Forever

SARAH

The bakery smelled of fresh bread and cinnamon, a comforting aroma that greeted me every morning. I enjoyed the simplicity of our life. Our bakery, though it was small and modest, it was our pride and joy. Papa, had poured his heart and soul into this place, and it was a decent addiction to our community.

“Good morning, Mrs. Alvarez! The usual?” I asked, already reaching for a loaf of brown bread.

“Good morning, Sarah. Yes, please,” she replied with a warm smile.

Handing her the loaf, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride. Despite the financial struggles and the countless hours of hard work, I loved every moment spent here. My father and I shared a close bond, working side by side to keep our beloved bakery running.

After Mrs. Alvarez left, I returned to kneading dough, humming softly to the tune playing on the radio. My father was in the back, preparing a new batch of new dough. The old Spanish tunes on the radio filled the space with nostalgia, reminding me of my mother. I pushed the thought away, focusing on the task at hand.

“Sarah, how’s it looking out there?” my father called from the kitchen.

“Busy, as usual,” I replied, looking at the clock. It was mid-morning, our busiest time of day. “But I can handle it.”

He appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. His face, lined with years of hard work, softened as he looked at me. “You’re a good girl, Sarah. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I smiled, but before I could respond, the bell above the door rang again. This time, it wasn’t a familiar face that greeted me.

A group of men, rough-looking and clearly out of place, walked into the bakery. They spoke in low tones, casting glances around the room that made my stomach churn.

I took a deep breath, reminding myself of my father’s warnings about not getting into trouble. “Stay calm, Sarah,” I muttered under my breath.

One of the men, tall with a scar running down his cheek, approached the counter. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Got any fresh bread for us?”

I forced a smile. “Of course. What can I get for you?”

He looked me up and down, a nasty look playing at the corners of his mouth. “How about a smile to start with?”

I clenched my teeth, resisting the urge to insult him. “We have rye, sourdough, and baguettes fresh out of the oven.”

Rye, huh?” he said, leaning over the counter. “You know what I like about rye? It’s tough. Just like me.”

The other men laughedlaudly, crowding closer. I could feel their eyes on me, sizing me up like I was some kind of hooker. My heart pounded, but I stood my ground. “How many loaves do you need?”

“Let’s start with two,” the scarred man said, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “And we’ll see if your service is good enough for more.”

I turned to grab the loaves, trying to keep my hands from shaking. As I placed them in a bag, one of the men knocked over a display of pastries. “Oops,” he said with a smirk. “Clumsy me.”

“Hey, watch it!” I snapped, it was getting difficult to control my patience. “Those aren’t free, you know.”

The scarred man’s grin widened. “Feisty, aren’t you? I like that in a woman.”

Another man, shorter but stocky, moved closer, he looked at me with a perveted smile. “What else you got back there, sweetheart? Maybe something sweet for us?”

I glared at him, my fists clenched up. “Just the bread. Take it or leave it.”

“Oh, we’ll take it,” he said, reaching out to brush a finger against my cheek. “But I bet you’re sweeter than anything here.”

I slapped his hand away, my heart racing. “Don’t touch me!”

The men laughed, the scarred man leaning over the counter again. “What’s the matter? We’re just having a little fun.”

“This isn’t fun,” I said through gritted teeth. “This is harassment. Now either buy something or get out before I call the police.”

The scarred man’s expression darkened. “You’ve got quite a mouth on you, girl. Maybe we need to teach you some manners.”

Before I could respond, the bell above the door chimed again. Mr. Morales, an elderly man who visited the bakery daily, shuffled in. He looked around, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the men and the mess they had made.

“Good morning, Sarah. Could I get a baguette, please?” he asked, his voice a little shaky.

I quickly handed him the bread, my hands steadying slightly in the familiar transaction. “Of course, Mr. Morales. That’ll be two dollars.”

As Mr. Morales fumbled for his wallet, one of the men snatched it from his hands. “What do we have here?” he taunted, rifling through the old man’s belongings.

“Hey!” I shouted, I didn't care about my fear. “Give that back!”

The scarred man laughed. “Looks like the little princess wants to play hero. Why don’t you stay out of it, sweetheart?”

I stepped around the counter, my anger boiling over. “Give it back, now!”

The men laughed again, clearly enjoying the show. The scarred man waved the wallet in front of Mr. Morales, taunting him. “Come and get it, old man.”

Mr. Morales looked at me, his eyes pleading. I could see he was terrified, but he tried to put on a brave face. “Please, just give it back,” he said softly.

The men ignored him, their attention focused on me. One of them, a burly guy with tattoos snaking up his arms, knocked over another display, sending pastries scattering across the floor. “Oops,” he said again, smirking.

“Enough!” I shouted, my voice shaking with anger. “Leave him alone and get out of my bakery!”

The scarred man stepped closer, his face inches from mine. “You’ve got guts, girl. But guts can get you in trouble.”

I stood my ground, refusing to back down. “I said, give it back and get out.”

The bell above the door jingled, and another man entered. My breath caught in my throat. He was tall, professionally dressed, and he had an air of authority that made everyone in the room turn to look. His dark eyes scanned the bakery with a mixture of curiosity and calculation, finally landing on me.

“Boss!” the scarred man exclaimed, visibly straightening. “We were just—”

He silenced him with a look. “Behave with class,” he commanded, his voice smooth yet edged with steel. “This is not how we conduct ourselves.”

There was something about him, something magnetic and intimidating all at once. He moved with the confidence of a man used to being obeyed, his every step purposeful. He was undeniably attractive, with chiseled features and an air of authority that made my skin crawl.

His gaze returned to me, and I felt a strange pull, as if he could see right through me. “I apologize for my men,” he said, his tone surprisingly courteous. “They seem to have forgotten their manners.”

I managed to find my voice. “It’s… it’s okay. No harm done.”

He smiled, a small, knowing smile that felt more like a threat than a reassurance. “Good to hear. What’s your name?”

“Sarah,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Sarah,” he repeated, as if savoring the sound. “A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”

Heat rose to my cheeks, not from flattery, but from anger and discomfort. I quickly looked away, busying myself with a tray of cookies that didn’t really need arranging. What was it about this man that made me so uneasy?

He turned to his men, his expression hardening. “Apologize to the lady and help clean up this mess.”

They scrambled to obey, their earlier drama replaced with obedience. As they arranged the fallen display and muttered apologies, I stole glances at Marco, trying to understand who he was and why he had such a powerful effect on everyone around him.

“Again, my apologies,” he said once more, stepping closer. “It seems my visit caused quite a stir.”

“Who… who are you?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.

He chuckled softly, a sound that was both charming and dangerous. “Just a businessman, Sarah. But I think we’ll be seeing each other again.”

With that, he turned and walked out, his men following like obedient dogs. The door closed behind them, and the bakery seemed to exhale, the tension slowly disappearing.

I stood there, trying to steady my breathing, my mind dashing with questions. Who was that man? And why did he have his subordinates come here?