "The internet's trying to kill me with memes. You want coffee too?"

"Please."

The line was still long when the bell above the door jingled again—and Callie walked in like she owned the place, sunglasses on, a fake paparazzi wave, and a grin that said told you so.

"There she is!" she called dramatically. "Toast Girl in the flesh. Somebody call security, I'm about to faint."

A few people actually turned, surprised. One guy near the counter whispered, "Is that her friend? The one from the comments?"

"Please stop," Isla said through her teeth, flushing. "Why are you like this?"

"Because it's fun." Callie slid onto a stool. "And because I knew you'd try to brave the fame without me. Not on my watch."

"I have work to do."

"So do celebrities. You think Beyoncé bakes her own bread?"

Isla raised an eyebrow. "Please never compare me to Beyoncé again."

Callie grinned and leaned over the counter. "I brought you something."

Isla blinked. "What, fame insurance?"

Callie pulled out a small, neatly folded newspaper and opened it on the counter. Isla's photo stared back at her—mid-glare, arms folded.

Right above the fold:

"COMMONER, LEGEND, BAKER: Public Divided Over 'Toast Girl' Saga"

The article quoted everyone from political analysts to bakery reviewers, sampling the country's sharply split opinions. A few viral takes were printed along the margins:

"She's a walking PR disaster."

"She's a working-class icon."

"She needs media training."

"She's Esrea's new folk hero."

Isla rubbed her eyes. "Why are they acting like I punched him in the face?"

"Because you might as well have." Callie leaned in. "But honestly? Some people think it was refreshing. You didn't bow. You didn't swoon. You just stood there and looked him in the eye."

Isla exhaled. "And now half the country hates me."

"And the other half wants merch." Callie winked.

The door opened again, and more customers flooded in. The chatter grew louder. A few people stared longer than necessary. One woman near the sugar station shook her head and whispered to her friend, "Can you believe she's milking it now? Standing there like she's proud."

Isla froze.

The woman stepped forward and spoke up, loud enough for half the café to hear. "Excuse me, but some of us just wanted a quiet pastry without all this drama. Do you really think insulting the prince was the way to get famous?"

Callie stood up.

"Sorry, do you have a complaint about the pastries? Or just Isla breathing?"

The woman blinked. "I just think it's pathetic, is all."

"Cool. You know what else is pathetic?" Callie said sweetly. "Walking into someone's business to throw shade before 10 a.m."

"I'm just saying—"

"No, you're just being rude. And you can either take your pastry to go or leave empty-handed."

The woman huffed, grabbed her coffee, and stalked out. A few people clapped. One teen whispered, "Okay but her friend's a savage."

Isla stared at Callie. "You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did. I came to see a celebrity, not a punching bag."

Isla swallowed. "It's not just her. People really think I did it for attention."

"And so what if they do? Let them talk. You didn't lie. You didn't fake it. You spoke your mind."

"I shouldn't have," Isla whispered. "Not like that. Now it just feels like I made a mess."

Callie softened. "Maybe. But you're allowed to be messy. You're human. And brave, even if it came out looking like sarcasm dipped in cinnamon."

They fell into a quieter rhythm after that—filling orders, wiping counters, refilling the displays. For a moment, the café buzz faded into something manageable. Almost normal.

Then Callie asked casually, "So… what did Tyler say about all this?"

Isla paused, scraping crumbs off a tray. "He called. Yesterday morning."

"Called? Not show up?" Callie blinked. "Okay… and what about today? Not even a 'babe, you okay?' text?"

"He's just busy."

"Mmhmm."

Isla didn't look up. "It's not a big deal."

Callie didn't push. Just gave her a long, unreadable look.

Later, when the rush had died down and only a few tables remained occupied, Isla sat near the window, watching people pass by. Some glanced inside. Some laughed. One waved.

Her gaze drifted toward the front counter, where the folded invitation was still tucked into the drawer beneath the register.

"Thinking about it, aren't you?" Callie asked from beside her, voice low.

Isla didn't answer right away. "It feels like a joke. Like they're inviting me just to laugh at me up close."

Callie tilted her head. "Then don't go as their punchline."

Isla looked over.

"Go as the storm they didn't see coming," Callie said. "Dress like you're royalty. Walk in like you own the marble. Make them regret handing you an audience."

Isla laughed once, quietly. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

She turned back toward the window.

Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was bold. Maybe it was the only way to remind everyone—including herself—that she hadn't been trying to start a war. Just trying to stand her ground.

Maybe it was time to stop feeling sorry and start owning it.

She didn't say anything, but her gaze drifted back to the counter again.

And this time, she didn't look away.