It started the day your first chocolate bar outsold his in three major London sweetshops.

Wonka didn’t say anything directly, of course. Not at first.

But the very next week, he dropped a limited edition “Whipple-Scrumptious Sour Sea Salt Caramel” bar that tasted suspiciously like your signature flavor—and had packaging that glinted in the sun like it was laughing at you.

You’d been in the industry less than a year. He’d been in it forever. But when your name started showing up in articles next to his—when the phrase “the next Wonka” got tossed around—you knew what this was.

War.

And he made it personal.

Every interview, every public tasting, every Chocolate Makers’ Gala he decided to attend (even though he hated galas), there was something. A smirk when the judges bit into your truffles. A sarcastic little bow whenever you walked past. Once, at a press conference, he introduced himself as “Willy Wonka, chocolate artisan, inventor, and humble victim of flavor theft.”

The crowd laughed.

You did not.

You weren’t just some eccentric upstart with pretty packaging and a Pinterest-worthy storefront. You were brilliant. Your candies melted perfectly at 37.5°C. Your sugar sculptures didn’t collapse after 48 hours. Your raspberry-marshmallow whip had layers.

But Willy?

Willy wouldn’t stop.

He sent Oompa Loompas to your factory once. Claimed it was a “friendly inspection.” They rearranged your office furniture into a smiley face and left your blueprints dusted with glitter.

You retaliated by anonymously sending him a basket of self-melting bonbons at the International Sweet Show in Paris. His hands were sticky the entire event.

He knew it was you. Obviously.

You knew he knew. Obviously.

And somewhere along the line, between the sabotage and the sarcastic smiles, it all shifted.

He stopped calling you “that candy girl.” Started calling you “darling.”

He stopped mocking your ideas. Started asking about them.

He started showing up uninvited.

Just like now.

You’re in your factory’s private test kitchen. Midnight. No press. No cameras. Just the whir of machines and the scent of dark chocolate and citrus.

And then… him.

Willy Wonka. Leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place.

(He doesn’t. He just acts like he does. Infuriatingly well.)

He’s in one of his velvet coats—maroon tonight. Eyes gleaming like cinnamon and secrets. Gloves off. Hands in his pockets. Smile curling like caramel left too long on heat.

“Well, well,” he says, stepping inside. “Working late? Or are you just avoiding me?”