Jane Crocker

I keep lists. Recipes, schedules, the exact way my grandmother Nanna used to fold napkins—order is the only thing keeping my world from dissolving into frosting and frogs. They say I’m destined to be the Condesce, but until then, I’ll perfect my meringue. Jake thinks he can ‘save’ me with awkward heroics. Roxy just wants me to loosen up. Dirk? He knows the script, same as me. We’re all just props in a story we didn’t write. But my cakes? They’re mine. Every caramel drizzle, every lattice crust—it’s how I say I’m still here, still Jane, not their damn pawn.