The next morning, the flour tub was gone. It had been replaced by a hermetically sealed, military-grade storage container and several state-of-the-art mouse traps, each tagged with a unique inventory number by Caleb. The kitchen, post-sterilization and pre-breakfast, felt less like a culinary space and more like a high-security lab where romance writers were not welcome.
Caleb was already at his Danish-designed desk, monitoring his graphs. He wore a fresh, perfectly ironed shirt and seemed completely unbothered by the previous day's rodent intrusion, as if the mouse had been merely an 'unexpected variable in the Q3 environmental projection.'
"We have a critical deadline, Eliza," Caleb announced, without looking up. "The first 'Leaven-tide Report' for Mrs. Constance Vanderhoof's starter, Reginald, is due in twenty minutes. I have the data."
He printed a single sheet of thermal paper. It contained only three figures: Temperature: 72.1°F, Micro-Vibration Index: 0.12, Beta Activity: Low.
"Reginald is demonstrating Restrained activity," Caleb explained, circling the last metric. "As per the lexicon, you have twenty minutes to generate a 250-word artisanal report that justifies the $300 monthly maintenance fee. Remember, the objective is to cultivate an appreciation for the starter's exclusive emotional complexity."
Eliza sat down, feeling the oppressive weight of her titanium pen. She looked at the blank page, then at Caleb, who was timing her with a stopwatch.
"Okay, if the beta activity is low, I can use 'Contemplative' or 'Philosophically Challenged,'" Eliza mused, testing the words. "But that doesn't sound luxurious. It sounds like Reginald needs a nap."
"It sounds exclusive, Eliza," Caleb stressed. "Luxury is often found in scarcity and difficulty. Reginald is not merely slow; he is withholding his gifts. Write about the internal struggle."
Eliza began to write, trying to blend Caleb's data with her own penchant for drama.
To the Esteemed Mrs. Vanderhoof,
We submit today's Leaven-tide Report on your cherished Stoic Spelt, Reginald. We note a Restrained energy output, which, in the lesser circles of common flour, might be mistaken for lethargy. But Reginald is not lethargic.
She paused, tapping the pen. How do I make a lack of bubbles sound like a high-stakes adventure?
Caleb leaned over her shoulder, causing her to involuntarily inhale the clean, sharp scent of his cologne. It was distractingly expensive.
"Less flowery, more profound," he critiqued, pointing a finger at the word 'lethargy.' "The term 'philosophically challenged' implies a depth of character only achieved through immense wealth and minimal effort."
"Right, right. Reginald isn't lazy, he's existential." Eliza scribbled furiously.
He is instead profoundly Contemplative. Reginald is engaged in an internal dialogue of remarkable complexity, grappling with the very nature of existence and the weighty destiny of his future as a noble Spelt loaf. His subdued fermentation is a silent testament to his Restrained spirit—a powerful, quiet force gathering its considerable energy for a future burst of Audaciously Ebullient activity.
She signed it: Yours in the Pursuit of Perfect Potential, E. Copley.
Caleb took the report, scanned it quickly, and actually nodded. It was the first time she'd seen him register approval that wasn't purely financial.
"The word 'noble' is a solid choice. It leverages perceived aristocratic value. And the juxtaposition of 'Restrained' and 'Audaciously Ebullient' provides a compelling narrative arc for the client." He looked up at her, a professional gleam in his eyes. "You have a remarkable capacity for leveraging hyperbole to maximize qualitative returns, Eliza. It's an effective strategy."
"Translation: I write good melodrama, and rich people are suckers for it," she quipped, feeling a rush of satisfaction at his backhanded compliment.
The report was scanned and sent. Eliza watched Caleb close his laptop, feeling a momentary sense of peace settle over the kitchen.
"So, what do we do now?" she asked, stretching. "Have a celebratory coffee? Strategize our next steps? Maybe catch that mouse?"
Caleb stood, his posture impeccable. "Now, we maximize the synergy of our shared space. While you monitor the temperature controls on the Fermenting Offspring Rack, I will be conducting a deep-dive analysis of the competitive landscape."
"And by 'deep-dive analysis,' you mean you'll be doing your actual job," Eliza said, rolling her eyes.
"Affirmative. I have a critical client call in five minutes regarding a hedge fund merger, and I require absolute silence. We must demonstrate mutual respect for the high-value activity taking place in this... facility."
He pulled a headset over his perfectly coiffed hair, clicked a button, and began speaking in rapid-fire, low-toned financial jargon that sounded like a foreign language made up entirely of abbreviations: "...Yes, the EBITDA projections are stable, but we need to pivot the Q2 liquidity profile to account for the potential for market volatility in the APAC region…"
Eliza, feeling the immediate return of creative frustration, grabbed her own laptop. She needed to work on the draft of The Duke and the Decibel. She needed to write about grand, sweeping emotions, not EBITDA projections.
As Caleb continued his discussion of nine-figure mergers, Eliza tried to concentrate, but the financial talk was incredibly loud, and the man speaking it was incredibly close. In a moment of pique, she opened her novel draft and began typing, using Caleb's voice as the unexpected, if highly irritating, inspiration for her hero, the Duke.
"The Duke, his jawline like a Roman coin, spoke with the cool, calculated intensity of a man closing a complex merger. 'My love,' he murmured, 'I find that your lack of consistent affection poses an unacceptable risk to my Q4 emotional stability. We must optimize our commitment profile—immediately.'"
She smirked at her own genius.
Suddenly, a notification chime sounded from Caleb's laptop. He glanced at the screen, and his jaw, the one Eliza had just likened to a Roman coin, visibly slackened.
He muted his headset. "Eliza." His voice was low and intense. "Mrs. Vanderhoof just responded to your report. She didn't just pay the fee; she immediately pre-paid for the entire year, demanding two additional 'philosophically challenged' Reginald offspring for her yacht."
He stared at the screen, then at Eliza, a genuine, raw expression of astonishment washing over his face.
"We have generated thirty-six thousand dollars in revenue in one hour," Caleb whispered, his voice shaking slightly. "Your melodrama… it is a highly profitable asset."
The kitchen, currently silent except for the faint, steady bubble of Larry, suddenly felt electric. They had done it. They had monetized yeast feelings.
That was a huge win for their fledgling business! The income generation is successful, and Caleb is starting to see the value in Eliza's "qualitative metrics."