By the time the three-tier strawberry cake slipped from her hands and exploded on the concrete stairwell of a Seattle apartment building, Maya already knew the day was cursed.

Frosting smeared up her forearms, bright white against her trembling brown skin. Red jam oozed like a slow-motion accident across the gray steps. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm blared on a rainy Washington morning, a siren wailing in a city that didn’t care one bit that one unlucky woman had just lost more than a cake.

This kind of thing always happened to Maya.

When she was eight, she lost her backpack on the school bus the day they handed out the sign-up sheets for a big field trip to the Space Needle. In high school, she arrived late to her SAT exam because the bus broke down—of course—and got stuck with the one proctor who refused to let her in. On the entrance exam for her dream college in California, she drew the one essay prompt she barely understood. It was like some invisible hand followed her through the United States, pointing at her life and saying, “This one. Let’s see what happens if we make it just a little harder.”

She’d grown up in Tacoma, in a cramped little rental house on a tree-lined street that looked almost pretty in the fall when the maple leaves turned red. Teachers used words like “scatterbrained,” “unfocused,” “always late.” Relatives used others: “unlucky,” “jinxed,” “that poor girl.”

Her father never did.

“Bad luck is just the first chapter,” he’d tell her in his gentle, gravelly voice, sitting at their small kitchen table with his Seattle Seahawks mug. “You wait. One day, life will finally realize it’s been picking on the wrong girl.”

But so far, at twenty-eight, life hadn’t gotten the memo.

Instead of the college in California with palm trees and lecture halls, Maya had ended up at a community culinary program in Tacoma because her exam scores weren’t enough and her family couldn’t afford out-of-state tuition. Out of despair more than passion, she chose baking and pastry.

Turned out, the universe didn’t get the final say on everything.

Her hands were sure and precise when they worked with dough. Her brain, which never remembered deadlines or bus schedules, somehow remembered exact ratios of sugar to flour, how long to whip cream before it split, the exact second meringue turned glossy. In the quiet of the industrial kitchen, with the hum of ovens and the faint scent of vanilla and yeast, Maya wasn’t unlucky. She was just… good.

After school, she landed a job at a little café near her childhood home. Warm coffee, cinnamon rolls, regulars who knew her name—it wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers.

Until they fired her.

They claimed there was a massive food shortage. The numbers made no sense. Maya knew she hadn’t stolen a single thing. But the owner looked at her soft, apologetic face and decided she was the easiest person to blame. Unlucky girl. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong manager.

So she went home to her father.

By then, her mother was gone—cancer, fast and cruel, swallowing her whole in less than a year. After the funeral, responsibility for her dad dropped onto Maya’s shoulders like a wet blanket.

He was only sixty-seven, but his heart was bad, his blood pressure worse, and his legs ached when he walked too far. He lived in a small apartment north of downtown Seattle, near a strip mall with a discount grocery store and a nail salon. He rarely left the house except for doctor visits.

Maya moved in, cleaned the place up, and turned their tiny old-fashioned kitchen into her command center.

“You’ll see,” her friend Ansley said one night, sprawled on Maya’s secondhand couch watching a baking show on Food Network. “You’re better than half those people on TV. Just bake from home. Post your stuff on Instagram. People in Seattle will sell their souls for a good cake.”

“I’m unlucky,” Maya reminded her. “I’ll burn down the building.”

“Or,” Ansley countered, “you’ll finally get a break.”

Against all her fears, Maya tried.

She posted pictures of her cupcakes on Facebook Marketplace and a local Seattle foodie group. She took photos of her cheesecakes on cheap white boards and learned how to use natural light from the tiny window over the sink.

Orders trickled in. Then grew. And grew.

Within six months, Maya’s little home-kitchen operation had a steady line of customers: birthday cakes, engagement cakes, “it’s Tuesday and I’m sad” cakes. She got used to the ding of notifications, the Venmo alerts, the messages from strangers saying, “My friend said you’re the best.”

For the first time in her life, her bad luck seemed to be… backing off.

Her father watched it all from his usual seat at the kitchen table, oxygen machine humming softly in the corner.

“Maya,” he told her often, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses, “I really want to see you married. With someone good. I want grandkids running around this house before I go.”

She laughed him off.

“Dad, with my luck, I’ll marry the first man I meet and he’ll be an international scammer.”

“You should look closely, that’s all. Ansley must know some single guys,” he teased.

“When the time is right, I’ll get married,” she always answered, trying to sound braver than she felt. “I’m in no rush.”

“You may have time,” he’d say softly. “I don’t have that much left. I want to know you’re safe. That you’re in decent hands.”

She’d smile and kiss his cheek, but his words lingered. Twenty-eight. No boyfriend. No hints of one. Just flour on her jeans and calluses on her hands.

One gray Saturday in March, with Seattle rain tapping against the window, Maya had a special order: a custom cake to deliver to a downtown apartment.

Usually, clients picked up from her place. She preferred that. Less risk of dropping anything. Less chance for bad luck to find her halfway across town. But the guy who called sounded desperate.

“I’m in a cast,” he’d said. “I can’t walk. My friends are coming over for my birthday. You’re my last hope.”

His voice had been warm and self-deprecating. Maya melted just a little and agreed.

She stacked the final layer of vanilla sponge, smoothed the buttercream, placed fresh berries just so, and piped “Happy Birthday, Brian!” in neat, looping script. She packed the cake into a box and taped it carefully.

Her father watched from the kitchen table.

“Drive safe,” he said. “People in this city forget how to drive as soon as the rain starts.”

“Dad, it always rains,” she smiled.

“Exactly,” he said.

She kissed his forehead, grabbed the cake, and headed out into the damp Seattle morning.

The apartment building was in Capitol Hill, one of those glass-and-steel structures that had replaced older houses and corner diners. She parked on the street, wrestled the heavy cake out of the car, and trudged up three flights of stairs because the elevator was mysteriously “out of service.”

By the time she reached his door, her arms ached, but she still managed to ring the bell without dropping anything.

“Come in! It’s open!” a male voice called.

Great, she thought. With my luck, he’s an axe murderer.

She nudged the door open with her hip and stepped into a bright, modern living room. A man sat on the couch, one leg in a cast, the other wrapped in bandages. Crutches leaned against the coffee table. A TV played a sports channel with the sound down.

He looked up and smiled.

He was in his early thirties, with messy dark hair, hazel eyes, and a crooked grin that made him look like every girl-next-door crush in a Netflix rom-com.

“Hi,” he said. “You must be Cake Girl.”

“Maya,” she corrected, hugging the box like a shield. “And yes. Did you order a cake?”

“I did. I’m Brian. And I’m really sorry I made you deliver. But as you can see…” He gestured at his legs. “The stairs and I are not on speaking terms right now.”

“What happened?” Maya blurted out, then winced. “Sorry, that’s none of my—”

“It’s fine,” he chuckled. “Car wreck. Some guy in a pickup truck decided red lights are optional. Now I know the inside of Harborview Medical Center way too well. The doctors say I’ll walk again in a couple months. I live alone, so… you know. I’m kind of stuck.”

“Oh,” she said softly, setting the cake down on the coffee table. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“Pretty much,” he said lightly. “But we’re alive in Seattle, not stuck in some ditch on I-5. I’ll take it.”

She watched the way he spoke about it, casual but not bitter. Resigned but not broken. Her chest pinched.

“Do you… need help?” she heard herself ask. “Like, with groceries? Cleaning? I live across town, but…”

Brian blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” she said. “What’s so strange about that?”

“Nothing,” he said slowly. “It’s just… this is the United States in 2025. People don’t usually offer to scrub a stranger’s bathroom for free. They post thoughts and prayers on social media and scroll on.”

“My parents taught me you help people when you can,” Maya said, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter if they’re young or old, male or female. If a person needs help, and you can help, you do it. It’s not… complicated.”

Brian stared at her for another beat and then smiled again, and this time it was softer.

“To be honest,” he said, “yeah. I could use a hand. If you’d be willing to stop by a couple times a week, grab some groceries, maybe do a little cleaning, I’d pay you. My mom’s in Arizona and if she comes up here, we’ll kill each other in a week. She’s a retired prosecutor. Thinks cross-examining people is a love language.”

Maya laughed. “I’m so sorry.”

“You see my problem,” he grinned.

“When do you need me to come?” she asked.

“Day after tomorrow?” he said. “Around eleven? If you can?”

“Yes,” she said. “That works.”

“How much?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said simply.

He blinked again. “Nothing… as in…?”

“As in free,” she said. “I’m not going to charge you. I’m just going to help. As a human being.”

He looked her up and down, not in a sleazy way, but like she was a puzzle.

“I don’t know if you’re amazing or weird,” he finally said. “I’m leaning toward amazing.”

“I prefer amazing,” she said.

He laughed. “A pretty woman willing to be my temporary housekeeper for free. Sounds like something my friends would say belongs in a Reddit story. But okay. Let’s do this. Come Friday. I’ll be here, obviously.”

“Okay,” Maya said. “Friday at eleven.”

As she turned to go, she realized something.

“Oh! It’s your birthday today, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, surprised. “How’d you—oh. The cake. Right.”

“Happy birthday,” she said, a genuine smile pulling at her mouth. “I wish you a fast recovery and lots of positive things. The main thing is, you’re alive and mostly healthy. Bones heal. Life goes on.”

“You’re an optimist,” he said.

“I don’t know if I am,” she answered. “But if you don’t believe in anything good, why even get out of bed?”

When she left, she felt strangely light.

Her dad noticed the difference immediately.

“Maya,” he said that evening as she mixed cream in a metal bowl, “where did you go just now?”

“To Brian’s,” she said without thinking, then realized she had never said his name out loud to her father before.

“Ah,” her dad said, his eyes twinkling. “To Brian’s.”

She pretended not to see his smirk.

On Friday, and then every Monday and Wednesday after that, she went back to Brian’s apartment. She cleaned, did laundry, went grocery shopping, cooked meals he could reheat. In between, they talked—about everything and nothing. His job as a software engineer at a tech company based in downtown Seattle, her work as a home baker, his loud ex-girlfriend, her unlucky life.

The more she went, the more her bad luck seemed to take a break. She didn’t miss buses those days. Orders came out flawlessly. Her father’s blood pressure readings were better.

And without realizing when it happened, Maya fell in love.

It wasn’t some thunderbolt. It was a hundred small moments: the way Brian said “Hey, you” when she walked in, like he’d been waiting all day; how he listened to her talk about cream cheese ratios like it was a TED Talk; how he never rolled his eyes at her father’s old stories when he came by to pick up extra food.

Her father picked up on it long before she dared to say anything.

“Maya, baby?” he asked one afternoon, watching her burn a batch of caramel because she was thinking about Brian’s smile. “You hear me?”

She didn’t. He had to get up, shuffle to the stove, and touch her arm.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“You’re in love,” he said simply.

She flushed. “I have to finish this. I’m going to Brian’s, it’s Wednesday.”

“To Brian’s,” he repeated, smiling, and didn’t say another word.

Weeks later, everything changed in one kiss.

Maya had baked a tiny bento cake just for Brian—chocolate, his favorite. She climbed the stairs to his apartment, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the weight of the box.

When she walked in, she froze.

A woman sat on the couch next to Brian, leaning forward, talking animatedly. Tall, sleek, perfect hair, designer blazer. She looked like she walked out of a tech company’s “Women in Leadership” brochure.

“Good afternoon,” Maya managed.

The woman turned, looked her up and down, and smiled a small, superior smile.

“Brian, I’m going to go,” she said, standing. “I’ll let your housekeeper do her thing.” She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t miss me, okay?”

Maya felt jealousy punch her so hard she almost dropped the cake.

Housekeeper.

She wanted to throw the cake at the woman’s perfect head. Instead, she set it down more gently than the woman deserved.

“Is that your girlfriend?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

“No,” Brian said, a little too casually. “Coworker. That’s Rochelle. She came to visit.”

“Do you always kiss your coworkers?” Maya shot back, surprising herself even more than him.

He raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Is that a problem?”

“I… was just asking,” she muttered.

“I think someone’s jealous,” he said, clearly pleased.

He pushed himself carefully off the couch, testing his now mostly healed leg. He walked closer, so close she could smell his shampoo.

“You’re saying you don’t like me?” he whispered. “You don’t care who comes to visit me?”

Her throat tightened. “No. I do care,” she whispered back before she could swallow the words.

And then he kissed her.

It was not the shy, asking kind of kiss. It was the kind you see in movies set in New York or Los Angeles, the kind that knocks the air out of you and sends your brain somewhere far away. Her legs went weak. Her hands found his shoulders. The world narrowed to his mouth on hers, his hands on her waist.

Afterward, he led her toward the bedroom, and she went without thinking, riding a wave of feelings so new she barely recognized herself.

Later, lying in his arms, reality seeped back in.

“Don’t you think we rushed things?” she asked finally, her voice small.

He was quiet for a long time. Her heart pounded. This was the moment, she thought, when bad luck would strike and he would say it was a mistake.

“I think…” he said slowly, “you should move in with me.”

It wasn’t what she expected.

“Move in?” she repeated. “Like… live together?”

“In the most literal sense,” he said. “Let’s live together.”

He said it so casually, as if he were suggesting they get tacos.

Maya felt a small sting. She had imagined something… bigger. A confession, a speech, something she could tell her grandchildren. Instead, he sounded like he was booking a plane ticket.

“Brian,” she asked carefully, “have you ever been in a serious relationship?”

“Yeah,” he said. “My ex and I lived together for two years. Then she left for someone else. I guess he was better than me.” He said it with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have left,” Maya whispered.

“I know,” he said. “You’re different. There’s no one like you. That’s why I want you to live with me.”

“I thought you wanted that because you love me,” she said.

“That’s obvious,” he replied lightly. “Why else?”

His words were simple, but Maya swallowed them like a declaration of love. She heard what she needed to hear.

“I’ll have to talk to my dad,” she said, already planning. “Tonight. Tomorrow I’ll pack. I’ll bring my stuff. And I’ll have to give my new address to my clients, they’ll need to pick up from your place—”

“Not my place,” Brian cut in, smiling. “Our place. And of course you’ll keep baking. Why would I complain? I get to taste-test everything. I only have one condition.”

Her heart jumped. “What is it?”

“You have to bake those little cakes for me too,” he laughed.

She exhaled in relief. “You scared me.”

That night, she told her father.

“Why doesn’t he marry you properly?” her father asked, frowning. “What’s this ‘moving in’ business?”

“Dad, please,” she said. “This is how people do things now. We love each other. We’ll get married later. Weddings cost money. Brian hasn’t worked in a while because of his accident. We need to save.”

“I have money saved for your wedding,” he said quietly. “But all right. You’re an adult. Do what you think is best. I trust you. I just… don’t like this.”

The next day, she moved into Brian’s sleek Seattle apartment with two suitcases, a box of baking tools, and a heart full of hope.

For a while, life looked almost perfect.

Brian’s cast came off. He went back to work at his downtown office. He came home late, tired but cheerful. He brought her small gifts: a new spatula, a set of piping tips, a bouquet of grocery store flowers “just because.” She baked out of their small but modern kitchen, lining the counters with cooling racks.

After a couple of months, Brian said, “You should get your driver’s license.”

“Why?” she asked. “I don’t even have a car.”

“So let’s buy you one,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’ll be easier to deliver orders and shop for supplies. You can take more orders if you’re faster. More cakes, more money.”

“I’m at the stove all day as it is,” she protested. “If I take more orders, I’ll sleep standing up.”

“Come on,” he insisted. “I’m gone all day. The apartment is all yours. You could easily do four cakes a day instead of two. That’s twice the profit. We should earn while we can and save for our future.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said. She did, late at night, lying next to him while he scrolled on his phone.

And then, one morning, she woke up nauseous.

It didn’t stop. For days, she felt drained, her body heavy, her limbs made of wet sand. Brian insisted she go to the clinic.

The doctor did some tests, asked a few questions, and then smiled.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You’re pregnant.”

Maya stared at the sonogram screen, at the tiny flicker of life.

“Brian…” she whispered later, back at home. “We’re having a baby.”

He nodded. “We need to get married.”

Maya’s heart stuttered. “Need to?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You’re pregnant. It’s time. It’s better for paperwork. Insurance. The kid. Makes things simpler.”

“So if I weren’t pregnant,” she asked carefully, “we wouldn’t get married?”

He frowned. “Why would we? Everything’s fine now. That stamp in a passport doesn’t change anything. As long as we’re together, what does it matter?”

“People get married because they love each other,” she said quietly. “Because they want to bind their lives, to be recognized as a family.”

“And we’re not a family without paperwork?” he challenged. “Is it against the law to live together without being married?”

“No,” she admitted. “It’s just… it’s different.”

He sighed. “Look, Maya. Enough. We’ll get married. It’s fine. Just don’t romanticize it too much.”

They had a small courthouse wedding in downtown Seattle. Twenty guests. Ansley as her maid of honor. Brian’s mother, the former prosecutor from Arizona, flew in, looked Maya up and down once, and clearly did not approve.

“Don’t worry,” Brian whispered after. “She’s going back in two days. I can barely stand being around her myself. She’s tough; you were never going to charm her. Don’t take it personally.”

Three weeks after the wedding, with morning sickness easing and the first hint of a baby bump under her apron, Maya carried a huge custom cake up the stairs of an old building in north Seattle. The elevator was broken again. It always was, it seemed, when she had the heaviest cakes.

Her arms shook. Her lower back ached. At the third floor landing, her sneaker caught on a chipped edge of concrete.

She pitched forward.

The cake flew.

Time slowed. The box landed first, collapsing in on itself. Layers of sponge and frosting slid out like a slow-motion avalanche. Maya’s knees hit the step, then her palms. Her whole body jolted, hard.

A sharp, hot pain knifed through her lower abdomen.

She gasped.

A woman coming up behind her—a stranger in a rain jacket and beanie—rushed over.

“Are you okay?” the woman asked. “Are you hurt? Do we need to call someone?”

Maya tried to answer, but all that came out was a strangled moan.

The stranger called 911.

At the hospital, fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A nurse took her blood pressure. A tech pressed cold gel onto her lower belly and moved the ultrasound wand.

Nothing.

The doctor spoke gently. There was nothing they could do. Sometimes these things happened. It wasn’t her fault. She would be able to try again one day. She heard the words as if through water.

In one stupid, unlucky instant, the baby she’d already imagined holding—dark hair like hers, or maybe like Brian’s—was gone.

In the hospital bed, she cried until her throat was raw.

“Why?” she sobbed to the ceiling. “Why does this always happen to me? As soon as something good starts, everything crashes. I can’t do this anymore.”

Brian came twice. He sat in the plastic chair, awkward, holding a grocery-store bouquet.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice flat. “This… sucks.”

He tried to comfort her, but it sounded like he was talking about a broken dish, not a child.

“There will be more kids,” he said. “Maybe it wasn’t the right time. We have to move on. If we can’t change what happened, we can only change how we react to it, right?”

“Brian,” she whispered hoarsely, “I didn’t lose my wallet. I didn’t scratch the car. I lost our baby. Our little person. Your child. Mine. How can you talk about ‘changing our attitude’?”

He looked uncomfortable, as if she were overreacting.

“Maya, I’m upset too,” he said. “But what do you want me to do? Cry on the floor? It won’t bring the baby back.”

“Get out,” she whispered. “Please. I want to be alone.”

He left.

When she returned home three days later, she was not the same woman. The part of her that believed in good things had gone very quiet.

She stopped baking. At first, she thought it would be a day or two. Then a week. Then a month. Orders piled up in her messages, but she turned them all down. She couldn’t bring herself to make cakes for children’s birthdays, not when each piped “Happy Birthday” felt like a punch.

Her father watched her fade: the dark circles, the pajamas, the empty stare. Ansley came by with coffee, with jokes, with links to silly videos, but nothing seemed to move Maya.

“You can’t stop forever,” Ansley said one afternoon, exasperated. “Baking is your thing. Your joy.”

“I can’t do kids’ cakes,” Maya said, her voice breaking. “Every time I write a child’s name in frosting, I think about mine. I just can’t.”

Months passed. Seven, to be exact.

Then Ansley called Brian.

“You have to do something,” she told him. “Take her on a trip. A change of scenery. She needs sun. Beaches. Something that isn’t that kitchen and that couch.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I have a major project at work. My boss will—”

“What’s more important,” Ansley snapped, “your project or your wife’s mental health?”

“Both,” he said honestly. Then, after a pause, “What if you take her? You’re her best friend. She might open up more with you. I’ll pay for it. Wherever you want.”

Ansley went quiet. Free vacation? Tempting. But she also knew Maya needed support from someone.

In the end, they both went—to Hawaii, of all places. Ansley picked it because she’d always dreamed of it. Brian paid for two round-trip tickets from Seattle to Honolulu without blinking.

The beaches, the warmth, the swaying palm trees—all of it slowly, gently loosened the knot in Maya’s chest. She cried some nights in the hotel bathroom, quietly, so Ansley wouldn’t hear. But she also laughed again, at tourists burning in the sun, at kids trying to surf, at Ansley flirting badly with a bartender.

On their last night, sitting on the sand watching the Pacific crash against the American shoreline under a streaky sunset, Ansley said, “I don’t know how hard it is for you. I really don’t. But I do know you can’t live the rest of your life in that moment.”

“I have a father who worries every time I take too long to text,” Maya admitted. “And a husband who doesn’t seem to feel much of anything, but he still… depends on me. You’re right. I have to move somehow.”

“Exactly,” Ansley said. “You can’t change what happened. But you can choose what happens next.”

Two weeks later, they flew back to Seattle. Maya stepped off the plane feeling… lighter. Not healed, but not quite as shattered.

She took a cab straight to the apartment she now shared with Brian, thinking about what she might cook for him. Something special, to show him she was climbing out of the dark. Maybe his favorite chocolate cake.

But when she opened the door, a stranger’s shoes sat neatly on the mat. Women’s shoes. High-heeled, sleek, the kind you didn’t wear to clean someone’s bathroom.

Brian should have been at work. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet.

Maybe he hired a cleaning lady to surprise me, she thought, clinging to the most generous possibility.

The kitchen killed that hope fast.

Two wine glasses. An open bottle. A bowl of strawberries. No sign of a mop.

Then she heard it: unmistakable sounds from the bedroom. Moans. A low male voice—Brian’s—saying something that made her blood run cold.

Her brain begged her to turn around, to walk out, to pretend she hadn’t heard. Instead, she walked straight to the bedroom, her feet moving like they belonged to someone else.

She opened the door.

Brian was there. So was Rochelle—the “coworker” from before. Except this time, they were not on the couch.

“What is going on?” Maya heard herself say. Her voice sounded wrong, too calm.

They jerked apart. Rochelle grabbed the sheet. Brian stared at Maya, horror on his face.

“You’re back,” he said weakly. “You weren’t supposed to… I thought your flight was tomorrow.”

“It wasn’t,” she said. “The flight was today. I told you that.”

He scrambled into his shirt and walked toward her.

“You know,” he said, and what she hated most was he actually sounded relieved, “I’m kind of glad you caught us. I’m tired of hiding. Rochelle and I have been seeing each other for a while.” He nodded toward the bed. “She was married before. Now she’s divorced. You and I—well, we’re done, Maya. I filed for divorce two weeks ago. I’m leaving. It’s… over.”

The words hit harder than the fall on the stairs.

Maya stared at him. Then at Rochelle, who didn’t even look ashamed, just mildly annoyed.

“You disgust me,” Maya said, her voice suddenly sharp. “I didn’t think I could live with someone this morally rotten. Enjoy your life.”

She turned, walked out, and slammed the door behind her.

Outside, on the sidewalk, she sat on a bench and cried harder than she had in the hospital.

“God,” she whispered, staring at the cloudy Seattle sky. “Am I cursed? Did I do something so terrible that you put a target on my back? What did I do?”

She thought about going back upstairs and screaming until the whole building heard. She thought about banging on Rochelle’s car door and calling her every name in the book. She thought about doing something reckless, something that would make everything stop hurting.

Instead, she pulled out her phone and called Ansley.

“Can I come over?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“What happened?” Ansley demanded instantly. “You sound—”

“He left me,” Maya said. “I mean, he was leaving me already. I just caught him with her. In our bed. I think it’s actually his bed. I don’t even know anymore.”

“Oh my God,” Ansley breathed. “Come. Right now. I’m here. I’m waiting.”

At Ansley’s small apartment, they both cried. Ansley held her friend while Maya sobbed, and when she ran out of tears, Ansley said, “Okay. Now we drink.”

“You know I don’t like drinking,” Maya sniffled.

“And usually I respect that,” Ansley said. “But you just discovered your husband is a cheating failure. Two glasses of decent wine is the least America owes you.”

Maya let her pour. The wine burned, then warmed. Her shoulders dropped for the first time in hours.

“I don’t belong in this world,” Maya said at one point, staring at her glass. “I mess everything up. I pick the wrong people. I fall down the stairs. Maybe I should have stayed in bed my whole life.”

“Don’t you dare talk like that,” Ansley said sharply. “You scare me when you say things like that. Your dad needs you. I need you. And besides, you think you’re the only one unlucky in love? Look at me. I’m single at thirty, and I haven’t married the first guy I saw at a bus stop. You shouldn’t either.”

“But I loved him,” Maya whispered. “I still… do.”

“Yeah, well,” Ansley said, softer, “sometimes we love people who aren’t good for us. That doesn’t magically turn them into decent humans.”

The next morning, Maya went back to her father’s apartment. He took one look at her face and knew everything without asking.

He was furious—then oddly relieved.

“Better now than later,” he said. “Imagine you had found out after twenty years, three kids, and a mortgage. You think this hurts? That would have killed you. This… this is survivable.”

“Dad,” she sighed, “with my luck I can’t even find a homeless man, wash him up, and live happily ever after.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “You’ll meet someone else. Someone right. I feel it. And remember—I never liked that Brian.”

Days went by.

Maya waited for Brian to call. To say he’d made a mistake. To say he wanted her back.

He didn’t.

Two weeks later, she learned through her lawyer that he had officially filed the divorce papers. The date was set. He wanted to move fast.

“I want him back,” she confessed to Ansley over coffee. “What if I go to his place and apologize? Maybe I was a bad wife. Maybe I cried too much. Maybe he couldn’t handle it after the baby. Maybe—”

“Maya,” Ansley cut in, horrified. “You did nothing wrong by grieving. He cheated on you. He had a mistress before the miscarriage. This is not about you being ‘too much.’ This is about him being a coward.”

“But I love him,” Maya said. “I won’t be happy without him.”

“You will,” Ansley insisted. “You just can’t see it from here.”

The morning of the divorce hearing, Maya woke up at six. She downed three cups of coffee and stared at her phone, willing it to ring. If Brian called, if he said he’d changed his mind, she would forgive him. She knew it. She hated that she knew it.

By ten, the phone was still silent.

She put on her most sober pantsuit, twisted her hair into a neat bun, and refused to put on makeup. Maybe, she thought, if he saw how sad she looked, it would soften something in him.

She took the bus downtown, got off a block early, and walked toward the courthouse. At a small park nearby, her legs suddenly refused to go any farther. She sat on a bench, hands trembling.

What if I don’t go in? she thought. They’ll just reschedule. I’ll have more time to change his mind.

“Why are you crying so hard, baby?” a woman’s voice asked suddenly.

Maya looked up.

Two women stood in front of her, dressed like they’d walked out of some New Orleans street fair. One wore a long flowy dress, bangles jangling on her wrists, beads around her neck. The other had an ankle-length skirt, a multicolored blouse, and thick dark glasses over her eyes.

Maya shifted uncomfortably. “Are you… talking to me?”

“To you,” the woman with the beads said. “Who else is crying like the rain in Seattle?”

“I’m fine,” Maya lied.

“You’re not,” the woman said simply. “But you will be. You’ve already walked through real grief. This?” She gestured vaguely toward the courthouse. “This is a small thing in comparison.”

“How do you know that?” Maya whispered.

“I know everything about you,” the woman said. “If you like, I can tell you.”

“I don’t… have money,” Maya said, cheeks burning. “If you’re… doing readings or whatever. I can’t pay.”

“Who said I need money?” the woman laughed softly. “The best payment is seeing people happy. If you become very rich, you can find me one day. Or not. That’s your choice.”

“Rich,” Maya snorted. “With my luck? The only thing I’m likely to become is bankrupt.”

“Laughing is better than crying,” the woman said. “You hold on to luck like it’s your name. As for your future—you’ll be surprised. But first, you must do one thing. Let go of your husband. Forgive him. Wish him well. Or you will miss the good that wants to come.”

“I can’t,” Maya said stubbornly. “I love him. I want him back.”

“You think holding on will make him stay?” the woman asked gently. “He is already gone. You know that. Deep in your bones, you know. Don’t grab the past with both hands and slam the door in the future’s face. Go in there, get your divorce, and wish your ex-husband happiness. Sincerely. Only then will you meet the man who is truly yours.”

Maya stared. “That sounds like a movie. How can you know?”

“Because I do,” the woman said calmly. “You have a bright future. Happy. Secure. But it requires you to open your fingers and let the old life drop. Just like that cake on the stairs.” She winked.

Maya’s stomach flipped. “Did Ansley send you?” she demanded suddenly. “Is she trying to play some weird prank?”

“I don’t know any Ansley,” the woman smiled. “But I know this: in third grade, you stole a sparkly pencil from your teacher’s desk. You never told anyone. You still feel guilty.”

Maya’s face flamed.

No one knew that. Not her father. Not Ansley. No one.

“Believe me now?” the woman asked kindly.

“Yes,” Maya whispered. “I’m sorry I doubted.”

“Don’t be sorry,” the woman said. “You don’t have to believe the first stranger in the park. Now go. It’s almost time. And don’t forget what I told you.”

“Can I ask something else?” Maya blurted. “Will I ever… have children?”

The woman smiled. “Two. A boy and a girl. Your father will hold both of them. Remember that when the nights feel long.”

Maya’s breath caught. She swallowed hard, tears flooding her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Where can I find you? If I ever… you know. Get rich.”

“If I need you,” the woman said, looping her arm through her friend’s, “I’ll find you.”

Only when they walked away did Maya notice: the woman with the beads was blind. Her dark glasses hid unseeing eyes, her companion’s arm guiding her carefully around a crack in the pavement.

Maya stood outside the courthouse doors, closed her eyes, and pictured Brian and Rochelle. Their faces. Their bodies. The betrayal. She imagined them happy, of all things—married, maybe, with a dog. It hurt like swallowing glass.

“I let you go,” she whispered. “Be happy. I let you go. I let you go.”

The words felt ridiculous. And then, strangely… lighter.

She walked into the courthouse.

Brian was already there, Rochelle glued to his side. Of course she was. As if he needed a chaperone to make sure he went through with it.

Before he could say anything, Maya looked at the clerk, signed the papers, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I agree to the divorce. And I wish my ex-husband happiness. Truly.”

Afterwards, Brian approached her.

“I didn’t expect that from you,” he admitted. “I thought you’d cry. Ask for more time. Demand that we try again. You’re… a good woman, Maya. I told you that from the start. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“It’s okay,” she said. And, for the first time, part of her meant it. “It’s just experience. Be happy, Brian. Really. I have to go.”

“When are you coming to get your things?” he asked.

“One of these days,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

She walked out of the courthouse into the cool Seattle afternoon feeling lighter than she had in months.

On the sidewalk, she called Ansley.

“How did it go?” Ansley asked anxiously.

“I’m officially divorced,” Maya said cheerfully.

Ansley nearly dropped her phone. “What have you been drinking?”

“Nothing,” Maya laughed. “Do you think they serve champagne after divorce hearings?”

“Well, then why do you sound like you just won the lottery?” Ansley demanded.

“Come over tonight,” Maya said. “I’ll cook something good. I have a story to tell you.”

Later, over dinner, Maya told her about the blind woman, the pencil in third grade, the strangers’ strange prophecy. Ansley listened, frowning.

“I don’t believe in psychics,” she said slowly. “Most of them are just really good at reading people. But… that pencil thing… That’s weird.”

“I know she’s real,” Maya said simply. “So I believe the rest too. Kids. A bright future. Happiness. It sounds insane, but… I feel it.”

And for the first time, Ansley believed a little too.

Life moved on.

Maya started baking again. Slowly, one cake at a time. Old clients returned, bringing new ones. She signed up for a masterclass in cake decorating in downtown Seattle, learning how to make sugar flowers that looked so real people tried to smell them.

She adopted a mischievous gray kitten from a shelter and named him Marquis. Her father, now living joyfully with fur on his clothes, watched her bloom again.

“You’re yourself again,” he said one night as she boxed cupcakes. “Actually… you’re better. Stronger. I’m proud of you, Maya.”

He surprised her next.

“I’ve been thinking I was wrong,” he said. “About the business. Maybe now… you could rent a space. Make it official.”

Maya stopped mid-frosting. “Are you serious? You didn’t want to give me your savings before. You said you only wanted to use them for my wedding. Not for business.”

“I didn’t trust that Brian,” he said simply. “And I didn’t trust your luck. I’m old, my girl, not stupid. But now… you don’t have Brian. You have you. And I trust you. We’ll use the money for your dream. Not for some man’s convenience.”

Her eyes stung. “Dad…”

“You’ll need more, of course,” he said. “My savings can cover half. For the rest, you’ll need a loan. Are you ready to risk it?”

“I’m tired of being afraid of bad luck,” she said. “I found a small business program with good rates. If everything goes right, I’ll pay it back early. If it goes wrong…” She shrugged. “Then I’ll survive that too.”

He smiled. “I believe in you.”

Over the next few months, Maya transformed a narrow storefront near the University of Washington into her first real pastry shop. She painted the walls soft cream, installed glass display cases, bought secondhand mixers and ovens with her loan, and put up a sign: “Marquis Bakery.”

The location was perfect: students, office workers, families from the nearby residential blocks. On opening day, the line ran out the door.

Two years later, Marquis Bakery had grown into a small local empire: two full shops in different Seattle neighborhoods and two kiosks selling fresh pastries in busy office lobbies. In addition to cakes, they baked baguettes, loaves, savory hand pies. Maya hired staff, paid taxes, and discovered that filling out payroll in Washington State was only slightly less stressful than finals week.

Her father was delighted.

“You see?” he told her one evening, sipping herbal tea at the little corner table by the shop window. “Luck loves you now. It just needed time to catch up.”

“I don’t know if it’s luck,” she said, wiping flour from her cheek. “But I know I’m not cursed. Turns out, I’m just… stubborn.”

As soon as she could afford it, she bought her father a three-week stay at a fancy wellness retreat in eastern Washington. A real American senior dream: mineral pools, massage, lectures on heart health.

“You’re going,” she told him when he tried to protest. “No arguments. I can handle things here. Go get pampered.”

He saluted her like a soldier and went.

The morning after he left, Maya drove across town, mind half on her baking schedule, half on a phone call with her flour supplier. Distracted, she turned without checking her blind spot.

A Tesla screeched to a halt inches from her front bumper.

Her heart stopped. Her bad luck, she thought wildly. Of course.

A tall man jumped out of the driver’s seat. He looked furious at first, stalking toward her car.

“Where did you get your license?” he started, then stopped dead when he saw her pale face.

Maya rolled down the window slowly. “I am so, so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see—”

“Are you okay?” he cut in.

She blinked. “What?”

“You look like you saw a ghost,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine. I don’t think I scratched your car.”

He glanced at his sleek, dark-blue Tesla Model S and nodded. “No harm done. I hit the brakes in time. Please be careful. People drive like this on I-5 and it’s all over.”

“I don’t usually drive like that,” she said. “It’s just… been a hectic day.”

“Welcome to America,” he said wryly. “At least Seattle traffic isn’t Los Angeles bad.” He smiled faintly. “Have a good day.”

“Wait,” she said impulsively, scrambling for her purse. She pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “Here. Take this. Come by my bakery, and I’ll give you a thirty percent discount on any order. Consider it an apology.”

He read the card. “‘Marquis Bakery. Custom Cakes & Pastries.’ Is this your place?”

“Yes,” she said, straightening a little.

He extended his hand. “Then we’re colleagues. I’m Steven Ryback. Restaurateur. I own a few places around the city. Including one called Deja Vu, downtown.”

Maya’s cheeks warmed. “Nice to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand. His palm was warm, his grip firm.

His phone buzzed. “Yeah,” he said into it. “I’m almost there. Five minutes.” He hung up and smiled at her again. “I have to run. But I’ll definitely come try your cakes. I’ve heard of your shop, actually. Good things.”

He climbed back into his Tesla and drove away.

Maya watched the car disappear into traffic and realized something startling.

For the first time since Brian, she had looked at a man and thought, He’s interesting.

Before she could overthink it, her phone rang.

“Deja Vu,” Ansley said. “We’re going there for dinner tomorrow. New restaurant. Great reviews. Eight o’clock. No you-can’t excuses.”

“Deja Vu?” Maya repeated, her heart skipping. “Who owns it?”

“No idea,” Ansley said. “Does it matter? They have great cocktails.”

“Fine,” Maya said. “Eight it is.”

The next night, in a haze of sugar and butter and to-do lists, Maya rushed to Deja Vu straight from her bakery. It was a chic spot in downtown Seattle, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs, the kind of place people posted on Instagram.

“You’re late,” Ansley announced from their table.

“I had a hectic day,” Maya said, dropping into her seat. “I sent Dad off to the retreat this morning, almost totaled a Tesla, dealt with taxes, and met with a supplier. I’m basically a hunted horse.”

“Have a glass of champagne before you collapse,” Ansley said, pouring. “Now. Tell me about the Tesla. Was the driver cute?”

Maya took a sip, felt the bubbles loosen her shoulders, and then sighed.

“He was… very handsome,” she admitted. “Tall. Dark hair. Some kind of restaurant owner.”

Ansley sat up straighter. “You got his number?”

“No,” Maya said. “I gave him my business card. He promised to stop by for cake. That’s something, I guess.”

“That’s not ‘something,’ that’s fate,” Ansley said. “If he shows up, you flirt. We’re in Seattle, not a convent.”

Halfway through their main course, a familiar voice sounded behind Maya.

“You haven’t crashed any more cars, have you?” it teased.

Maya turned in her chair.

Steven stood there, more handsome than she remembered—blue button-down rolled up at the sleeves, dark jeans, a confident but not cocky smile.

“You,” she said, stupidly.

“Me,” he agreed. “Is everything to your liking? Food, service, atmosphere? Any complaints for the owner?”

“This is your restaurant?” she asked, stunned.

“Guilty,” he said. “Are you enjoying it?”

“It’s great,” she managed. “No accidents so far.”

“Excellent. Then enjoy the rest of your evening. Try the crème brûlée.” He smiled, turned to go.

“Would you like to join us?” Maya blurted, then flushed. She never did things like that.

He looked amused. “Maybe later,” he said. “If I can escape the kitchen.”

As he walked away, Ansley hissed, “That’s him?”

Maya nodded.

“If I were you,” Ansley said, “I’d turn on every charm setting you have. If he’s single.”

“What if he’s married?” Maya asked. “He’s probably in his forties. That’s past the typical Seattle-man-commitment crisis age.”

“So you flirt and find out,” Ansley said.

Later, a waitress arrived with another bottle of champagne and a plate of fruit.

“We didn’t order this,” Ansley said.

“It’s from the house,” the waitress smiled, placing a third glass on the table.

Maya’s stomach flipped. “Don’t leave me alone with him,” she whispered to Ansley as Steven approached, pulling up a third chair.

“I am your friend,” Ansley murmured. “That’s exactly why I’m going to leave you alone with him.” She downed the last of her glass, stood, kissed Maya’s cheek, and whispered, “Call me tomorrow. And relax.”

Then she was gone.

Maya clutched her champagne flute, feeling the bubbles in her head now as much as in her mouth.

“May I ask you something?” she said, surprising herself again.

“Of course,” Steven said. “I always answer honestly, fair warning.”

“Are you married?” she asked.

He smiled. “No. Never have been.”

“Why?” she blurted. “Are you against marriage?”

“I’m not against it,” he said. “I’ve just been busy. First building restaurants, then surviving pandemics and recessions. Lately, I’ve been looking for the right person. No luck yet. Seattle’s full of coffee, not soulmates.”

He watched her closely. “What about you? Married?”

“Divorced,” she said. “Once. To a mistake.”

He touched her arm lightly.

It was like being plugged into an outlet. Her whole body tingled.

I’m about to do something I’ll be ashamed of tomorrow, she thought.

And then she leaned forward and kissed him.

He responded, steady and sure. The room spun just a little, a combination of champagne and adrenaline and something else she didn’t want to name.

“Walk me home,” she whispered when they finally pulled apart.

“With pleasure,” he said.

The next morning, Maya woke in a strange bed with soft sheets and sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Her head ached. Her heart hammered.

Oh no, she thought. What did I do?

The door creaked. Steven walked in, carrying a tray: coffee, fruit, toast.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said.

“Why Sleeping Beauty?” she groaned.

“Because you told me last night you felt like Sleeping Beauty and that I woke you up with a kiss,” he said, amused. “I’m just sticking to your script.”

She buried her face in her hands. “I am so embarrassed. I don’t drink. At all. This is Ansley’s fault. She said, ‘Relax, have champagne.’”

“So I should thank your friend and the champagne,” he said.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

“A little,” he admitted. “But not because you’re embarrassed. Because I know what I need to do so you won’t want to crawl under the floor anymore.”

“What?” she asked warily.

He sat beside her, set the tray down, and kissed her, gently at first, then with more certainty.

Later, as they talked, as he told her about his four restaurants—two in Seattle, one in Portland, one in Spokane—about growing up in Chicago and moving west to chase opportunity, about building something from nothing, she realized something startling.

He was the man she’d always imagined existed somewhere but never believed she’d actually meet: kind, steady, ambitious, grounded. He respected her business. He praised her pastries. He didn’t flinch when she mentioned the miscarriage. He listened.

A week later, she moved in, this time with much less drama and much more joy. Marquis the cat approved of Steven’s big condo instantly, taking over the best spot on the couch.

Steven spent his days juggling restaurant crises, food suppliers, Yelp reviews. Maya oversaw her growing bakery empire. They met for late dinners at Deja Vu or at home, grabbed coffee in Pike Place Market, took walks along the waterfront.

Within months, they were engaged.

When Maya’s father returned from the retreat to find them planning a wedding, he listened to Steven talk for five minutes and then pulled Maya aside.

“You see?” he whispered. “This one. This one is a man. Polite. Educated. Knows how to look you in the eye. Relaxed hands. Not hiding anything. I can die now.”

“You’re not dying,” she said, laughing through tears. “You’re babysitting my future children.”

“You promise?” he asked, eyes shining.

“I promise,” she said.

A week before the wedding, Maya got a call as she picked up her dress from a boutique in downtown Seattle.

“Hi,” a familiar male voice said. “It’s Brian.”

For a moment, she thought she’d misheard. “Brian? Is something wrong?”

“We need to talk,” he said. “Please. I know you’re busy, but… can we meet?”

She hesitated. Old wounds stirred. So did curiosity.

“I’ll be near Cal Anderson Park in two hours,” she said at last. “I have another meeting downtown. If you want to talk, meet me there. I can give you twenty minutes.”

He agreed.

At the park, he was waiting at the entrance in jeans and a hoodie that made him look younger, or maybe just smaller.

“You look… incredible,” he said when he saw her. “Different. Happier.”

“Thank you,” she said coolly. “Say what you need to say. I don’t have much time.”

“I wanted to apologize,” he said. “For everything. For cheating. For how I handled the miscarriage. For talking about our baby like it was a broken plate. I was an idiot.”

She nodded. “You were.”

“I left Rochelle six months ago,” he continued. “It didn’t work. She’s not like you. You’re kind. You cared. You were real. She’s… not any of that. I was stupid. I miss you. I miss us. I regret every day walking away. I want you back, Maya. Please. Come back to me.”

Maya looked at him and felt a strange calm.

The blind woman had been right. “He’ll regret it,” she’d said. “He’ll be sorry.”

“Brian,” Maya said quietly, “I’m not coming back. Not because I’m with someone else, though I am. But because you’re not my person. You never were. You were my lesson. My past. And I’m done living in my past.”

His face crumpled. “You loved me.”

“I did,” she said. “And you loved that I loved you more than you loved me. It was comfortable. That’s all. You will find someone else who fits you. But it’s not me.”

“Is there someone else?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes,” she said simply. “We’re getting married next week.”

He flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“So am I,” she replied. “But not in the way you think. I’m sorry we both wasted time on a story that was never meant to last. Goodbye, Brian.”

She turned and walked away, toward her car, toward her future.

As she drove, she called Steven.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“At Deja Vu,” he said. “What’s wrong? You sound—”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “I just really need to kiss you.”

“Best emergency I’ve heard all week,” he laughed. “I’ll be waiting.”

In the restaurant, he met her at the door, worry creasing his brow.

“What happened?” he asked.

She stood on her toes, pulled his face down, and kissed him long and hard.

“Nothing,” she said when they finally came up for air. “Everything’s good. I just remembered how lucky I am.”

He smiled. “You scared me,” he admitted. “Don’t do that.”

“We’re going to be fine,” she said. “I know it.”

She didn’t yet know that a few weeks later, a doctor in Seattle would smile at an ultrasound screen and say, “Do you see that? That’s baby number one. And that? That’s baby number two.”

A boy. And a girl.

Her father would hold both of them, one in each arm, tears running down his face, whispering, “See? I told you. Life was just late. But it got here.”

Maya would laugh and cry at the same time, feeling finally, fully, undeniably certain of one thing:

She had never been cursed.

She had just taken the long, unlucky road to the life that was meant for her.