I stood frozen on the sidewalk, my feet anchored to the cold concrete as I stared at the wreckage of what had once been my dream.
My heart clenched as my eyes swept over the debris—ovens, mixers, freezers—all twisted and melted beyond repair. Even the shop van was just a burnt-out shell, leaning crookedly amidst the destruction.
I was grateful, at least, that the fire hadn’t spread to nearby buildings, and that no lives had been lost.
But the weight of what had been lost pressed heavily against my chest.
Tears slipped down my cheeks as I wrapped my arms around myself for comfort.
Tilting my head up toward the night sky, I searched the stars for something—hope, maybe.
Anything.
Wait... were the contracts even active yet?
They have to be. Otherwise, I might never get back on my feet.
Frustration surged through me.
I shoved my fingers through my hair, then wiped my cheeks roughly. It was late.
There was nothing I could do now.
With a heavy heart, I turned away and began the slow walk home.
I tossed the magazine onto the leather seat beside me, my gaze shifting to the endless sky beyond the jet window. I still couldn’t wrap my head around it—Scott had gotten his girlfriend pregnant.
How could he be that reckless? That stupid?
As the eldest son of the Kingston family and CEO of Kingston Consolidated, I’ve always carried the weight of both legacy and expectation. I’m the gatekeeper—the one who shields everything our father built from the ground up. And by everything, I mean both the empire and the family.
Especially from opportunists like Scott’s girlfriend.
Don’t get me wrong—I like women. I appreciate them. Respect them, even.
But trust them?
That’s another story.
I’m not bitter.
Not jaded.
I’ve had my share of experiences—some sweet, many sour—but none of them left me wounded.
There are no scars. Only lessons.
And clearly, Scott hasn’t learned a damn thing.
I exhaled slowly and ran a hand over my jaw, the frustration brewing under my skin like pressure behind a dam.
I’m tired. Of playing fixer.
Of cleaning up my brothers’ messes like it’s my birthright. If it were just Scott, maybe I could breathe. But there’s also Jackson. And Marley. Two more wildcards in the Kingston deck, always one step away from chaos.
When our father died seven years ago, I stepped in without hesitation. CEO. Guardian. The son our mother could rely on.
And now, as the jet speeds toward Alvero City to deal with yet another disaster, I know exactly why I’m doing it.
For her, Elouise Kingston—my mother. My anchor.
She’s carried enough grief to drown a lesser woman. And I’ll walk through fire before I let her carry one more ounce of it alone.
Of course he did.
Now I’m stuck in a jet thirty thousand feet above the mess—and still knee-deep in it.
The sterile stench isn’t here, but I can see it–through the screen.
Marley’s holding up his phone as he walks down the hospital corridor, the camera a little shaky. Fluorescent lights, beige walls, that hollow silence I hate.
Too clean to be comforting, too quiet to be honest. Pain lingers in every corner of places like this—hidden under plastic chairs and overbleached tile.
The screen flips, showing me Scott’s room.
There he is. My brother.
Bruised, cuffed to a hospital bed like a goddamn criminal in a bad soap opera. Machines beep around him like a ticking countdown I can’t shut off.
He looks… small. Defeated.
A reminder that no matter how big your name is, gravity still pulls the same way.
Then the camera shifts again.
Curled in a chair at the side of the room, knees up, phone in her lap. She looks like she has no idea the destruction she’s caused. Too young. Too casual. Too... empty.
But maybe I’m just projecting.
“Has she said anything?” I ask, my voice a low growl through the mic. I don’t look away from the screen.
Marley turns the phone back to his face. “No. He was out cold when they brought him in. Doesn’t remember much. Just her name.”
Of course not.
Melanie Sweets. Cupcake girl.
I scrub a hand down my jaw as Marley starts pacing again, giving me another shot of the room. I already saw the CCTV footage when it happened—her standing barefoot into the street, soot in her hair, holding her head like the world had imploded inside her.
She didn’t even look at Scott.
Didn’t cry, either.
She just stood there. Still. Like she was trying to wake up from a dream.
I lean back in the leather seat, the hum of the jet barely cutting through my thoughts. “Where’s the sister?”
“In the lounge,” Marley says. “Chloe. She’s the one who owned the shop.”
Right. So this wasn’t just some drunken crash. It’s deeper.
More expensive.
“Scott’s lawyer’s on the way,” Marley adds. “But the family of the other girl—”
“I’ll handle it,” I cut in. “Already called the hospital board. Fire chief’s been paid. Press is quiet for now.”
This isn’t my first scandal.
Won’t be my last.
“What’s the sister like?” I ask, pulling up the CCTV footage on my screen again, scrubbing through the timeline but not finding her.
Marley shakes his head, the image glitching for a second. “Didn’t really see her face to face. By the time I got here, she was already gone. Mel said she went to check the damage while we were talking.”
I switch to the live feed and spot her. Narrow my eyes at the screen. “What was she doing during the accident?”
“She wasn’t at the shop. She was home when it happened—just as shocked as the rest of us. Guess she got dragged into this mess after the fact.”
Dragged in or not, it was her shop that exploded. My brother who caused it.
His name will probably end up in the papers if I don’t get ahead of this.
I pause the footage on her frame—simple girl, casual t-shirt and jeans, standing like her spine barely knew how to hold her up. Her shoulders curled inward, arms limp at her sides. And her eyes…
They looked like they’d seen war.
Not begging. Not blaming. Just… broken.
Those are the ones I watch out for. The silent ones. The ones who don’t scream.
They carry everything inside until they snap.
“Tell her to come see me,” I say.
Marley raises a brow on-screen. “You sure?”
“She’ll come,” I reply, voice steady. “People like her always do. Not for themselves. For someone else.”
And I need to know exactly what kind of storm we’ve stepped into—before it pulls us under.
Next Morning. Sweets’ Apartment.
“So? How did it go with the insurance company?” Amy’s voice rang through the phone, her concern evident. It was already the third time she’d called that day.
Amy had been my best friend for years, practically a sister. She helped with everything—projects, errands, bad days, even birthday cupcakes when I forgot my own.
“No luck,” I muttered, setting my coffee mug in the microwave.
I sniffled quietly. “They said coverage doesn’t activate until a full month after signing… and I just signed last week.”
“Have you tried speaking with someone higher up—?”
“I did.” My voice cracked with exhaustion. “Supervisor. Email. Everything. But it didn’t matter. ‘Policy’s policy.’ That’s what they told me.”
I rubbed my temples. “Anyway… I had to cancel all the major orders. We just can’t fulfill them without the equipment. But the order for Jeremy is still on.”
“Of course it is,” Amy teased, and I could hear the smile in her voice.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like that. His is the soonest deadline, and I can manage it with the oven in my apartment—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Amy cut in, chuckling. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re grinning.” I sighed, my voice dropping. “I haven’t told you… he actually called and offered me a very big loan to redo my shop.”
“What??” Amy gasped. “Did you take the offer? That could be your way out, Chloe!”
“Really, Ames?” I raised a brow. “You and I both know there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”
“It’s not free—it’s a loan,” Amy argued. “And if it comes with a contract marriage or something like that, why not?? He could be your prince charming.”
“He could be a psycho,” I snapped. “We don’t know him that well. So no, I’ll pass on the ‘easy way out.’ And you—supposedly my best friend—should really stop pushing me toward a stranger.”
“When you finally say yes to dating him, I’ll stop teasing.”
I let out a soft scoff. “He’s just a customer.”
“Mm-hmm.” Amy was still smiling when I glanced at my screen. Another call was coming in.
“Hold that thought. Mel’s calling.”
“Alright. See you at Project Jeremy. Love you!”
“Love you too,” I said before switching the call.
“Hey, sis,” Melanie’s voice came through, casual. “When are you getting here? I need to talk.”
“I’m swamped,” I replied, sighing. “I don’t think I can make it today. How are you feeling?”
“Better. Thanks. Oh—Scott’s awake. He said his brother’s here.”
I frowned. “Okay… and?”
“I need you to meet him, Scott’s eldest brother. He said he’ll take care of everything with the cakeshop.”
I blinked.
Something in Melanie’s voice rang too cheerful. Too light-hearted for someone who had just, quite literally, burned down our entire lives.
“Why do I need to meet him? Shouldn’t you and Scott handle that?”
“Scott is still recovering—and Marley, Scott’s other brother said he’ll handle everything,” Melanie continued, unfazed. “You’ll meet him at his office. Kingston Tower. He already knows you’re coming—Scott told him.”
Melanie’s tone was laced with disbelief, as if everyone should know.
“Actually… I don’t,” I replied flatly.
Never heard of it. Who has time to keep track of every billionaire and their shiny empires?
“Besides,” I added, my tone cool, “shouldn’t he come to the hospital if he really wants to help?”
“Scott said his brother wants to deal with the shop first. That’s why he’s here.”
“Convenient,” I muttered.
For a moment, bitterness curled in my gut.
Once again, I was being asked to clean up a mess that wasn’t mine. I knew Melanie too well.
“Please, Chloe,” Melanie sighed. “You know more about the shop than I do. This is… this is my way of making it right.”
I let out a sharp breath, my patience thinning. “Fine,” I snapped, before softening. “Just text me the details.”
“I will! Thank you, sis,” Melanie said, almost giddy.
I ended the call, staring blankly at the wall of my kitchen.
I wasn’t sure what annoyed me more—the fire, the insurance, the unexpected business meeting, or the fact that, somehow, the younger sister was always left to pick up the pieces.
