Cupcake And Mr Biggs ⏰ 🆓

“How much for the recipe?”

In the glittering skyline of a city that never sleeps, there are two kinds of people: those who climb the ladder, and those who bake the bread. For a decade, was the king of the ladder. A real estate mogul with a jaw like a cinder block and a reputation for eating smaller firms for breakfast, he was the man who turned offices into gold and parks into parking structures.

Her real name was Clara Melrose, but everyone called her Cupcake for two reasons: she made the most transcendent vanilla-bean confections in the five boroughs, and her demeanor was aggressively sweet. Where Mr. Biggs used a gavel, Cupcake used sprinkles.

“I’m not a child,” he said.

The scent hit first—warm honey, spiced bourbon, and a ghost of cinnamon. Mr. Biggs’s nostrils flared involuntarily. He looked at the cupcake. Then at her. Then back at the cupcake.

Cupcake didn’t flinch. She opened the box.

And on the top floor, in a penthouse office overlooking the same rainy skyline, a silver-haired man sits with a small white box. He opens it. He breathes in the smell of honey and bourbon. And for just a moment, the king of the city stops climbing.

Across town, tucked between a laundromat and a psychic’s parlor, was .