**Diary Entry 15th May, 2023**
*”Your cakes are worthless,”* he shouted, shoving her out of the house. A year later, he showed up begging for money, staring at the queue outside her bakery.
*”Get out,”* he hissed, pushing her through the door. His final shove came after a petty argument about their holiday destinationone where shed dared to have an opinion. *”And take your stupid toys with you.”*
The box of baking toolsher treasureflew after her, thudding onto the grubby hallway carpet.
*”No one wants your cakes, understand? No one! Youre just cluttering the flat with your junk. A waste of time and money!”*
The door slammed. The lock clicked with finality, severing not just her path back inside but her entire past.
Anna stood frozen. No tears, no urge to pound on the door. Inside, a hollow clarity settled. He hadnt just thrown her out. Hed crushed the one thing that had kept her breathing all these yearsher tiny universe of sponge, buttercream, and chocolate.
She knelt, opening the box. Vanilla extract, Belgian chocolate callets, her favourite palette knivesall intact. Only she was broken.
Hed always hated her passion. First mocking, then irritated, finally furious. Every small triumpha flawless sponge, smooth icingfelt like a personal insult to him.
*”Shouldve made a proper dinner instead of messing with flour!”* hed yell if she tried a new recipe.
So she cooked. Cleaned. Did the laundry. And at night, when he slept, shed slip into the kitchen and create. It was her secret escape, her sanity in a marriage where shed long since become invisible.
Anna lifted her head. The dim hallway light exposed peeling walls. She stood, gripping the box. Her hands didnt shake.
She called her friend.
*”Liz, can I stay tonight?”* Her voice was eerily calm. *”Yes, were done. No, its fine. Better, actually.”*
That night, in Lizs tiny kitchen, she unpacked her tools. The scent of vanilla and chocolate mingled with the unfamiliar safety of a borrowed home.
She baked all night. Not because she had to, but because it was the only way to piece herself back togetherfrom the shards of humiliation, the ashes of her love. At dawn, she placed a flawless, glistening dessert before her sleepy friend, then opened her laptop. She photographed the cake and posted it in a local group.
*”Homemade desserts, made to order. Baked with love I no longer have to save for anyone else.”*
She hit *publish*. Within minutes, comments poured in. An hour later, a private message: *”Hello! Could you make a birthday cake? We want the best.”*
The first weeks blurred into flour, icing sugar, and relentless work. Orders trickled in, each done as if her life depended on it. Word of mouth, the purest advertising, took time. One client told a colleague, who told a sister. Anna rented a small flat on the outskirts, her new life wedged between the oven and her workbench.
For the first time in years, she felt solid ground beneath herbuilt by her own hands.
The breakthrough came when a local influencer ordered her signature lavender-cream cake. A rave post with professional photos went viral. The phone rang nonstop.
His call came on a Saturday evening as she piped roses onto a wedding cake. An unknown number.
*”Businesswoman now, eh?”* Her ex-husbands voice dripped sarcasm. *”Heard youre selling cakes. Making much?”*
Anna froze. The piping bag trembled, smudging a perfect rose.
*”What do you want, Oliver?”*
*”Just curious. Made a fortune on your cupcakes? Need a loan for car repairs. Youre loaded now.”*
His words were meant to wound, to belittle her success. She knew it. Yet the old reflexto smooth things overkicked in.
*”Fine,”* she whispered. *”Ill transfer it. Dont call again.”*
A mistake. A massive one. Her hard-earned money wasnt gratitudeit was expected, like tribute.
A week later, he called again. Now it was *”rent money.”* Anna refused.
*”What dyou mean, no?”* His tone hardened. *”After all the years I provided? Now youre stingy?”*
*”Youre not my husband.”*
*”Papers dont matter, Anna. Were not strangers.”*
He pressed her weakest spotguilt. Cheap manipulation, but it worked.
Then he appeared. Lurking outside her building as she delivered orders. Watching. Silent. His gaze held mockery, rage, and a hungry envy. He couldnt believe shed succeeded. That her *”worthless cakes”* were suddenly wanted. Her small triumph was his personal insult.
He had to proveto himselfthat it was a fluke. That without him, she was nothing.
Fake accounts littered her posts with vile comments: *”Cake was stale,”* *”Frosting tasted sour,”* *”Saw cockroaches in her kitchen.”*
It was vicious. Anna deleted, blocked, but they multiplied. Clients questioned her. Her hard-won reputation frayed.
The final straw was a call cancelling a childs birthday cake: *”A friend said you use expired ingredients. I cant risk my kids health.”*
She knew the *”friend.”* His handiwork. Striking at her honesty, her love for baking.
Anna hung up. Not fear, but cold fury steadied her.
Hed crossed a line. Tried to destroy her again. But hed forgottenshe wasnt the same woman.
The next day, two men in suits knocked: *”Anonymous complaint. Sanitary inspection.”*
Something snapped. The spring hed coiled for weeks released with deafening force.
*”Come in,”* she said calmly.
They scrutinised her spotless kitchen, her certificates, her hygiene records. Found nothing.
*”No violations,”* the inspector admitted. *”But we must suspend operations pending lab results. A few days.”*
A few days. Peak season. Lost orders, lost clients, lost income. The knockout hed planned.
Anna didnt cry. She sat, opened her laptop, and acted. The old Annaafraid to offendwas gone. In her place stood a woman defending her lifes work.
She gathered evidence. The fake profiles all misspelled *”disappointment”* as *”dissapointment”*his trademark error. Screenshots proved each *”no”* to his loans triggered a new wave of slander. She even found his new girlfriend flaunting gifts bought with his *”car repair”* loans.
The picture was grotesque. Clear.
She worked all night. Not with batter, but facts. Building a case. Against him.
At dawn, she posted:
*”Friends, today I wont talk desserts, but their true cost.”*
She laid it bare. No hysterics. Just facts. The ejection from her home. The *”worthless”* passion. Starting from scratch.
Then the crux:
*”Sadly, my success haunts someone from my past. The same man who called my cakes useless.”*
Proof followed: screenshots, dates, the misspelled smear campaign.
*”Today, an anonymous complaint brought inspectors. My work is suspended.
I dont know when Ill bake again. But know this: I wont quit. My kitchen is open. My ingredientsthe best. My conscienceclean.”*
She ended with: *”Thank you to everyone who believed in me. You gave me more than work. You gave me back myself.”*
She posted it. Turned off her phone. For the first time in months, she felt peace.
The explosion was instant. Hundreds of shares. Thousands of comments. Clients posted glowing reviews. The cancelled order rebooked. A local news site requested an interview.
Oliver vanished. His social media deleted. His girlfriend publicly dumped him, citing *”moral differences.”*
The lies and false report werent just pettythey were criminal.
Two days later, the inspectors apologised in writing. Anna reopened. Orders flooded in. Her tiny kitchen couldnt cope.
A year later, *”Sweet Annas”* opened on the high streeta cosy bakery with queues out the door.
He appeared at noon. Gaunt, threadbare, hovering across the road. Watching the happy customers. The glowing signage. Her.
Their eyes met through the glass. No scorn left in his. Just hollow envy.
He shuffled inside. *”Anna”*
She stepped out, the breeze playing with her hair. She smelled of vanilla and success.
*”Youve done well,”* he muttered, eyeing the queue. *”I need help. Jobless. Debts. Could you lend?”*
She studied him. Not angry
