Chapter 1

Lucy

I step outside my apartment building and the sensory assault of New York City hits me all at once. Horns blare from yellow cabs weaving through traffic like thread through fabric. Street vendors call out their morning specials. The scent of fresh bagels mingles with exhaust fumes in that uniquely New York perfume that somehow feels like home.

"Morning, Ms. Jacobs!" The doorman tips his hat. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"If you call sensory overload beautiful, then yes." I adjust my tote bag filled with extra aprons and recipe notes. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

The city pulses around me as I join the river of commuters flowing along the sidewalk. My heart flutters with that familiar mix of excitement and dread that accompanies each workday. The excitement comes from knowing my hands will soon be deep in pastry dough; the anxiety from wondering if today will be the day someone realizes I don't belong.

A street performer plays saxophone on the corner, the melody floating above the city noise. It reminds me of Sunday afternoons at Grandma's apartment in Queens, music drifting from the old record player while we baked together.

"Pastry is patience, Lucy-girl," I can still hear her saying, her hands guiding my small ones as we folded butter into dough. "You can't rush flakiness."

I smile at the memory as I wait for the crosswalk signal. Grandma's kitchen was nothing fancy—just a tiny space with worn countertops and an oven that ran hot on one side. But in that kitchen, I learned magic. How flour and butter transform into golden, crisp layers. How sugar caramelizes at exactly the right moment. How a pinch of salt makes sweetness sing.

My phone buzzes with a text from my boss: "Don't forget we need the Chambers order by 2pm." My stomach tightens. The Chambers order—twenty-four individual tarts for some finance executive's birthday. Raspberry with gold leaf. Because regular raspberries aren't fancy enough.

I pick up my pace, dodging a group of tourists who've stopped abruptly to consult their maps. The truth is, I can make those tarts with my eyes closed. I can pipe meringue crowns that stand up to humidity and temper chocolate to a perfect shine. My hands know what to do.

It's my head that gets in the way.

A couple exits a sleek patisserie ahead, carrying a signature blue box tied with ribbon. I recognize the logo—one of those places with three-word French names and $15 macarons. The kind of place where pastry chefs train in Paris and customers don't blink at spending a day's wages on dessert.

And here I am, community college culinary program and YouTube tutorials. Grandma's handed-down recipes adapted for professional kitchens. When I walk into those high-end bakeries, I still feel like the girl from Queens with flour-dusted sneakers, not belonging among the polished marble counters.

"Watch it!" Someone bumps my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts.

"Sorry," I mutter, though it wasn't my fault.

My phone rings in my pocket. Unknown number. Normally I'd let it go to voicemail, but something makes me answer.

"Hello? Lucy Jacobs speaking."

"Lucy! Olivia Blackwood here. Do you have a moment?"

My step falters. Olivia Blackwood—the chef whose meals appear in glossy magazines. I've only met her once, at a catering showcase last month where she praised my chocolate opera cake.

"Yes, of course. How can I help you?"

"I'll cut right to it—I'm in a bind. The pastry chef for the Breckenridge wedding just backed out. Noah and Jackie's wedding is in three weeks, and I need someone exceptional. Your name came to mind."

The Breckenridge wedding? Everyone in the industry has been talking about it. Noah Breckenridge, a big shot lawyer, marrying Jackie Rogers, a chef from Charlotte who is cousins with Celia Saint-Pierre. Their marriage started off being fake, according to the papers. And now? It's the real deal. They fell in love.

"I—you want me to cater the Breckenridge wedding?" My voice sounds strange, distant.

"The dessert spread, yes. Five hundred guests. I loved your work at that showcase—your sense of balance between innovative and classic is exactly what Jackie wants."

My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. This is the kind of opportunity that changes careers. The kind that takes someone from kitchen staff to executive pastry chef. The kind never offered to people like me.

"I know it's short notice, but I'd need your proposal by the end of the week. Full dessert course plus wedding cake. Are you interested?"

"Mrs. Blackwood, I—yes. Absolutely yes." My voice lifts with excitement I can't contain. "I'd be honored to create the dessert menu for the Breckenridge wedding."

"Excellent." The satisfaction in her tone sends a thrill through me. "My assistant will email you all the details this afternoon. I'll need that proposal by Friday, so clear your schedule."

"Consider it done." I'm nodding even though she can't see me. "Thank you for this opportunity. I won't disappoint you."

"I know talent when I see it, Lucy. Make me proud."

The call ends, and I stand frozen on the sidewalk while New York continues its relentless pace around me. A businessman in a tailored suit sidesteps me with an annoyed glance. A delivery cyclist swerves past, bell dinging. None of them know that my world just tilted on its axis.

Olivia Blackwood knows my name. Olivia Blackwood—whose restaurant has a Michelin star, whose cookbooks sit dog-eared on my shelf—thinks I have talent.

I press my hand against my chest, feeling my heart hammer beneath my palm. This is real. This is happening. The Breckenridge wedding will have society columnists, celebrity chefs, and food critics in attendance. People who could change the trajectory of my career with a single Instagram post or a mentioned name in an article.

I start walking again, faster now, fueled by adrenaline and possibility. In my mind, I'm already sketching desserts: delicate petit fours with edible gold leaf, chocolate sculptures that reflect the couple's story, a wedding cake with architectural precision that still manages to look effortless.

I imagine the guests taking their first bites, eyes widening with pleasure. Someone asking, "Who made this?" and hearing my name whispered in response. I picture Noah and Jackie Breckenridge themselves requesting to meet the pastry chef.

"Excuse me." I nearly collide with a woman pushing a stroller. "Sorry! So sorry!"

My thoughts race ahead to where this could lead. My own patisserie, perhaps. Not one of those cookie-cutter corporate places, but something uniquely mine. A small shop with a glass front where passersby can watch me work. Lucy's—no, Jacobs. Simple, elegant lettering above the door. Lines out the door on Saturday mornings. Write-ups in food magazines. People traveling across the city just to try my signature desserts.

I could finally prove that a girl from Queens who learned to bake in her grandmother's kitchen belongs in the upper echelons of New York's culinary world.

My phone buzzes again—this time it's my current boss wondering where I am. Reality crashes back. I'm still blocks from work, and I have twenty-four raspberry tarts to make before two.

As I pick up my pace, doubt creeps in like cold air through a cracked window. The Breckenridge wedding isn't just any event—it's five hundred guests, the social event of the season. What if I'm not ready? What if my desserts look amateur next to the caliber of Olivia's cuisine? What if I choke under pressure and ruin the biggest opportunity of my career?

"Stop it," I mutter to myself, earning a curious glance from a woman walking her dog. "You've got this. Olivia wouldn't have contacted you otherwise."

I straighten my shoulders and dodge a guy on his phone who nearly walks right into me. I am good at what I do. Damn good. My hands know dough—know how to coax the perfect texture from butter and flour. I understand the chemistry of sugar and heat, the architecture of cake layers, the balance of flavors that makes a dessert memorable. This is what I was born to do.

Still, the pressure settles on my shoulders like a heavy coat. Five hundred guests. Society columnists. Instagram influencers with their phones ready to document every success or failure. Olivia Blackwood's reputation on the line alongside my own. The weight of expectation feels suddenly massive, like I'm carrying a three-tier wedding cake up a flight of stairs in heels.

I reach the back entrance of the restaurant where I work, pausing with my hand on the door. Take a deep breath. This is what I've worked for. All those late nights practicing techniques, all those early mornings testing recipes. The disappointment in my father's eyes when I chose culinary school over business. The skepticism of classmates who came from restaurant families while I came from nowhere special.

Everything has led to this moment—this chance to prove myself.