As I take the cheesecake out of the oven, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon fills the air. My hands tremble as I check the recipe, hoping it’s perfect this time.
“Andrei, the guests are waiting for dessert!” His impatient voice cuts through the silence. I carefully garnish the cheesecake, but his past words echo in my head: “Clumsy hands, can’t even cut a cake.”
When I enter the room, his family offers polite smiles—except his mother’s usual disapproving stare. “Here’s our tiny chef!” Andrei sneers. “Let’s hope she didn’t ruin it this time.” I hold my breath as he takes a bite. “Dry, bony cheesecake! I told you not to go above 160 degrees.” Laughter erupts, and my cheeks burn.
That night, something snaps. The next morning, Andrei wakes up tied to the bed. “Have you gone insane, Masha?” I smile. “Ten years of cruelty taught me new skills.” As I pack, I tell his sister the key’s under the mat. His cries fade as I shut the door behind me.
A week later, in Barcelona, I sip hot chocolate. An email arrives: “We’d love to publish your story.” Months later, in my own bakery, I toss a magazine featuring Andrei aside. No dessert tastes sweeter than freedom.
