They Humiliated the Plus-Size Baker in Front of Five Hundred Guests, but the Korean Mafia Boss Watching from the Shadows Had Already Made His Decision

The morning after the Prescott wedding, Golden Hearth Bakery was quiet, save for the hum of the old commercial ovens Maggie had built with her own hands. The scent of caramelized sugar and roasted pecans filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile luxury of the Grand Ashbury Hotel.

Noah was busy prepping dough, but he hadn't stopped talking since they opened at six o'clock.

"Maggie, I'm telling you, that guy is a legend," Noah said, throwing his hands up. "My cousin works the docks. He says Elias Han doesn't just cut deals; he owns the city's heartbeat. And he stood up for us!"

"He stood up for the cake, Noah," Maggie corrected gently, though she couldn't deny the thrill that went through her when she remembered the weight of Elias's hand on that champagne glass. She reached into her apron pocket, her fingers brushing against the matte-black card he had given her. It felt heavy, dangerous, and intoxicating.

The bell above the bakery door chimed.

Maggie looked up, expecting a regular customer looking for a morning pastry. Instead, two men in identical dark suits stepped inside. They didn't look like bakery patrons. They looked like walls.

They stepped aside, and Elias Han walked through the door.

He looked out of place among the flour-dusted counters and mismatched vintage chairs Maggie had collected over the years. Yet, he didn't look uncomfortable. He took off his dark overcoat, draping it over his arm, his eyes scanning the cozy space until they landed on Maggie.

"Ms. Hayes," he said.

"Mr. Han," Maggie replied, wiping her hands on her apron. "I didn't expect to see you on this side of town."

"I localise my interests," Elias said, walking up to the counter. He looked at the display case, his gaze resting on a row of dark chocolate tartlets topped with sea salt flakes. "I am a man of my word. I told you I have an appetite."

Maggie smiled, a genuine, warm expression that made Elias's eyes narrow slightly in fascination. "Are you here for a pastry, or is there another reason, Mr. Han?"

"Both," he said. "Give me two of those tarts. And I am also here because Sloane Mercer’s father called me three times this morning, begging me not to freeze his shipping routes. I told him my forgiveness depends entirely on your satisfaction."

Maggie paused, a tartlet hovering in her tongs. "You're using my bakery as leverage in a mafia dispute?"

"I am using my influence to ensure a genius is respected," Elias corrected, his tone dangerously smooth. "The choice is yours, Maggie. Do you want an apology, or do you want her to stay away from your business forever?"