Chapter 1

Ava

The scent of burnt sugar and disappointment fills my kitchen as I stare at the blackened edges of what should have been my masterpiece. The caramelized pears—meant to crown my new signature pastry—are now scorched beyond salvation, victims of my divided attention and the ancient oven that has served Sweet Magnolia Bakery since opening day.

"Dammit," I whisper, setting down the hot pan and flexing my fingers. The burn on my thumb throbs in time with my racing heart, a physical manifestation of the anxiety that's been my constant companion these past few months.

I glance at the stack of unpaid invoices tucked beneath the register, the numbers growing more ominous with each passing week. The morning light streaming through the front windows catches on the delicate magnolia blossom tattooed on my inner wrist—my personal reminder of resilience—and I absently trace its outline with my fingertip.

My assistant Jazz bursts through the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the front of the bakery, her expression brightening as she balances a tray of freshly glazed lemon tarts.

"These beauties are ready for the display case," she announces, her voice carrying the perpetual enthusiasm I've come to rely on. "And before you ask, yes, I doubled the batch like you wanted." She pauses, eyebrows rising as she spots the burnt offering on my workstation. "Though it looks like we might need a few more."

I manage a smile despite the tightness in my chest. "Just a minor setback. I'll start again."

Jazz places the tray down and leans against the counter, studying me with eyes that see too much. "Ava, when did you last slept? And I mean actually slept, not just closed your eyes while mentally calculating profit margins."

"Sleep is overrated." I reach for another pear, determined to salvage what I can of the morning. "The charity event is in three days, and if I can impress the right people there, we might finally get the investment we need."

"You mean if you can impress your family." Jazz's voice softens with understanding. She's been witness to enough Harris family gatherings to know exactly what I'm up against.

I don't answer, focusing instead on the rhythmic motion of my knife against the cutting board. The truth is too raw, too close to the surface today. My mother's words from our last conversation echo in my mind: When are you going to stop playing with food and take your place in the company, Ava? The Harris name stands for something in this city.

The bell above the front door chimes, saving me from having to respond. Jazz disappears to attend to the customer, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a counter full of ingredients that refuse to cooperate.

My phone vibrates with a text message. I wipe my hands on my apron before checking it, already knowing who it's from. My mother has a sixth sense for when I'm at my most vulnerable.

Don't forget dinner tonight. 7pm sharp. Your father wants to discuss something important.

I suppress a groan. Another "family dinner" that will inevitably devolve into a referendum on my life choices. I type back a simple I'll be there, knowing that anything more would invite unwanted commentary.

The rest of the morning moves in a blur of pastry dough and customers who barely spend enough to keep the lights on. By early afternoon, I've finally perfected the caramelized pear tart, but the victory feels hollow against the backdrop of mounting bills.

"These are divine," Jazz declares after sampling one. "Seriously, Ava, you're a genius. I don't care what your mother says."

I smile despite myself. "If only genius paid the rent."

"It will," Jazz insists, her faith in me unwavering. "This will be the talk of the charity event. The Harris name might open doors, but your talent is what's going to walk through them."

I wish I shared her confidence. My family name is both blessing and curse—opening doors while simultaneously making it harder for anyone to see me as anything but Marie Harris's wayward daughter.

The Harris family estate sits like a crown jewel in Atlanta's most prestigious neighborhood, its sprawling grounds and white columns a testament to old money and even older prejudices. I park my modest sedan—a deliberate choice that irritates my mother to no end—next to my brother's gleaming Tesla and take a moment to collect myself.

I'm not ashamed of Sweet Magnolia. I'm proud of what I've built, of every early morning and late night, of every recipe perfected through trial and error. But walking into that house means bracing for the inevitable barrage of thinly veiled disappointment.

The front door opens before I can knock, revealing our longtime housekeeper Mrs. Washington, whose warm smile has been one of the few constants in my life.

"Miss Ava," she greets me, enveloping me in a quick hug that smells of lavender and home. "It's been too long."

"Hey, Mrs. Washington." I return her embrace, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders. "How's that grandson of yours doing at Morehouse?"

Her face lights up. "Top of his class, just like you were. He's going to be a doctor, that boy."

The mention of my academic past is a poignant reminder of expectations met and then deliberately abandoned. I was the perfect Harris daughter until I wasn't—until Paris, pastry school, and dreams that didn't align with the family legacy.

"Ava, there you are." My mother's voice cuts through the warmth of the moment. Marie Harris stands at the entrance to the dining room, impeccably dressed in a tailored cream suit that highlights the smooth richness of her mahogany skin. Even at sixty, she commands attention, her posture perfect, her gaze evaluating.

"Sorry I'm late." I'm not late—I'm actually five minutes early—but apologizing is easier than arguing.

"Your father's waiting. And you couldn't change?" Her eyes sweep over my simple black dress, dismissing it as inadequate though it's the nicest thing I own that isn't covered in flour.

I follow her into the dining room, where my father sits at the head of the table, his attention fixed on his phone. My brother Elijah and his wife Vanessa are already seated, wine glasses full, looking every bit the successful corporate couple they are.

"There's my girl," my father says, glancing up briefly. Richard Harris has always been the softer touch—not soft, never that—but less openly critical than my mother. "How's the bakery?"

"It's—"

"Struggling, I imagine," my mother interjects, taking her seat. "As we discussed, Richard, it's time Ava reconsidered her position at Harris Financial. There's an opening in the marketing department that would be perfect."

I sit down, the familiar weight of their expectations pressing down on me. "The bakery is building a reputation. We've been featured in Atlanta Magazine, and I've been invited to provide desserts for the Children's Hospital Charity Gala."

"Playing with pastries at a charity event hardly constitutes success," my mother says with a dismissive wave. "You have an MBA from Columbia that you're wasting on cupcakes."

"They're not cupcakes," I say, my voice quieter than I intend. "And I'm not playing."

My brother catches my eye across the table, his expression a mix of sympathy and resignation. Elijah has always followed the prescribed path—Ivy League education, marriage to the daughter of another prominent family, executive position at Harris Financial. He understands the price of deviation better than most.

"The gala is a significant opportunity," I continue, straightening my spine. "Some of Atlanta's most influential people will be there."

"Yes, and they'll be wondering why Richard Harris's daughter is serving them instead of mingling with them," my mother retorts.

The first course arrives, saving me from having to respond immediately. Mrs. Washington places a delicate salad before each of us, and I smile gratefully at her, a small lifeline in the hostile waters of family dinner.

"Actually," my father says after a moment, "we received the guest list for the gala today. The Tremonts will be attending."

A heavy silence falls over the table. The Tremont name is rarely spoken in this house, a family rivalry so deeply entrenched that even mentioning them feels like a betrayal.

"All of them?" my mother asks, her voice tight.

"Malcolm and his sons." My father's tone is carefully neutral. "Sebastian is back in town."

I keep my expression blank, though the name sends an unexpected ripple of awareness through me. Sebastian Tremont. The wild child of Atlanta's hospitality royalty. Our paths have crossed at various social events over the years, each encounter more vexing than the last. The last time I saw him was at a friend's wedding two years ago, where he'd spent the evening charming every woman in attendance—except me. With me, there had been only cool distance, a short sarcastic exchange of words and that infuriating smirk.

"Well," my mother says, her smile sharp as a blade, "I suppose even the Tremonts have to show their faces occasionally, now that the old man is gone."

"Marie," my father warns quietly.

She ignores him, turning her attention back to me. "All the more reason for you to reconsider your position at this event, Ava. Do you really want Sebastian Tremont seeing you in an apron, serving desserts like some cater-waiter?"

Her words land with precision, striking at my deepest insecurities. Despite myself, I imagine Sebastian's blue eyes taking in my professional attire, his lips curving in that knowing smile that always makes me feel like I'm missing some private joke.

"I'm not serving," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'm a featured local artisan. There's a difference."

"Not to people like the Tremonts." My mother cuts into her salad with surgical precision. "You're a Harris. You should be writing the checks, not cashing them."

"My bakery is legitimate, Mother. Just because it doesn't fit your narrow definition of success—"

"Your little hobby is burning through your trust fund at an alarming rate," she interrupts. "Your father and I have been patient, but our patience has limits."

"It's not a hobby." The words emerge more forcefully than intended, drawing surprised looks from everyone at the table. "It's my business. My dream."

"Dreams don't pay mortgages, Ava." My mother's voice is calm, reasonable, all the more devastating for its gentleness. "The commercial property market is difficult right now. I'd hate to see you lose your storefront because of pride."

Ice rolls down my spine. "What do you know about my mortgage?"

"I know that First Atlanta Bank is calling in several of their small business loans," my mother replies. "Including yours."

The room seems to tilt sideways. First Atlanta holds my business loan—a loan I've never missed a payment on, despite the tight margins. "That's impossible. I have a fixed term."

"They're restructuring their small business portfolio," my father explains, his tone sympathetic but firm. "Focusing on more established enterprises."

"And you know how?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Harris Financial is considering acquiring a portion of their loan book," my brother offers quietly. "It came up in due diligence."

Understanding crashes over me in a sickening wave. My own family has been reviewing my loan documents, discussing my financial situation in boardrooms while I've been working sixteen-hour days trying to keep my dream alive.

"Were you planning to tell me, or just wait until I received the foreclosure notice?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"We're telling you now," my mother says. "And offering a solution. Come back to the company, Ava. Use your actual talents instead of chasing this fantasy."

I set down my fork, appetite gone. "My actual talents are creating desserts that make people pause in their day and experience a moment of pure joy. I'm good at what I do."

"Being good isn't the same as being successful," my mother counters. "The world doesn't reward passion, Ava. It rewards pragmatism."

The rest of dinner flies by in a blur of tense conversation and avoided gazes. By the time dessert arrives—a store-bought cheesecake that feels like a deliberate insult—I'm exhausted from maintaining my composure.

"I need to get back to the bakery," I announce, standing abruptly. "I have early prep tomorrow."

My mother sighs. "Ava, we're not finished discussing this."

"I think we are." I meet her gaze steadily. "The gala is in three days. After that, we can talk about... options."

"Three days won't change the fundamental math," my father says gently. "The bakery isn't sustainable."

"Then I'll have to find a way to make it sustainable." I turn to leave, then pause. "And for the record, I'd rather serve dessert in an apron than sit in an office making myself miserable just to please you."

The silence that follows me out is profound, broken only by the soft click of the front door as I close it behind me. In my car, I finally allow the tears I've been holding back to fall, my fingers automatically finding the magnolia tattoo on my wrist.

Resilience. That's what the magnolia symbolizes. The ability to weather storms and still bloom.

I take a deep breath, wiping away tears with my hand. Three days until the gala. Three days to save everything I've worked for.

I turn the key in the ignition, determination hardening within me. My mother is wrong about many things, but she's right about one: the world doesn't reward passion alone.

It rewards those who refuse to give up.

Little does she know, I've never been more Harris-like than in my absolute refusal to surrender.