The airport ceiling blinked with dying fluorescent lights.
Winter Parker stood at the edge of the arrivals hall, one boot heel twisted on a crack in the tile, holding the frayed handle of a suitcase that looked like it had survived war. Her eyes were bloodshot, her coat was too thin for the rain outside, and she hadn't eaten anything except half a stale bagel in twelve hours.
This wasn't how new beginnings were supposed to look.
She stared at the sliding glass doors leading into the city beyond. Her new city. New country, even. New rules, new culture, new everything.
And yet—same old anxiety clawing at her spine.
The woman behind her in line sighed dramatically. Winter took the hint and shuffled forward.
The customs officer barely looked up from his tablet. "Name?"
"Winter Parker."
"Citizenship?"
"American."
"Purpose of visit?"
"Relocation." She cleared her throat. "Permanently. I—I have a work permit."
The man looked up now, frowning at her worn clothes and blinking travel mascara. "You have a job already?"
"No," she said. "But I have interviews. And a temp agency—"
His eyebrow twitched upward.
Winter pushed forward a plastic folder with trembling fingers. "There's a bakery. I'm a baker. Sort of. I mean, I trained at one. And the agency knows someone who—"
He waved a hand and stamped her papers. "You're clear. Next."
She took back her passport with a shaky nod, muttering a thank-you that didn't feel like enough. And then, like that, she was through.
Welcome to Elestria, Winter Parker.
Try not to fall apart.
---
Outside, the rain greeted her like an old, unwelcome friend. Cold. Sharp. Soaking straight through her boots in seconds. She stood beneath the bus stop shelter, staring at the map like it might rearrange itself into kindness. Her hands were shaking—not from the cold. Not exactly.
Her father had died when she was fifteen. Her older brother, two years later. Her mother had walked out after that. And her sister—Erica—had promised she'd come back, that she'd take Winter with her. But Erica had vanished too. No phone calls. No letters. Just silence.
That had been five years ago.
Now she was twenty-two, dragging a suitcase that screamed "tragedy with baggage," hoping a community bakery would call her back before she ran out of money or shelter or nerve.
Her stomach growled. The last of her cash had gone to bus fare and a single cup of gas station coffee, which was more motor oil than caffeine.
She adjusted her duffel on her shoulder and stepped into the rain.
---
Three hours later, she was volunteering behind a booth at a local food expo—one she'd heard about from a girl at the shelter who said, "If you're good at bread, pretend you're French and fake your way in."
So she had.
Now Winter stood awkwardly behind a folding table with three loaves of banana caramel bread she'd baked in the shared shelter kitchen at 5 a.m. There was no sign, no decorations, and definitely no branding. Just her and some sad-looking paper napkins.
"Sample?" she offered, voice too high.
A man in a sharp charcoal suit walked by, sniffed, and kept moving.
Winter deflated.
The woman next to her leaned over from her display of macarons and pastel cake bites. "Don't take it personally. You're not their type."
"I'm not sure I'm even my type," Winter muttered.
The woman laughed once, then turned back to her fans.
Winter exhaled through her nose and looked down at the slice she'd cut for herself. Golden brown. Moist crumb. Just enough caramel to tempt without overwhelming.
She popped the bite in her mouth and chewed mechanically.
It was good.
Not bakery-level polished. But good.
Which made what happened next all the more ridiculous.
---
She didn't see the man right away.
He wasn't flashy.
Just tall, lean, and wrapped in a coat that cost more than her entire education. His black hair was slightly messy in a deliberate kind of way, and when he passed her booth, he didn't even glance down.
But the man following him—a sharply-dressed assistant with a clipboard—did.
"Mr. Wayne," the assistant said quietly, "We're due at the press tasting in two minutes."
The man—Mr. Wayne?—didn't respond. He just kept walking, eyes fixed somewhere ahead.
And then the assistant looked right at Winter's table. At her bread.
His expression was... hungry.
"You there," he said. "Are you part of the formal presentation?"
Winter blinked. "No, I—I'm just a volunteer. From the shelter."
The man frowned. "Do you have any product left?"
"Um, two loaves."
"Come with me."
"What?"
"Bring them. Now."
"I—should I—?"
But he was already walking, expecting her to follow.
And because she didn't have any better plan—she did.
---
The next five minutes were a blur.
Winter found herself backstage behind a velvet curtain as the assistant placed slices of her bread on tiny ceramic plates and handed them off to staff in suits.
Some were taken to VIP tables.
One, oddly enough, was handed to the man with the black hair—the one called Wayne.
He looked down at it like it had personally offended him.
Then, slowly, he took a bite.
Winter watched from the wings, heart in her throat.
He chewed. Blinked once.
Then another assistant leaned down and offered him a small cup of espresso.
He took it. Drank.
Winter saw his throat move as he swallowed.
And then, three seconds later—
Lelouch Wayne collapsed sideways in his chair.