Emma's POV

My name was Emma. I was twenty-eight years old, a graduate of the best culinary university in the country. I had come to the city of Halsterlburg to open a pastry business. That had always been my dream. Even though I didn't really need a degree to make it happen, my parents had forced me to study anyway, as long as it was something "simple" like gastronomy, at least in their eyes.

They never saw the point of me studying at all. They owned a massive company and an enormous fortune, so to them, the only thing I needed to do to live comfortably was lose weight, so a man from our social class would notice me and make me his wife. And just so we were clear, I was fat. Not extremely fat, I was just about forty kilos over my ideal weight. Which was pretty noticeable considering I was 5'11" tall and instead of weighing 150 to 160 pounds, I weighed two hundred and sixty.

"Are you stuffing your face again?"

"Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror?"

"You weigh more than two hundred and sixty pounds, and even though you're tall, you still look fat. You're already twenty-eight. Do you really think a man is going to look at you with that greasy body?"

"So what if I'm fat? Whoever loved me would love me for who I was, not for how I looked."

"Nonsense. People always care about appearances, Emma. Leave that unconditional love garbage for the lower class, only they believe in that stupidity. In our world, people care about bank accounts, status, and looks. You have the first two, but looks are definitely not your strength. If you would just stop eating so much, you'd be beautiful."

"You know what, Mom? I have to go. Today I'm going out to look for a place to set up my bakery. I need to leave. Bye, I love you."

And just like that, I ran out of the house. My mother was unbearable when she started criticizing my appearance. Did she really think I was proud of being fat? Of course not. But I had tried so many times, and I just couldn't lose weight. After two days on a diet, I gave up. I had zero discipline. Besides, who else was going to taste my desserts to make sure they were delicious? Only I, with my demanding palate, could decide how good they were. And yes, that helped me gain more and more weight.

Since I left in such a hurry, I forgot to tell my mother exactly which area I would be in. I hoped she wasn't calling me like a maniac while I met with the owners of the places I had picked for my bakery.

The first location I visited was spacious, painted entirely in pink and white. Honestly, I hated the colors. They even made me feel sick. But that could be changed. There was plenty of room for tables, refrigerators, display cases, and a kitchen. However, when we talked about the price, the owner asked for an outrageous thirty thousand a month, with no permission to change the color of the place. That was enough for me to cross it off the list.

The second place was just as spacious as the first. The price was the same, and I could repaint the sad gray walls it had. Unfortunately, I rejected it when the disgusting, lecherous old man who showed it to me "accidentally brushed his filthy member against my ass." Considering I might end up working late nights there, I wasn't about to risk that creep walking in one day with a spare key and doing something to me. So that place was out.

The third and final one, oh God, it was beautiful. Not only was it completely white inside, but the workspace for both the kitchen and the pastry displays was twice as large as the others. Outside, the façade looked like a French café, painted a soft pastel yellow, with red bougainvillea vines framing the entrance. It was perfect. The price was forty thousand a month, a bit more expensive, but worth every single cent.

I didn't meet the owner. Apparently, he owned half the city and was too busy to deal with matters as insignificant as renting out a shop. So I handled everything with his representative, or something like that. I just hoped everything worked out.