Page 1 of Knot Your Sugar

Chapter one

Elena

My fingers dance across the tart shell, shaping thirty-seven scalloped edges on autopilot. In the quiet of early morning, as the bakery kitchen fills with the rich aroma of butter melting into flour, I find my peace.

Through the panoramic window, I watch sunrise spill over Lakeview, casting the fall forest in rich shades of gold and crimson. A thin veil of mist clings to the distant lake, softening as the light stretches across the water. Beyond it, the mountains rise in quiet majesty, their peaks already glowing.

After three years, this view still amazes me.

I glance up at the old, flour-dusted clock on the wall. 5:17 AM. I've been at it for over two hours already. Maybe I deserve a br—

"Eyes on the dough, Elena."

I nearly smudge the tart as Pierre's voice shatters my moment, his French accent thick enough to spread on a baguette. I didn't hear him come in. As always, he moves like a ninja in chef whites, his short beta frame gliding through the narrow spaces between counters.

"The tarts are ready for the oven," I say, straightening up as he inspects my work. His critical eyes scan the scalloped edges, hunting for flaws that even a microscope couldn't find.

Without looking up, he nods once, the closest thing to a parade in my honor I'll ever get from him.

"Registration for the festival is tomorrow," he states flatly. "I expect you to place in the top three. If you do, I'll promote you to artisan baker." He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "With the salary to match."

I bite my lip to keep from squealing while my toes do a happy dance inside my shoes. After three years as his apprentice, I've learned when enthusiasm is welcome and when restraint is required. Still, this is exactly what I've been waiting for.

"I won't disappoint you Pierre," I manage, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fireworks going off in my brain.

Pierre Bouvier is the best baker in the region, possibly the state. His methods are exacting, traditional to a fault, but undeniably brilliant. Working under him has been like attending the most demanding baking boot camp imaginable.

And while I'm grateful he turned me into a high-functioning flour addict, his strictness is starting to suffocate me. Three other bakeries have tried to poach me in the last year, offering actual decent salaries and creative freedom. Tempting, but I stayed. Because Pierre’s training is the key to my ultimate dream: ‘Elena’s Creations’, my very own successful bakery. A place where innovation wouldn't be a crime against pastry.

As Pierre moves to the other side of the kitchen to start his morning bread routine, I turn my attention to the éclairs waiting on a cooling rack.

Glancing over my shoulder to make sure he's busy, I pull out a small tube of my apron pocket with a conspiratorial grin. Before he notices a thing, I squeeze it, releasing a fragrant paste into one éclair's dark chocolate filling as I whistle a little tune.

Pierre might have a stroke if he knew. 'Sacrilege! Why reinvent what generations have perfected?' he would lecture, probably while waving a rolling pin for emphasis. But as I imagine a customer's eyes widening in delight after their first bite, a thrill runs through me.

This is the real me, the baker I want to be. Someone who respects tradition but isn't afraid to make it dance a little.

* * *

Over two hours later, my feet are staging a minor protest. But today's pastries are done, and Mayor Hanson's daughter's birthday cake is ready for pickup. I glance at the clock. 7:58 AM. Almost time for the morning rush.

"Taking a quick water break!" I call out to Pierre, who's organizing macarons like tiny jewels in the front display.

I step into the cramped break room, grabbing my water bottle and a small, unmarked pill bottle from my bag.

In one smooth motion, I swallow one blue DuoBlocks pill, my daily dose of normal. This drug masks my omega pheromones (while also filtering out the ones alphas emit) and keeps all my biological imperatives on lockdown. Without it, my beta façade would vanish faster than free croissants at breakfast.

My phone buzzes just as I stash the bottle. Mom. I answer quickly, keeping my voice low. Pierre has opinions about personal calls during work hours.

"Hi, Mom! How are you?"

"Elena, darling! I'm doing well, just enjoying a quiet morning," her voice is warm, bright even. "What's new in the world of butter and sugar?"

I lean against the metal shelving with a grin. “The annual baking festival starts tomorrow!”

"Oh, how exciting! The big one you've been practicing for?"

"That's the one. And get this, Pierre said if I place in the top three, he'llfinallypromote me to artisan baker. With the salary to match!" The excitement bubbles up, impossible to fully contain.

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