23 – Sweets and Secrets: Tensions in the Kitchen

Sweets and Secrets:
Tensions in the Kitchen

When Dar locks herself away in her office, it sparks concern among her closest allies.
A morning intervention with pastries turns into a revelation of secret relationships and underlying tensions
when she returns from a run instead of being found in her office.

Logan climbed up from the basement in time to see Pam bustle into the kitchen, and start unpacking pastry boxes.

No sooner had Logan set his feet on the tile than Sean padded down the stairs, barefoot in clean sweatpants and a tee, his hair still damp from a recent shower. He froze at the sight: Pam’s glorious spread of baked goods laid out like truces at a war table.

“Blimey. I leave for forty-five minutes and return to a carbohydrate ceasefire.”

He eyed the spread, reverent, then flashed a grin toward Pam. silently questioning her motives.

His gaze flicked to the closed office door harbouring Dar. A protective look crossed his features, then vanished. Leaning against the counter, he lowered his voice. ” She’ s been holed up since dawn. You here to rescue her or just keep tabs?”

“Monitoring?” Pam snorted. “Please. If this were a stakeout, I’d have binoculars and you’d already be asleep.” She slid a pain au chocolat toward him. “Eat. You’re no use to anyone when you’re dramatic and under-fuelled.” She wiped flour from her jacket sleeve with a sharp flick of the back of her hand. “Dar’s been buried in there since who-knows-when, so I brought reinforcements.” She nudged a plate of scones toward him. “Carbs aren’t a bribe—they’re survival. You look like you could use some fuel yourself.” Her gaze drifted to the closed office door, voice softening. “She’s pushing herself too hard again.”

Logan leaned in the doorway, sunglasses low on his nose despite the morning light. His eyes drifted from the pastries to the locked door.
“Carbs are a bribe,” he said dryly. “Just happens to be the kind that works.”

He flicked a glance at Sean, something assessing in the way he held himself—coiled but casual. “She’s been at it since before dawn, she’ll be at it until midnight. You know that.” His gaze settled back on Pam. “You here to fatten us up, or you got an actual plan for pulling her out of that hole?”

Pam straightened, hands on hips, her emerald eyes flashing. “Bloody hell, Logan, you know me better than that.” She grabbed a knife, slicing through a croissant with surgical accuracy. “I brought fuel—and a plan.” She plated three pastries, each a different flavour, then pointed the knife at the office door. “You two are my distraction. She can’t ignore all of us.” She set the plate down with a soft clink. “Now, who wants the raspberry-rose first?”

Sean patted the pockets of his sweatpants before snagging the raspberry-rose croissant, the flaky crust shattering between his fingers. “I’ll grab my phone. Use Logan meanwhile.” He nodded toward him. “Human compliance form. Audit. Slightly hostile font.”  He laughed, chewing. “I’ll play decoy after I get back. But if she chucks a stapler at me, I’m billing you for the stitches.” He polished off the pastry in a few bites and headed back toward the garage. “And if this works, you’re teaching me that rolling-pin trick. For… morale.”

“Careful, Sean. He audits in silence. Much worse.” Pam watched him go, then faced Logan. “Audit? Really?” She set down another croissant and crossed to him, placing the plate on the island. Her voice dipped to something intimate as she pressed a hand to his chest. “You ducked out awfully early this morning. You alright? Tension’s thicker than treacle in here.” She tapped the plate. “Eat first. Then we charge that door together.” She didn’t step back. “Ready to be the distraction she needs?”

Logan didn’t flinch from her touch now; he slid his hand to her hip. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said quietly. “Things are strained. Not your fault.” He leaned in and kissed her.

Sean, whose timing on a golf course was legendary and whose timing everywhere else was apparently cursed, walked back into the room and saw the kiss. WTF?

He froze, blinked once, then looked politely away. “Right. I’ve apparently walked into a very tender HR violation.”

He waved his phone. “I’ll… be over here. With my eyes. Firmly occupied elsewhere.”

Logan stepped away, jaw tight, but didn’t look at Sean. His eyes flicked to the office door, then back to Pam as if asking a silent question.

He turned to Sean, voice low: “Not a word.” No threat, just steel. “You saw nothing. You know nothing. And if you want to breathe easy here, keep it that way.”

Pam’s fingers tightened on Logan’s hip for a heartbeat before she let go, stepping back as a blush crimsoned her neck. Her emerald eyes flicked to Sean, then to Logan—reading the warning in his tone. She picked up the knife again, turning it in her hand like a talisman.

 “Violation? Two people having a moment? Please.” She slid the third croissant across. “Right.” Pam clapped once. “Moment’s over. Feelings shelved. We’re either conducting a pastry-based extraction or I start emotionally blackmailing with almond paste.”

Logan picked up a croissant without looking, tore off a bite, and chewed slowly. Then: “So. Ready to actually help get Dar out of that room, or are you just gonna stand there gawking?”

Pam’s eyes flashed to Sean. “Either you’re in this extraction or you’re dead weight. Choose wisely.”

Sean took the croissant Pam slid over, turning it in his hands without biting. “Dead weight? Harsh.” He glanced from her to Logan, the warning still hanging in the air.

“Look, I’m not here to audit anyone’s personal life. I’m here because Dar’s been locked in there since before I woke up, and I’m bloody starving for actual conversation.” He set the pastry down. “So let’s storm the castle. I’ll take point, you two bring the pastries. I’ll knock. I’ll smile. I’ll die first if necessary.”

He pointed at Logan. “If projectiles fly, I’m using you as a morally ambiguous shield.”

Pam plated the last croissant, eyes narrowing at Sean. “You hide behind Logan and I will trip you.”

She grabbed the plate and marched toward the office door. “Dar’s not throwing anything. She’s starving.”

She rapped twice, voice sharpening. “Dar!” Pam rapped sharply. “Open up. We’ve escalated from concern to baked-goods intervention and I will pick this lock with a piping tip.”

Dar stood behind them in the kitchen doorway, breathless and flushed, wiping sweat from her temples. She’d clearly been out running.

They all turned to look at her. Logan inhaled deeply, then turned toward Pam and Sean, his stance conveying caution. “Coup’s postponed.”

He approached his stepsister. “How far’d you go?  And who’d you run with?” As if I don’t know.

Dar leaned back against the frame, her legs trembling from the unaccustomed exertion.
“Four miles. Callum.”
She paused, scanning the scene—Pam armed with pastries, Sean hovering yet grinning at the mention of Callum, and Logan stony, as usual.
“Coup?”

Pam lowered her knife, eyes flicking from Dar to Logan. “We thought we’d breach a siege. Four miles with Major Stoneface?” She slid a fresh croissant in front of Dar. “Sit.” Pam slid the croissant over. “You look like you tried to outrun your thoughts and lost on points.”

Dar’s shoulders eased as she leaned against the island counter, eyeing the pastry. “Yes. The major.”

She pulled the damp hair tie from her ponytail, shaking out her hair. “And I’m not outrunning anything. I’m just—” She paused, the words catching. Her throat tightened. “I needed to move.”

She took the croissant, the buttery warmth grounding against her palm. She sank into a kitchen chair, exhaustion hitting her bones. “So. What’s the real reason for the siege?”

Sean folded his arms and watched her. “Real reason?” He flicked a glance at Logan, then Pam, before his eyes settled on Dar. “We were staging a pastry-based intervention. Pam’s croissants are apparently lethal enough to breach a locked door.”

He pulled a water bottle from the fridge and tossed it to her. “Drink. But since you’re here—the Major.” Sean tipped his head. “Does he actually keep up, or is he just aggressively symmetrical?”

Dar caught it, gulped deeply, then set it down. “Potent pastries and a coup. Sounds about right.”

She glanced at Logan, then at Sean. “Callum keeps up fine. He’s more than a pretty face.” She broke another croissant layer. “But you already knew that.”

Then to Pam, “Proper question is why you three are circling like vultures when I’ve only been gone an hour.”

Pam set down the paring knife with a metallic clatter, crossing her arms. “We’re not vultures, darling, we’re concerned. We thought you were locked in there.” She pointed a manicured finger toward the office door. “But….a run with Major…Callum is better. Although you did come back looking like you’ve been through a processor.”

She raised an eyebrow and drummed her fingers on the counter, gaze flicking between Dar’s flushed cheeks and Logan’s rigid posture. “One hour or ten,” Pam said gently, “when you vanish into your head, the rest of us start circling like anxious pigeons. Loud ones. With opinions.”

Dar’s hand stilled on the pastry. She met Pam’s stare, then Logan’s rigid posture. Finally, Sean’s neutral watchfulness. She chewed slowly. “I’m not disappearing. I’m working.” She pushed the plate away. The adrenaline leaving her skin made her shiver. She looked Logan in the eye. “I needed to clear my head before I went back in. That’s why I ran.” The lie felt harsh on her tongue.

The lie tasted bitter, but the truth—that Callum had pushed her harder than any run she’d taken since Zoe died, that he’d matched her stride for stride and said things about control and chaos that hit too close to home—wasn’t ready for this kitchen, this audience.

She stood, the chair scraping against the tile. “I’m going to shower. Then I’m going back to work. You three can eat the pastries, stage your coup, or do whatever you want. But I’m fine.”

“Fine, go on.” Logan stepped into her path, blocking the doorway, handing over a croissant as if it were non-negotiable currency. He let his sunglasses drop slightly, revealing stern eyes. “Then you’ll eat more than air. Not optional.”

He held the stare a second longer, then stepped aside. “Callum. Don’t let him run you into the ground. I’ve seen what that looks like.”

Dar stiffened. “I said I was going to shower, not starve myself.” Her voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge underneath. “And I’m not a project for you to manage.”

She slipped past him and headed upstairs.

Pam exhaled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. A small, victorious smile tugged at her lips. She glanced at Logan. “Let her have this one. She’s fighting back—that’s the Dar I know.”

She grabbed her phone, checking the time. “Bloody hell, I need to open the bakery. I’ve got a wedding cake consultation at noon.” 

She slid off the stool, smoothing her pants. “Keep an eye on her? And Logan—don’t let her starve herself into the ground. I’ll bring something substantial back later.”

Logan tore off a piece of the leftover croissant, eyes fixed on the empty staircase. “She isn’t fighting—she’s sprinting away from something. Callum’s rattled her, but she’s not scared of him. Scared of what he’s seeing.”

He turned to Pam. “Go handle the wedding cake. I’ll make sure she eats.” He watched Sean, who was still standing guard. Fuck it. He leaned in and kissed her.

Although Sean was surprised, his upbringing had made him so accustomed to unusual events that his expression didn’t change as he watched the exchange of affection coming from Logan.

He watched Pam leave and tore a croissant in half before facing Logan. “She’s rattled all right—but maybe not just because of Callum.”

He set the pastry down, wiping crumbs from his hands. “We’re all sitting here like it’s a fucking Sunday roast, but there’s no word. No target, no timeline, nothing. Just… waiting.”

He glanced at Logan. “Is it always like this?” Sean asked quietly. “The waiting. The silence. Everyone pretending it’s a normal morning while the world holds its breath?”

Logan crossed his arms and stared at the empty archway, letting the hush stretch. Finally, he turned, sunglasses catching Sean’s reflection.

“Always. The calm is the job. Waiting for the storm is the job.”

He picked up Dar’s cold coffee mug, swirled the dregs, then set it in the sink.

“Want certainty? Join a monastery. Out here, trust the pattern.”
“Get dressed. Let’s hit the range. Better to fire bullets than secrets.”

Sean straightened. “Right. Monastery’s out, then.” He started up the stairs.

Logan turned back to the sink, rinsing Dar’s mug in silence.

“Range,” he muttered to himself. “Better than waiting.”

Dar returned to Volkov.

The woman’s footprint had reduced overnight. A cancelled advisory meeting. A delayed shipment rerouted through a secondary port. Harmless adjustments individually. Taken together, they were unmistakable.

Surface area reduction.

Dar tapped a note into the log, precise and bloodless. She did not write fear. She wrote about risk mitigation. She did not write cornered. She wrote merging controls.

Truth lived in the margins.

She pulled Ashford’s profile up again, even though she’d sworn she wouldn’t until something changed. The photograph stared back at her with the same composed neutrality it always had. He possessed no striking attractiveness. Not forgettable either. A face fit for boardrooms where outcomes were detached from accountability.

Everything about him was correct.

That was the problem.

She toggled to his financials. Stable. Boring. A man who existed comfortably inside the expected rhythms of capital and compliance. No spikes. No shadows. No obvious leverage points.

Ashford did not move money.

He stabilised it.

Dar exhaled through her nose. Chaos would have been easier. Chaos could be measured, predicted, and dampened. This was something else. A system designed to absorb pressure without deforming.
She minimised the window before the thought could finish forming.

Down the hall, a floorboard creaked. A kettle clicked on. Familiar house noises had become extraordinary. She questioned, yet again, the duration of her life spent in perpetual alertness, and the unnoticed price it exacted.

The model was refreshed.

No alerts.

She checked the passive feeds again, knowing they hadn’t changed. The Ashford channels hummed with administrative noise. Emails about conference schedules. A call about insurance compliance. An invoice approved without comment.

Normal.

Her pulse ticked faster despite herself.

At that moment, a notification bloomed on the edge of her screen. Small. Yellow. Not red.

Dar froze.

For half a second, the world narrowed to that single line of text. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, suspended between instinct and discipline.

She opened it.

A routing anomaly. Nothing more. A transient encryption handshake between two benign nodes that resolved itself within milliseconds. No message. No content. No intent.

A false positive.

Her shoulders dropped an inch as she forced herself to relax, leaving something colder behind. She leaned back, staring at the ceiling, counting her breaths until they evened out.

Her understanding grew more from the reaction than it did from the alert.

She wasn’t just observing anymore. She was waiting.

Waiting for a system to tip from theoretical into lethal. Waiting for permission she hadn’t consciously asked for.

Dar sat forward again and made herself log the anomaly, even though it felt absurd. Documentation mattered. Distance mattered.

But the awareness remained.

This was no longer about patterns.

It depicted a future, irreversible moment.

Outside, dusk swallowed the last bit of daylight. Logan bellowed about dinner. She looked at her computer, suspended in that narrow interval where nothing moved and everything was already in motion.

Dar watched the system breathe in.

She possessed an unshakeable certainty, unlinked probability charts, that its end was imminent.