Chapter 1

Monica

The cinnamon wafts through my kitchen, wrapping around me like a warm hug. I pipe another swirl of buttercream onto a chocolate cupcake, adding it to the growing army lined up on my counter. The neighborhood block party is tomorrow, and I promised two dozen of my signature treats.

"Mommy, can I help now? You said I could help!" Matthew bounces on his toes beside me, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Just a minute, baby. Let me finish this row." I concentrate on keeping my hand steady, creating the perfect spiral on each cupcake.

"But you said that forever ago!" He dramatically flops against the counter, sending a container of rainbow sprinkles teetering dangerously close to the edge.

I catch it just in time. "Matthew Hudson, what did I tell you about being careful in the kitchen?"

His big brown eyes widen. "That it's a place for walking feet and gentle hands." He recites our kitchen rules perfectly, then immediately contradicts them by hopping from one foot to the other. "But I've been waiting so long!"

"Okay, okay." I laugh, unable to resist that face. "You can put sprinkles on these ones I've finished."

His entire face lights up as I slide five completed cupcakes toward him and hand over the sprinkle container. "Remember, just a little—"

Too late. Matthew upends the entire container, creating a rainbow avalanche across my perfectly frosted creations. Sprinkles bounce everywhere—onto the floor, the counter, even somehow landing in my hair.

"I made them beautiful!" He beams with pride.

I take a deep breath. "You sure did, buddy." I survey the damage. Each cupcake now sports approximately three thousand sprinkles, and my clean kitchen floor looks like a candy factory explosion.

While Matthew creates more "masterpieces," I let my mind wander to my dream. My own bakery. Not just working for Julianna at Sweetie Treats. Not just a kitchen in our tiny apartment, but a real storefront with my name on it. Hudson's Sweet Spot. I can see it so clearly—glass cases filled with eclairs drizzled with chocolate, fruit tarts with glazed berries, cinnamon rolls drowning in cream cheese frosting.

"Mommy, look! I made a mountain!" Matthew's voice pulls me back to reality—he's created a sprinkle pyramid on top of one cupcake that defies the laws of physics.

"That's... impressive." I shake my head, smiling despite myself. "How about you go wash your hands while I finish these last few?"

As he scampers off, leaving a trail of colored sugar in his wake, I return to my piping bag. The rhythm of decorating soothes me—squeeze, swirl, release. In my bakery, I'd have a kids' corner with small tables and chairs where children could decorate their own cookies while parents enjoyed coffee. I'd use ingredients from local farms and offer seasonal specials. The walls would be painted a warm yellow, and there'd be the constant perfume of butter and sugar and possibility.

"All clean!" Matthew announces, thrusting his still-damp hands in my face as proof.

"Good job." I ruffle his curls. "Want to help me put these in the containers?"

As we work side by side, carefully transferring sprinkle-laden cupcakes into plastic carriers, that sense of purpose swells inside me again. This is more than just baking—it's building something. Creating joy. Leaving my mark.

One day, I'll have that bakery. For now, I have this kitchen, these cupcakes, and this beautiful boy making a complete mess of everything. And honestly? It's pretty damn sweet.

I close the lid on the last container of cupcakes, sealing away my sugary creations for tomorrow. Matthew has wandered off to the living room, the siren call of his dinosaur toys too strong to resist. Through the doorway, I can see him creating an elaborate prehistoric battle scene, complete with sound effects that would make a Hollywood foley artist proud.

The kitchen falls quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant roar of my son's T-Rex. I lean against the counter, suddenly ambushed by thoughts I've been pushing away all day.

Dallas.

His name alone sends a current through me—a complicated mixture of longing, anger, and something dangerously close to hope. Eight months back in New York, and still, every tall blonde man on the street makes my heart stop for a second. I've mastered the art of the double-take, the quick confirmation that it's not him, the exhale of relief... or is it disappointment?

I close my eyes and he's there instantly—his blue eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed, the way his hand would find the small of my back in crowded rooms, how he'd kiss my forehead before we departs for our college classes each morning. The memories flood back with such clarity it's like watching scenes from a movie I've seen a thousand times.

"Shit," I whisper, opening my eyes to banish the images. Five years. Five years since I packed my bags and left without a word. Only a few days after our break-up, the positive pregnancy test upended my life completely.

I run my fingers through my curls, catching on knots from a long day of baking. Dallas and I were fire together—passionate, consuming, illuminating. But fire burns. And when his father made it clear I wasn't the proper choice for his golden boy, when I found out how his father was planning on setting him up with a gorgeous New York socialite bombshell, I couldn't handle it.

So I ran. Back to Jersey. Back to my mom's house where I could figure out what to do with the life growing inside me. I never told him. Never gave him the chance to choose us—or worse, reject us.

Now Matthew is five, and Dallas Wilson has no idea he has a son with my curls and his jawline.

"Mommy! Rex is hungry for cupcakes!" Matthew calls from the living room.

"Tell Rex cupcakes are for people, not dinosaurs," I call back, grateful for the interruption of my thoughts.

Eight million people in New York City. The odds of running into Dallas are astronomical. That's what I tell myself as I wipe down the counters, erasing the evidence of our baking adventure. I've built something solid here—a routine, a support system, a path toward my dreams. Matthew is happy, thriving. We have a good life.

But late at night, when Matthew is asleep and the apartment is quiet, I wonder if Dallas ever thinks of me. If he looked for me. If he'd want to know about his son.

I've crafted this careful stability for Matthew, brick by brick. Dallas Wilson is a wrecking ball I can't afford to let swing into our lives. His world of wealth and privilege, of expectations and appearances—it's everything I ran from. Everything I've protected Matthew from.

New York is big enough for both of us to exist without colliding. It has to be.

I straighten my shoulders and head to the living room to join my son's dinosaur adventure, leaving thoughts of Dallas behind in the kitchen like so many scattered sprinkles—colorful, tempting, and ultimately, meant to be swept away.

I sprawl on the living room floor, surrounded by plastic dinosaurs and Matthew's infectious laughter. He's created an elaborate story where his T-Rex—apparently named Sprinkles after our baking adventure—is defending a kingdom of smaller dinosaurs from an evil pterodactyl.

"And then—BOOM!" Matthew crashes two dinosaurs together. "Sprinkles saves everyone because he's the strongest and the bravest!"

"Is that right?" I prop my chin on my hand, watching his little face light up with imagination.

"Yeah! Just like how you save me when there's monsters under my bed."

My heart squeezes. "That's my job, baby. I'll always protect you."

Matthew abandons his dinosaurs and crawls into my lap, his small body fitting perfectly against mine. I breathe in his scent—a mix of baby shampoo and the faint sweetness of frosting. These moments feel sacred, like time stops just for us.

"Mommy, can we read the space book tonight?" He looks up at me with those eyes—Dallas's shape, my color.

"Of course we can." I kiss the top of his head, feeling his soft curls against my lips.

We've come so far from those early days when I was just a terrified twenty-two-year-old with a newborn, living in my mother's spare bedroom. I remember the nights I'd pace the floor with him, both of us crying, me wondering if I'd made the biggest mistake of my life not telling Dallas.

But looking at Matthew now—confident, happy, secure—I know I made the right choice.

Later, after dinner and bath time, we curl up in his bed with the space book he's currently obsessed with. His room is a testament to his evolving interests—dinosaur posters sharing wall space with rocket ships, building blocks stacked next to science kits meant for kids twice his age.

"Did you know," Matthew says with all the authority his five years can muster, "that astronauts have to exercise two hours every day in space or their muscles get all mushy?"

"Is that so?" I turn the page, admiring the colorful illustrations of the solar system.

"Yup. When I'm an astronaut, I'm gonna exercise three hours so I'm extra strong."

I smile at his determination. "You can be anything you want to be, you know that?"

"Even a baker-astronaut-dinosaur doctor?"

"Especially that." I tap his nose.

As we read, I think about the parent-teacher conference I had last week. Ms. Rivera had nothing but praise for Matthew—his vocabulary is advanced, his curiosity boundless, his social skills excellent. "He's thriving," she'd said, and those two simple words had filled me with more pride than any accomplishment of my own.

After the third reading of the space book, Matthew's eyelids grow heavy. I sing our goodnight song, the same one my mother sang to me, and watch as he drifts off to sleep.

I stand in his doorway, taking in the sight of him—one arm thrown dramatically above his head, mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling with each peaceful breath. This little person who carries half my DNA and half of Dallas's, yet is entirely his own unique being.

In the quiet of our apartment, I allow myself a moment of pure gratitude. We may not have much, but we have enough. My job at Sweetie Treats pays the bills. Matthew's in a good school. We have health insurance. My savings for the bakery grows slowly but steadily.

Most importantly, we have stability—that precious commodity I never fully had growing up with a single mom who worked three jobs. Matthew knows exactly what to expect each day. He knows he's loved, safe, protected.

I've built this life for us brick by brick, sacrifice by sacrifice. No regrets. No looking back.

The thought of anything—or anyone—disrupting what we've created sends a chill through me. Dallas's world of wealth and privilege comes with strings attached, expectations I couldn't meet. His father made that abundantly clear.

"Sleep tight, my little astronaut," I whisper, closing Matthew's door partway.

Whatever happens, I'll make sure nothing destroys what we have. Nothing and no one—not even Dallas Wilson.