She had started going through her sister’s cupboards looking for inspiration and had found dusty bottles of prosecco and Aperol tucked at the back of a cupboard, likely leftover from a holiday gathering Charlie once had. Cass’s favorite cocktail was the Aperol Spritz. The beverage—an Italian aperitif made by mixing bubbly prosecco and the bitter, red-colored liquor Aperol, then adding a twist of orange rind—was her idea of festive, with its lovely red hue and sparkling bubbles. This would be the perfect way to transform a humble cupcake into something that would impress everyone at Sweet & Salty, and outshine Austin.

Cass was used to the bakery’s traditional recipes: lemon and date squares, cinnamon rolls, pies, breads, classic cakes, and birthday cupcakes. She often added her own twist, like a shortbread crust and burnt sugar topping for her lemon squares, and orange zest and maple syrup in her date square crumble. But this was different. It was fun. As she worked late into the night, she kept adding new elements to the recipe to make it even more special. Her recipe waited on a rumpled and stained sheet of paper that was almost as illegible as the one she had spilled eggnog on—but she was sure she’d be able to explain it all to Sydney when she arrived on set. And by then, Charlie’s promised recipe file would have arrived and it would be smooth sailing for the rest of the week.

Cass rooted through Charlie’s cupboards for coffee, remembering as she reached for the canister that she’d used the last of it the day before. With a heavy sigh, Cass plodded toward the shower, which was filled with myriad smoothing, renewing, shine-infusing products. She ignored them all and stuck with shampoo and body wash. She put on some basic face cream—plucked from a cosmetics-crowded medicine cabinet—smoothed on some lip balm, pulled her still-wet hair into a messy bun, dressed in a pair of jeans she’d brought with her and a sweatshirt of Charlie’s, then grabbed the car keys and security pass.

With the help of her cell phone, Cass found the nearest open coffee shop, a place called the Hive that was just down the mid-city Santa Monica block, which was lined with condos, townhomes, palm trees, and Savannah oaks. She walked quickly past it all, desperate for her caffeine fix.

Soon, the coffee shop came into view, but as she reached the front door, Cass realized there were no lights on inside. She checked her phone—6:08 a.m. The sign on the door said it opened at six o’clock every morning, except Sundays. Cass tried the door handle, but it was locked. She turned back to the street, looking up and down for another option—but all she could see was the disappointingly familiar Makewell’s logo—jaunty and art deco—shining bright on the front of a building directly across the street. What was worse was that there was a life-size cutout of Makewell’s founder, Sarah Rosen, grinning in the window. Cass had read about her in a Forbes article—apparently she was a mere twenty-five years old and was well on her way to creating a global empire. The speech bubble above Sarah’s head said Makewell’s was “Famous because we’re that good!”