SOMETHING SWEET , SOMETHING GONE (Lisa's Story) - Chapter 2 : Frosting, Fire, and the First Sale

After graduation, reality hit faster than a fallen soufflé.

Utalii College had pampered us with structured lessons, free ingredients, and guided supervision. Out here? There was rent to think about, suppliers to chase, branding to build, and zero buffer for error. But Daniel was still Daniel—unshakable, sexy, persuasive, and full of big ideas.

“You’ve got the magic in your hands, babe,” he’d tell me, kissing my knuckles. “We just need a space. A little oven. We’ll start small.”

He found the space—an old, abandoned corner shop in South B, Nairobi. Cracked tiles. A dripping tap. Paint peeling off the walls. But when we stood in it, imagining what it could become, our eyes filled in the gaps. I could already see the pastel tones I’d paint, the racks of cupcakes cooling by the window. Daniel imagined shelves filled with profits and clients walking in for custom cakes.

We named it Sweet Crumbs—his idea, my heart.

We scraped together savings. Daniel took a small loan from a cousin. I sold my precious stand mixer—my first baking investment ever. We slept on the bakery floor the night before our first order, icing cookies on a collapsible table, running on adrenaline and bad coffee.

The first order was for a little girl’s birthday—pink rosette cake with edible pearls. I still remember her mum tearing up when she saw it.

“You made this?” she asked, eyes wide.

Daniel beamed. “She made it,” he said, nodding at me.

I felt so seen.

Business was slow at first. We'd bake and sit at the shop door with boxes of cupcakes, hoping for walk-ins. Some days, we sold nothing. But when Daniel put on his charm and went door to door at offices nearby, things shifted. Orders trickled in. Then doubled. Then came referrals.

We became a team—a dream team.

In the bakery, our chemistry sizzled. We’d bicker over frosting colors and giggle like teenagers in between deliveries. Some nights, we’d lock up late, hands dusted with flour, bodies pressed against the cold prep table in a mix of sugar and sweat, craving more than just rest.

“Lisa,” he’d whisper, undoing my apron knot slowly, eyes heavy with hunger, “you taste better than anything you bake.”

And he’d prove it.

Right there in the bakery, in the heart of our tiny kingdom, we made love like we were sealing our dreams in caramel and chocolate. Everything about him was addictive—his scent, his voice, the way his hands knew exactly where to touch me.

But success, like sugar, can burn if you’re not careful.

Daniel changed. At first, it was subtle. He became more interested in business lunches. Dressed flashier. Took longer to respond to my texts during the day. When I asked questions, he’d shrug it off with a quick kiss or a hot night.

“Don’t overthink, babe. I’m doing this for us,” he’d murmur, tracing lazy circles on my bare back.

And I believed him. Again.

We moved into a small apartment behind the bakery. I loved waking up beside him, knowing we were building something real. I still baked with love. I still iced cakes with my heart. But beneath the sweet smells of vanilla and buttercream, a bitter scent began to rise.

He came home once smelling faintly of Chanel perfume—a scent I didn’t wear.

Another time, I found a crumpled business card in his jacket. A supplier. Female. Her photo too polished for someone in logistics.

“Just a new contact,” he said, brushing it off. “You know how networking works.”

But my heart had started asking questions my lips weren’t ready to voice.

Still, I kept baking. Kept loving him. Kept hoping we were okay.

That’s the thing about love—you don’t always see the cracks until the cake collapses.

And mine was starting to crumble.