Married Before Midnight by Sienna Quinn - Chapter 7

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Married Before Midnight by Sienna Quinn


Chapter 7: The Midnight Bakery Plan


The Carter sisters’ bedroom was cramped, the air thick with the scent of lavender soap and the faint musk of worn-out quilts. Moonlight spilled through the thin curtains, casting silvery stripes across the floor where the five girls huddled in a tight circle, knees pressed together, voices hushed but buzzing with excitement. Hannah, ever the strategist, had a notebook balanced on her lap, her pencil flying across the page as she sketched out her vision. "Listen," she whispered, eyes gleaming with determination. "Working for other people will only keep us afloat—it won’t make us wealthy. If we want real change, we need our own business." Olivia, sitting cross-legged beside her, frowned. "But starting something from scratch takes money, Hannah. And we don’t have any." "That’s where we get creative," Hannah countered, tapping her pencil against the paper. "We don’t need a fancy storefront. We bake from home, take orders, and deliver. No rent, no overhead—just pure profit." Charlotte gasped, clapping her hands together. "A secret bakery! Like spies, but with muffins!" Lillian snorted, tossing a pillow at her. "We’re not spies, dummy. We’re entrepreneurs." Emily, the youngest, wiggled closer, her curiosity piqued. "But how do we get customers? We can’t exactly put up a sign in the yard without Dad noticing." Hannah smirked. "Word of mouth. We start small—neighbors, friends from school, Mom’s coworkers. If the food’s good, they’ll come back." Olivia chewed her lip, protective instincts warring with hope. "It’s risky. If Dad finds out—" "If Dad finds out, we’ll handle it," Hannah interrupted firmly. "But we can’t let fear stop us. Not when this could change everything." A beat of silence passed, the weight of the idea settling over them. Then Charlotte, ever the optimist, grinned. "Okay, but first—what do we call it? Midnight Muffins? The Secret Sugar Society?" Lillian groaned. "Those sound like a bad detective novel." "How about The Carter Sisters’ Bakery?" Emily suggested. Hannah shook her head. "Too obvious. We need something catchy but subtle. Something that feels special." Olivia’s eyes softened as she looked around at her sisters. "What about Sweet Beginnings? Because that’s what this is—our fresh start." A collective sigh of approval rippled through the group. Hannah scribbled it down. "Perfect. Now, logistics. Olivia, you’re the best baker after Mom—you’ll handle recipes. Charlotte, you’re charming; you’ll take orders. Lillian, you’re fast—deliveries. Emily, you’re good with numbers—track expenses. And I’ll manage everything else." Lillian raised a brow. "Of course you’re the boss." Hannah shot her a look. "Someone has to be." Olivia exhaled, rubbing her temples. "We’ll need supplies. Flour, sugar, butter… I can put my first paycheck from Victoria’s toward it, but it won’t be enough for long." "Then we start small," Hannah said. "One batch at a time. We’ll reinvest every penny we make." Charlotte flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. "I can’t believe we’re doing this. It’s kind of thrilling." Emily giggled. "We’re like rebels. But with aprons." Lillian nudged her. "The most dangerous kind." Their laughter was cut short by the distant sound of the front door creaking open—Eleanor was home from her night shift. In a flurry of hushed whispers and scrambling limbs, the sisters dove back into their beds, pulling covers up just as the bedroom door cracked open. Eleanor’s tired silhouette lingered in the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the seemingly sleeping girls. For a moment, Olivia held her breath, certain their racing hearts would give them away. But then the door clicked shut, and the room exhaled as one. In the quiet darkness, Olivia turned onto her side, staring at the faint outline of Hannah’s bed. "Do you really think this could work?" she whispered. Hannah’s voice was steady, certain. "It has to." And with that, the sisters drifted into silence, each lost in dreams of flour-dusted counters, golden-brown pastries, and a future where the Carter name meant more than struggle.