And on the top floor, in a penthouse office overlooking the same rainy skyline, a silver-haired man sits with a small white box. He opens it. He breathes in the smell of honey and bourbon. And for just a moment, the king of the city stops climbing.

Fifteen minutes later, she was standing in front of a wall of windows overlooking a gray, rainy skyline. Mr. Biggs was exactly as the business journals described: broad-shouldered, silver-templed, and wearing a sneer that could curdle milk.

Soon, other things changed. The “Midnight Mourning” cupcake appeared on his desk every Friday morning. He started coming down to the shop himself, sitting in the corner booth, sipping black coffee and reading spreadsheets. He even smiled once—a rusty, unpracticed thing that made one of the baristas drop a plate.