The Villains Must Win

Lina began frequenting the bakery more than what was considered socially acceptable.

At first, it was under the guise of "sampling all the pastries"—a noble mission, of course. Croissants on Monday, tarts on Tuesday, eclairs on Wednesday. By Friday she was back to croissants again because, "What if the batch is different?"

But everyone in the village knew.

The elderly flower seller even winked one morning and said, "The only thing you're hungry for is the baker, dear."

Lina didn't deny it. She had a plan—and that plan had broad shoulders, tapered waist, a grumpy mouth, and eyes like cinnamon fire. Alaric.

Unfortunately, Alaric seemed immune to her charm.

At first.

He was serious, no-nonsense, and appeared mildly allergic to flirtation.

Lina would giggle, bat her lashes, and compliment the way he dusted sugar onto pastries—only to be met with a stiff nod and a muttered, "Thanks. Don't touch that tray. It's hot."

Still, she persisted.

"Oh wow, look at your hands. You know, a man's hands say a lot about him."

"They say I knead dough for twelve hours a day."

Rude.

One time, she wore a tight little dress with high heels, strutting into the bakery like she was runway walking straight into his heart. Alaric barely looked up.

"You're going to slip and break your neck on the flour dust."

"Only if you catch me, handsome."

He didn't even flinch. "I'll call an ambulance."

But Lina wasn't the type to give up easily. She'd once played a game where she had to seduce a literal god of war to win, so a grumpy baker with hot arms and good morals? Child's play.

She came back every morning. Bought everything he baked. Sat at the corner table reading a book she never finished. Left exaggerated tips in the jar marked "Help Alaric Smile"—which mysteriously began to fill up faster after that.

Then one stormy afternoon, she came in soaked from the rain, shivering.

He sighed and handed her a towel wordlessly.

"You should install a hot tub in here. For wet customers."

"That's illegal."

"Well, then I guess you'll have to warm me up the old-fashioned way."

". . . I'll make tea."

Still, something changed.

He started noticing when she didn't show up. Brought out fresh pastries without asking. Sat across from her while wiping the counter a little slower than usual.

Then one day, he found a handwritten note under her plate.

You're sweeter than your cinnamon rolls. But don't let it go to your head, chef-boy. I still think your croissants are better than you.

He chuckled. Aloud. For the first time.

That evening, he walked her home.

And a few months later, the stoic, unbothered Alaric bent down on one knee—amid flour sacks and cinnamon sticks—and asked her to marry him in the middle of the bakery.

Lina said yes by smashing cake into his face. He smiled, finally. And they kissed with icing between them.

====

Married life with Alaric was peaceful, romantic, and full of carbs. But there was a small hiccup. No baby.

At first, they thought maybe it was stress. Or too much sugar. Or some sort of karmic punishment for being too attractive together.

But after tests and confused doctors, Lina learned the truth.

Apparently, Christian—her deranged ex—had secretly removed her uterus without her consent.

Yes, really.

"That twisted bastard," Lina muttered while sipping champagne in a bubble bath. "He really wanted to ensure that I wouldn't give birth after he killed our child?"

Alaric was understandably furious. "I'll kill him."

"He's already dead."

"I'll dig him up and kill him again."

But Lina didn't shed a single tear. She felt no guilt over his death. Not after what he'd done to her.

Instead, she did what powerful, wealthy women do when life throws them lemons: she built a damn lemon empire.

She opened an orphanage in the city. Then another one. Adopted three kids—two troublemakers and one mini-chef who liked playing with flour.

Alaric taught them how to bake. Lina taught them how to negotiate with investors.

Together, they were a chaotic dream team of love, sugar, and low-key world domination.

As for Stacey, the woman who once claimed to be pregnant with Christian's child? Karma, my dear reader, has a beautiful sense of irony.

Turned out . . . the baby wasn't even Christian's.

It belonged to her yoga instructor, a man named Raphael who had abs and zero responsibility.

When Christian's parents found out, all hell broke loose.

"You LIED to us?! After our son DIED?!"

"But I loved him! I thought it could be his!"

"You thought?!"

The mansion banished her. The family cut her off. The public scandal was so juicy it got its own three-part documentary.

Meanwhile, Lina hosted a watch party with wine and popcorn. Alaric had to pause the episode because she was laughing so hard.

In the end, Lina got her happy ending.

She wore red silk robes while sipping espresso in her villa garden. Hosted charity balls that raised millions. Built a pastry empire with her brooding baker husband. Raised brilliant kids who called her "Boss Mom."

And once in a while, when someone asked about her past?

She'd just smirk, sip her drink, and say, "Let's just say I was once a damsel in distress. But now? I'm the whole fucking story."

The End.

"Amusing."

The bunny's ears twitched as it watched the final scene of Lina's life replay across the void like a movie in slow motion.

Its beady eyes blinked slowly, clearly stunned—even for a snarky cosmic rabbit.

I was back in the void once more after dying a full, satisfying life. Me and Alaric—my brooding baker with arms of steel and a heart of gold—had died at the same time.

Well, I went first, obviously. Natural causes, old age. Peaceful. Romantic. He followed an hour later, as if he couldn't bear a single sunrise without me.

I didn't regret anything. Not even a little.

"So," I turned to the bunny, beaming. "How'd I do?"

The bunny narrowed its eyes. "Not the ending we were expecting . . . but . . ."