The Peach Trap

Elowen's POV

In the southern summer, the air hung heavy with the scent of overripe peaches.

Yet that cloying sweetness couldn't mask the near-frenzied hunger of women crowding Grandma's shop—pushing, shoving, desperate for a slice of peach pie priced at ten thousand dollars.

I never understood why this tiny shop drove countless women into such frenzy, even to their knees, begging.

Until that summer night, when Auntie slipped into the basement.

Through the darkness came her muffled moans, mingled with strange wet sounds...

By 8:00 AM, the line outside The Peach Pie was already winding down the block.

"Strictly one per customer." That was Grandma Theodora Ashford's golden rule.

I always thought it was just a clever marketing gimmick—because I saw a wealthy socialite step out of her Rolls-Royce, practically throw herself onto our floor, and cling to Grandma's legs.

"Please... just one more piece! Name your price! Ten thousand bucks! No—a hundred thousand!"

Grandma didn't even glance at the trembling check in the woman's hand.

She just looked down at the sobbing wreck with the detached gaze. Mild, but absolute.

"Show her out."

A sharp honk sliced through the muggy morning air.

An out-of-state black pickup threw gravel as it jerked to a stop. A striking man stepped out.

Early thirties, sharp, put-together. Notepad in one hand, DSLR camera in the other.

Thaddeus Whitmore. A hotshot food critic who thought he could dig up every dirty little secret in our town.

He strolled to the back of the line, flashing a charismatic smile at a freckled woman. "Ma'am, standing in this line just for a slice of pie... is it really that magical?"

The woman looked him up and down. Her gaze hungrily traced the outline of his chest under his button-down before she let out a flirtatious, mocking scoff.

"Sweetheart, let me give it to you straight," she purred, licking her lips with a crazed look in her eyes. "Even if a prime piece of meat like you was stripped naked in my bed right now... it wouldn't give me a fraction of the thrill that pie does."

The crowd erupted into laughter.

"I'd rather lock myself in a room with that pie than get a damn coffee with you," another woman chimed in mercilessly.

Thaddeus’s smile stiffened.

He walked to the end of the line without another word. The only male outcast in a sea of obsessed women.

The line inched forward.

Finally, he reached the counter.

I kept my eyes down, reaching for the last two peach pies in the glass display.

Suddenly, a hand—bony but gripping like a steel vice—clamped down on my wrist.

Grandma had materialized behind me like a ghost, her weathered face entirely unreadable.

"Sold out for the day," she rasped, her voice like sandpaper on glass.

I blinked, instinctively arguing, "But Grandma, there’s still—"

"I said. Sold. Out. Elowen." Her dead eyes were locked on the man on the other side of the glass.

Thaddeus’s face darkened. He slammed his notepad on the counter. "I have cash! Whatever you want! I'm the lead reporter for Southern Gourmet, let me get an exclusive—"

"We are closed. No interviews."

Grandma didn’t even look at him. Without a tremor in her fingers, she slammed the blind shut, completely cutting off his bewildered face.

"We're shutting the doors starting today," Grandma said, turning to me with an eerie calmness. "Tell them I’m unwell and need to rest."

Staring at her rigid, unyielding posture, a sudden chill crept up my spine.

News of Grandma’s failing health reached the bloodsucking leeches almost instantly.

By dusk on the third day, my Aunt Delphine clicked through the courtyard gates in her expensive heels.

She was as glamorous as ever, draped in a black silk slip dress, playing the part of the tragic, suffering woman. Too bad her oversized sunglasses couldn't hide the ravenous greed in her eyes.

"Mom—"

Delphine bulldozed straight into the back room.

"Mom, you’re getting older. Your health is failing. With the shop closed, your customers are practically tearing the doors down," she cooed, her sweet tone making my stomach turn.

Grandma leaned back on the sofa, eyes closed.

"Isn't it... about time?" My aunt swallowed hard, finally dropping the act. "Transfer the shop to me entirely. And the recipe—just give it to me, and I swear I'll keep the legacy alive..."

I stood in the doorway, watching the raw desire contorting my aunt's face.

Oddly enough, I wasn't worried about the recipe at all.

Because in this town, nobody except Grandma was worthy of asking about the peach pie.

Let alone making it.