By the time the first pink streaks of sunrise hit the strip mall sign that said “WANDA’S BAKERY – BEST CUPCAKES IN CALIFORNIA,” Jenny’s hands were already dusted in flour and her boss was already yelling.

“The cupcakes aren’t in the oven yet?” Wanda’s voice sliced through the kitchen like a serrated knife. “They’re supposed to be here in two hours to pick them up for the New Year’s Eve event. What is taking you so long?”

Jenny snapped her notebook shut, heart jumping. “Sorry, I just got off break. I was just finishing up something. I’ll go put them in now.”

“Finishing up what?” Wanda marched over, snatching the notebook from Jenny’s hands. Her acrylic nails clicked against the spine. “Wait, wait, wait. This does not look work-related to me.”

Jenny’s stomach dropped. On the page, in her careful handwriting, a list ran down the margin:

– Lose five pounds
– Go on a cruise
– Start a baking business

Wanda read the last line out loud, then laughed. It was the kind of laugh that could curdle milk.

“You?” She tapped the words with a red nail. “You start a business? Wow.”

“I don’t get what’s so funny about that,” Jenny said softly. Her cheeks burned. “You’ve taught me a lot. I feel ready.”

“Oh really? You really think you have what it takes to start a company?” Wanda arched a penciled brow. “You’re barely old enough to drive a car.”

“A lot of people my age have their own business,” Jenny said. She’d seen them on TikTok—girls in hoodies packing orders in tiny New York apartments, teens in Texas selling cake jars from their parents’ kitchens. Why not her in a small California town?

“I highly doubt that,” Wanda snapped. “Do you know how long it took me to get this bakery up and running? Ten years. Ten. And I was twenty-seven when I started. Do you know how many bakeries have come and gone in this town since then?”

Jenny stayed quiet. Out past the glass front, the strip mall parking lot sat under the soft Los Angeles County morning haze. The donut shop, the nail salon, the dry cleaner—same neighbors for years.

“Lots,” Wanda answered herself. “It’s a lot harder than you think. And certainly, a teenager can’t do it. Now I’d suggest you get back to work if you don’t want to lose your job.”

Jenny swallowed down the sting, tied her apron strings a little tighter, and moved to the mixer.

In the corner, Lauren, who’d been scraping brownie batter into a pan, shot Jenny an apologetic look. “You okay?” she mouthed.

Jenny just nodded and turned up the speed.

Hours later, after the rush of customers buying coffee and cinnamon rolls on their way to work, the kitchen smelled like sugar and stress. Jenny slid pan after pan of cupcakes into the oven, setting timers and trying not to think about the words “silly dream” echoing in her head.

By mid-afternoon, the New Year’s Eve cupcakes were cooling on the rack, perfectly frosted with little champagne glass toppers. The bakery’s neon “OPEN” sign buzzed in the window as people drifted in from the Southern California sunshine, ordering lattes in to-go cups.

“You sure Wanda won’t be mad about me using the oven?” Jenny asked later, standing in front of the gleaming steel door, a different tray of cupcakes in her hands.

“No way,” Lauren said, stacking clean trays. “I use it all the time. For my own stuff. Just don’t burn the place down and you’re good.”

Jenny laughed weakly. “I don’t know what you’re putting in those cupcakes,” Lauren added, sniffing the air, “but they smell amazing. Wanda’s gonna need to take some notes.”

“Thanks,” Jenny said. She was experimenting with flavors for the menu in her notebook—the one Wanda had mocked. Strawberry milk cupcakes with whipped cream frosting. Lemon honey with a crumble of shortbread. Recipes that tasted like summers in California and road trips up the coast.

“Well, if you need a taste tester, I’m available. And so is my stomach,” Lauren grinned. “Oh, and you know… you should talk to Wanda about some pointers on starting a business. She did build this place from scratch.”

Jenny snorted. “Did you see what she did when she saw my resolutions? I don’t think she’s in the mentoring mood.”

“You’re probably right.” Lauren’s smile faded. “I’ve been here, what, four years? And she still won’t make me manager.”

“Yeah, I was gonna ask what’s up with that,” Jenny said. “You do everything. Inventory, scheduling, dealing with suppliers…”

“I know, right?” Lauren shrugged. “It seemed like we were moving in that direction. She has me finding new recipes, which is kind of cool. But who knows.”

“Maybe it’ll come sooner than you think,” Jenny said.

“I hope so.”

The oven timer beeped. Jenny slipped her tray into the lower rack, slid on the mitts, and closed the door.

She told herself it was just another batch.

She told herself she’d remember to check them.

She didn’t.

“We’re the cupcakes?” Wanda’s voice cracked like a whip an hour later. “The customer’s going to be here any minute. Don’t tell me they’re still in the oven.”

“Nope.” Jenny grabbed the tray of perfectly frosted champagne cupcakes from the cooling rack. “They’re right here. Ready to go.”

“Then why is the oven still on?” Wanda frowned, turning toward the glowing door. “Oh? Whose are these?”

There, on the bottom rack, Jenny’s experimental cupcakes smoldered. The tops were blackened, sugary smoke curling up like a signal of failure.

“They’re mine,” Jenny admitted, throat tightening. “I was experimenting with some new recipes for—” She stopped herself. “For my new menu.”

“Oh, you’re using my equipment to test out your own recipes?” Wanda’s voice went up an octave. ”My kitchen is not for your recreational use.”

“I was told that you let people use the oven, so I thought I’d give it a try,” Jenny said. Her eyes watering from more than just the smoke.

Lauren stepped forward. “It wasn’t just her. I use the oven all the time for my own stuff.”

“Well that’s different,” Wanda snapped. “That’s because—what’s that smell?”

The smoke alarm shrieked. Jenny yanked open the oven door, a wave of burnt sugar hitting her in the face. The cupcakes were ruined: charred, collapsed.

“They were fine just a minute ago,” she stammered. “I just got distracted—”

“Who cares about your cupcakes?” Wanda shouted. “What about my oven? Do you see this? Do you know how much a deep clean costs in Los Angeles?“

“I’m so sorry,” Jenny said. “I’ll clean everything. I promise.”

“You know what? Just stop.” Wanda held up a hand. “Stop talking. An experienced baker would not take their eye off the oven. If anything is broken, it’s coming out of your paycheck. Understood?”

Jenny stared at the blackened tray, feeling something inside her sag. “Understood,” she whispered.

“I’m really sorry about your cupcakes,” Lauren said quietly after Wanda stormed out.

“It’s all right,” Jenny replied, even though it wasn’t. “Maybe Wanda’s right. Maybe I’m not ready to start my own business.”

“What? Because you burned some cupcakes?” Lauren scoffed. “Come on, girl. Don’t let Wanda scare you. Every baker burns things from time to time. It’s part of the territory.”

“Have you ever burned anything?” Jenny asked.

Lauren pointed to the bright red fire extinguisher in the corner. “Why do you think I keep that here? And I keep the fire department on speed dial.”

Jenny snorted despite herself.

“But seriously,” Lauren said. “You’ll be okay. And Wanda? She’ll forget about it. She’s always mad at something.”

Jenny stared at the tray. “So I take it you don’t want a taste test?”

Lauren’s eyes widened. “Girl, you clearly don’t know me at all. Burnt cupcake is my absolute favorite.” She grabbed one, blew off a flake of char, and took a dramatic bite. “Mmm. Smoky.”

Jenny laughed, and for a moment, the kitchen felt a little less heavy.

New Year’s Eve came with glitter and cheap champagne and that hollow feeling of being the only one not going anywhere. Jenny stood in Wanda’s decorated back room, staring at the cake in the center of the table. It was tall and perfectly frosted, piped with gold “Happy Birthday Jenny” lettering that Wanda insisted had to be even.

“Make a wish!” Lauren shouted as everyone gathered around the table—baristas, a few regulars, even the grumpy guy from the dry cleaners.

Jenny closed her eyes. I want my own bakery, she thought. I want to stop feeling small.

She blew out the candles. Cheers erupted.

“This is so nice,” she said, cheeks flushed. “And the cake looks amazing.”

Lauren elbowed her. “Are you really gonna act like you didn’t bake it?” she whispered.

“Wait, you made this cake?” one of the baristas asked, fork halfway to her mouth.

“Yeah,” Lauren said. “Wanda had her bake it. But she didn’t tell her it was for her.”

“I love everything you make,” Wanda said, appearing with a glass of sparkling cider in hand. “And if it saves me a few hours, I’m all about it.”

“I didn’t know you were this talented, Jenny,” another coworker said. “It looks super professional.”

“Thanks,” Jenny said nervously. “I hope it tastes as good as it looks. I tried a new recipe, so I’m sorry if—”

The doorbell chimed.

“I’ll get it,” Jenny said, grateful for an excuse to escape. She wiped her hands on a towel and opened the front door.

“Hi,” said the woman on the stoop, hair tousled from the wind. “Sorry I’m late. I had to stop at the bakery.” She stepped inside, eyes sweeping over the gold decorations.

“Happy birthday,” she added, handing Jenny a small gift bag.

“Thanks,” Jenny smiled. “Do you want a piece of cake? We just sliced it.”

“Sure, why not? I just have to use the restroom real quick,” the woman said.

“It’s right this way,” Jenny said, leading her past the kitchen.

As they passed, Wanda glanced up, her fake smile freezing for a fraction of a second. Then she dropped her voice to a hiss when Jenny came back.

“What is she doing here?” Wanda asked Lauren, tight-lipped.

“I invited her before… everything,” Lauren said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“It’s fine,” Jenny said, though it wasn’t. She knew Wanda would treat the guest like a Yelp reviewer in human form. “Don’t worry about it.”

“So,” Lauren said, trying to lighten the mood. “How about that cake?”

They gathered around as Jenny cut slices. The first bite was always the worst: the moment of truth.

Jenny watched Wanda lift her fork. Her boss chewed, frowned, then reached for a glass of water.

“Where is that cake from?” asked the guest who’d just come out of the bathroom.

“I made it,” Jenny said, nerves back in full swing.

“I should have known,” Wanda said, dabbing her lips. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. I thought I did everything right—”

“Yeah, well, obviously you did not,” Wanda said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “That cake is drier than the Sahara Desert.”

Laughter prickled at the edges of the room, uncomfortable and quick.

“I was just experimenting with a new recipe,” Jenny said. The ground under her feet suddenly felt unstable.

“Not this again,” Wanda rolled her eyes. “Are you still considering opening a bakery? You just turned nineteen, and you can barely bake a basic cake right.”

Jenny clenched her jaw.

Wanda’s phone buzzed. She checked the screen. “Yeah, okay, I’ll be there,” she said into it, then slipped on her coat. “I have to get back to the office. And Lauren? I need you to come in at five a.m. tomorrow to meet the truck.”

“No problem,” Lauren said. Her light was dimmer now.

“The cake wasn’t that bad,” Lauren told Jenny after Wanda left. “It looks beautiful, and that’s the hardest part.”

“Yeah,” another coworker chimed in. “It was just a little dry. A soak in syrup or milk and it would’ve been perfect.”

“I didn’t know Wanda was going to try it,” Jenny said. “I shouldn’t have experimented. I should probably never let anyone eat my creations again.”

“Actually,” Lauren said, eyes sparking, “I have an idea.”

Two days later, the idea took shape in the most dangerous way possible: right under Wanda’s nose.

“Welcome to Wanda’s. What can I get for you?” Jenny asked, plastering on her customer smile as a woman in a navy blazer stepped up to the counter.

“I’d like a red velvet cupcake, please,” the woman said, eyeing the display.

“That’ll be $4.78,” Jenny said, boxing it up.

“Excuse me, miss?” the woman said just as she turned away. “What are these pink ones? Did Wanda add a new flavor?”

Jenny glanced at the tray on the side—her strawberry milk cupcakes, piped with pink frosting and little white sprinkles. Her heart skipped.

“So,” Jenny said, lowering her voice. “We’re doing a thing where we feature a new recipe each month. I was wondering if you’d be willing to try one of my cupcakes and give some feedback. It’s free.”

The woman smiled. “I love that idea. I’ll take one of these pink ones.”

Jenny handed it over, watching nervously as the woman bit in.

Her eyes widened. “This is delicious,” she said. “What recipe is this?”

“It’s a new one I just came up with,” Jenny said, unable to keep the pride out of her voice.

“This is one of the best cupcakes I’ve ever had,” the woman said. “You’re really talented.”

“Well, hi! How are you?” Wanda’s voice floated from behind as she stepped out from the back. “Oh, Wanda,” the woman said. “I am great—even better now that I’ve had one of these new flavors. It’s so sweet of you to let your employees showcase their work. She’s an amazing baker.”

Wanda’s smile faltered. “I… wasn’t aware that we were featuring Jenny’s recipes,” she said slowly.

“Oh, yeah, it’s great. Definitely a ten out of ten.” The woman checked her watch. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. Hats off to you. This cupcake is to die for.”

“Thank you,” Jenny said.

“Take care,” the woman waved, exiting into the California afternoon.

The bakery door had barely closed when Wanda rounded on Jenny.

“You have really crossed the line this time,” she hissed. “Jenny, this is not one of your high school home ec classes where you get to test out your recipes. I am running a real business with real customers making real money.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Lauren cut in. “You put me in charge of finding new recipes, so I figured, why not use Jenny’s? You heard the customer—she loved it.”

“Jenny almost killed me with her recipe last night,” Wanda snapped. “We are not using them anymore. From now on, just stick to making things my way.”

Jenny’s vision blurred. Her chest was tight. Wanda kept talking, but the words were just noise now.

“You know,” Wanda continued, “you’ve been extra sensitive since I saw your New Year’s resolutions. Maybe cut the drama. I’m trying to save you from heartache.”

Jenny untied her apron slowly. “This isn’t me having a tantrum,” she said quietly. “This is me saying I quit.”

Silence crashed over the kitchen all at once. Somewhere, the espresso machine hissed.

“Quit?” Wanda repeated. Then she laughed, cruel and sharp. “That’s great. Go ahead and quit. I can’t wait to see you come crawling back in a couple of months, begging me for your job. It’s gonna be fun.”

Jenny hung her apron on the hook. Her hands trembled.

“Jenny,” Lauren said, catching up with her near the back door. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think she’d react like that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jenny said. “I just… can’t do this anymore.”

“I don’t blame you,” Lauren sighed. “She’s so old-school. And she can be such a nightmare.”

“So what are you going to do now?” she asked.

Jenny stared at the parking lot shimmering in the heat. “I’m going to start my own bakery,” she said. The words sounded terrifying and perfect. “I don’t even know where I’m going to find my first customer. But I’m going to prove Wanda wrong.”

Lauren grinned. “I love that. Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t do it for her. Do it for you. That’s the most important thing.”

Jenny nodded. “Thanks.”

That “first customer” arrived faster than she ever could have planned.

Two days after she quit, Jenny was in the grocery store buying flour with her last fifty dollars when a familiar voice called her name.

“Jenny? Hey!”

She turned to see the woman in the navy blazer from the bakery—no blazer today, just jeans and a T-shirt, a boy in a Spider-Man hoodie tugging at her hand.

“Oh, hi,” Jenny said, surprised.

“I was just thinking about that cupcake you made,” the woman said. “If I’m being honest, it’s the best thing I’ve ever had at Wanda’s. And I’ve been going there a long time.”

“Wow. Thank you,” Jenny said.

“I was hoping to get more for my son’s birthday party,” the woman said. “I need about four dozen. Unfortunately, when I asked, Wanda said she doesn’t make that flavor.”

“That’s because I don’t work there anymore,” Jenny said. “I just quit.”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry to hear that,” the woman said. Then she brightened. “Wait. Is there any way I could hire you on the side to make more of those?”

Jenny blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I was really hoping to get yours.”

Jenny glanced at the cake mix aisle, then back at the woman’s hopeful face. “Okay,” she heard herself say. “I can do that.”

“Amazing. Let me give you my number,” the woman said, pulling out her phone.

They exchanged contacts. Jenny typed in the details: four dozen strawberry milk cupcakes, Sunday, 2 p.m.

“Can’t wait to do business with you,” the woman said, smiling. “I’m Paige, by the way.”

“Jenny,” she said. “Thank you.”

When they parted, Jenny stood in the baking aisle for a long time, her cart half full, her heart completely full.

By that night, Lauren had turned her small apartment into mission control. Baking trays leaned against the walls. Index cards covered the glass coffee table. Her cat eyed a bowl of butter like it might attack.

“Look over here,” Lauren said, holding up her phone. “I’m taking a pic for your new Instagram. I made your profile.”

“You did?” Jenny asked, stirring a bowl of buttercream.

“Uh, yeah, girl. You need social media marketing,” Lauren said, arranging three of Jenny’s cupcakes on a plate. “Now smile.”

Jenny held up a piping bag, grinning. The flash went off.

Ten minutes later, @JennySweetsOfficial existed in the world, tiny and brave, location tagged in Southern California.

The next morning, things got wild.

“You guys have to try these,” Lauren told a group of friends from her gym, passing around a box of pink-frosted cupcakes in the parking lot outside a yoga studio. “You thought Wanda’s were good? These are heavenly.”

“I can’t imagine anything being better than Wanda’s,” one woman said, biting into a cupcake. Then her eyes lit up. “Okay. You were right. These are better. Oh my gosh.”

“I already feel the ten pounds,” another laughed. “I don’t care. I need two dozen right now. I’m hosting a baby shower.”

“My Rory turns ten tomorrow,” a third said. “I know it’s short notice, but can you get me four dozen by morning? I’ll pay extra.”

Jenny’s head spun. “Um… I’ll need help,” she said.

Lauren shot a hand up. “Yeah, I can help. Just give us your phones,” she told them. “We’ll put in our numbers. Text us your orders.”

By the end of the day, they had more cupcake orders than Jenny had ever imagined. Paige’s party was just the start. A bridal shower in Pasadena. An office event in downtown L.A. A church potluck in Echo Park. All from word of mouth and a tiny Instagram account.

In another corner of Los Angeles County, life was not so sweet.

“Hey, um, there’s not much left for me to clean,” Lauren’s cousin Alex told Wanda a few weeks later, wiping down the spotless countertops. “Anything else you want me to work on?”

“No,” Wanda sighed, staring out at the empty tables. The bakery, once bustling with moms and laptops and donuts from down the strip, was eerily quiet. “God, I can’t remember the last time we didn’t see a single customer in four hours. This place is like a ghost town.”

“Business was booming a month ago,” Alex said. “I don’t get it.”

“I think I might know what’s going on,” he added.

“Well?” Wanda asked sharply.

“Jenny Sweets,” he said. “She’s been really blowing up.”

“I haven’t heard of another bakery opening,” Wanda scoffed.

“Her business runs through Instagram and delivery apps,” Alex explained. “She doesn’t have an actual store. It’s… kind of the direction a lot of businesses are going.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that,” Wanda said. “But I’m sure it’s not going to last.”

“Right,” Alex said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

The bell above the door chimed. Wanda looked up, annoyed. “Where have you been?” she snapped at Lauren, who had just walked in. “You’re twenty minutes late.”

“I’m sorry,” Lauren said. Her T-shirt—black with pastel lettering—peeked out from under her open jacket.

“What are you wearing?” Wanda squinted. “Is that… a Jenny Sweets shirt?”

Lauren reflexively pulled her jacket closed. “I’ll just cover it up with—”

“Absolutely not,” Wanda barked. “You are not going to be promoting some other business while you’re working here. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Lauren said. “I was just helping my friend. Look, I’ve been working more than sixty hours a week for years here, and I’m not even the manager.”

“You?” Wanda laughed. “A manager? Are you kidding me?”

“What do you mean?” Lauren asked. “You’ve been telling me for the longest time that was the direction this was going.”

“Please,” Wanda said. “I just said that so you wouldn’t quit.”

Something in Lauren’s face hardened. “Wow,” she said. “You know what? I don’t need this. I do so much for you and you don’t appreciate any of it. I’m going to work for Jenny.”

“Jenny?” Wanda rolled her eyes. “If you want to throw your career down the toilet, be my guest. It’s going to be fun watching the two of you fail.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Lauren said. “Take care, Wanda.”

The bell chimed again as she left.

The following months were a study in opposites.

While Wanda’s Bakery sat emptier and emptier—chairs pushed in, display case half full—Jenny’s kitchen looked like a beehive. She’d moved operations from her parents’ cramped condo in Whittier to a rented commissary kitchen in downtown Los Angeles. Lauren handled orders, spreadsheets, and scheduling. A handful of part-time bakers piped frosting and weighed flour while blasting pop songs on a Bluetooth speaker.

Each time Jenny refreshed her Instagram, the follower count jumped. Each delivery led to three more orders. People tagged her in baby showers, weddings, corporate retreats. Jenny Sweets boxes appeared in TikTok dance videos and behind YouTube vloggers’ shoulders.

She even got a message from the marketing director of a cosmetics company in Beverly Hills—LaQuisha Beauty, the kind that put billboards over the freeway.

“Hey Jenny!” the message read. “We’re planning a launch event for our new inclusive lip scrub line. Could you cater dessert? We want something fun and Instagrammable.”

She screamed, then typed back with shaking fingers: “I’d love to.”

By the time summer rolled into fall, Jenny Sweets had twenty-five delivery “locations”—commissary kitchens and ghost kitchens scattered across Southern California, from Santa Monica to Riverside. She had a trademark pending, a dedicated accountant, and, most importantly, a partner.

“You sure about this?” Lauren asked, sitting across from her at a tiny desk in the corner of the kitchen, signing a stack of papers. “You don’t have to give me ownership. I’d work just as hard either way.”

“You deserve it,” Jenny said. “I wouldn’t be here without you. Plus, it’ll be fun to say ‘partner’ when we walk into a room.”

Lauren grinned. “We’ve come a long way from burned cupcakes.”

In another strip mall a few miles away—the kind with a cell phone store, a laundromat, and a coffee shop that doubled as a laptop graveyard—Wanda was having a very different conversation.

“Wanda,” Alex said, holding a folded paper. His expression was apologetic. “Look, I know you’ve been here a long time, and I hate to do this to you, but I have to serve you with this notice.”

Wanda took the paper, hands shaking. “Another rent notice?” she asked. “I just need a couple more days. Business has been slow, but I’ll think of something. I always do.”

“You’ve been saying that for the past couple of months,” Alex said gently. “Ownership isn’t happy. They’ve got another tenant ready to move in. I’ve been fighting for you, but I can’t give you any more extensions. Three days. That’s it.”

Wanda stared at the notice. Her perfect Yelp score—4.5 stars, displayed proudly on a plaque by the register—glared back like a cruel joke.

When the bell above the door chimed, she didn’t even look up. “If you’re here to ask for a refund, we don’t do those,” she muttered.

“Don’t tell me it’s you two trying to take over my place,” she said when she finally glanced up and saw them: Jenny and Lauren, standing shoulder to shoulder, hair pulled back, both wearing pastel T-shirts that read JENNY SWEETS.

“What are you talking about?” Lauren asked.

“Don’t play innocent with me,” Wanda snapped. “I just found out someone’s trying to take over my spot, and now it makes sense.”

“We honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jenny said. “We’re not in talks with this plaza.”

“Oh, okay,” Wanda said. “So you’re just here to rub your success in my face.”

“No,” Jenny said. “Not at all. We actually… came to work with you.”

“Work with me?” Wanda let out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t understand.”

“As you probably know, we’ve been expanding pretty quickly,” Lauren said. “Jenny Sweets has twenty-five different locations now. And what we’ve realized is if we want to keep growing, we need to partner with other bakeries to keep up with demand.”

“So we’re wondering if you’d be interested in helping make cupcakes for us,” Jenny said.

“I see,” Wanda said slowly. “So in other words, you want me to work for you.”

“No,” Jenny said. “We want to partner. We’d agree to purchase a large volume from you in exchange for a small discount. The margin’s really good. And the best part is we’ll pay you up front.”

“Really?” Wanda asked. Her voice cracked. “Why would you do this for me? I was so mean to you.”

“Because you helped me,” Jenny said honestly. “If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve never quit my job and started my business. I learned so much from you—about consistency, about systems, even about standards. Seriously. Thank you.”

Lauren nudged her. “Come on,” she said to Wanda. “Just say yes.”

“You have no idea how much I need this right now,” Wanda said quietly. For the first time since Jenny had known her, she looked… small. Human, even.

“You’re welcome,” Jenny said. “And I really am happy for you.”

“I guess you can start a business at any age after all,” Wanda said, almost to herself.

“And I take it you’re the manager of Jenny Sweets?” Wanda asked Lauren, a ghost of her old sarcasm returning.

“Nope,” Lauren said, grinning. “I’m a partner. Jenny just gave me ownership. It’s the least she could do.”

Wanda swallowed. “You deserved that,” she said. “And I’m… really very sorry I never gave you that promotion. You deserved that too.”

“That acknowledgment means more than anything,” Lauren said. “Almost as much as a good cupcake.”

“Well,” Wanda said, wiping her eyes. “It just so happens I’ve been working on something.” She went into the back and reemerged with a box. “My new recipe. If you like it, I’ll teach it to you. It’s been selling well with the regulars. I call it Wanda’s comeback.”

Jenny bit in, then laughed when she realized there were two layers of frosting and a caramel center. “This is incredible,” she said.

“Thank you,” Wanda said.

“Welcome to the team,” Lauren said, sticking out her hand.

“Partner,” Jenny added.

The three women stood in the middle of the quiet bakery, in a Los Angeles strip mall that had seen more dreams than anyone knew, and shook hands.

Outside, the California sun poured over a neighborhood full of stories just like theirs: people dismissed, written off, told they were too young, too dark, too poor, too late. People who burned cupcakes and broke down and got back up again.

In a downtown building across town, a Black woman named Shaniqua stared at her reflection in an elevator door, smoothing her braids as she prepared to step into a conference room full of executives. They’d told her her name was “too much,” her hair “not professional.” They’d fired her.

Now, the CEO of a beauty brand had just asked her to be the face of their inclusive campaign.

In a plaza in East L.A., a guitar case lay open on the sidewalk next to a hot dog stand, bills fluttering in the breeze. A girl named Gwen, who’d once slept behind the donut shop after the owner destroyed her guitar, strummed a new one gifted by a stranger. A little boy named Tommy recorded her for TikTok. A reporter from the local paper scribbled her name into a notepad.

In a backyard in the San Fernando Valley, bright balloons bobbed in the breeze over a gender reveal party. A former assistant named Tamika adjusted the dessert table—loaded with Jenny Sweets cupcakes—and smiled as the family counted down to pop the balloon. Patty’s Parties was a one-star cautionary tale on Yelp now. Tamika’s company, Truth & Treats Events, had the number one rating in Los Angeles.

Across this sprawl of highways and palm trees and hope, people were learning the same lesson in a hundred different ways.

You don’t need someone else’s permission to build the life you want.

You can be nineteen and open a bakery. You can have braids and be the face of a beauty campaign. You can be homeless at Christmas and sell out concerts by the next one. You can pop the wrong balloon and still land on your feet.

And sometimes, the people who tried to stop you end up being the ones you reach back and pull up—because that’s what real success looks like.

Late one night, long after the last delivery had been dropped off and the last mixer scrubbed clean, Jenny stood alone in her kitchen, the Los Angeles skyline blinking through the narrow window.

Her phone buzzed. A notification from Yelp.

New review posted for Jenny Sweets.

She opened it.

“Five stars isn’t enough,” it read. “We used to go to a different bakery in town, but after a bad experience, we took a chance on a young woman with a dream. Best decision we ever made. The cupcakes were perfect. The service was kind. And when we learned she used to work for the woman who ruined our gender reveal party, we liked her even more. Support small businesses. Support dreamers. Especially the ones people underestimate.”

Jenny smiled, wiped a smear of frosting off the counter, and turned off the lights.

Tomorrow would bring more orders, more deliveries, more burnt edges to trim and more recipes to test. More chances to mess up, own it, and grow.

In other words: more life.

And in this corner of the United States, beneath the palm trees wrapped in fairy lights and the freeway signs pointing everywhere at once, that was the sweetest thing of all.