The planning and execution of the grand apology were nothing short of a monumental endeavor. It was on the news everywhere. But once the final bows were taken, the weeping ceased, and the sheer relief of Gunther was clear, a new challenge arose. The invoice.

  You see, orchestrating the grandest apology in world’s history came with a sizable price tag. And while I, Frederik Bauer, am an artist in my craft, I also have bills to pay.

  The morning after the performance, Gunther returned to my office. He looked much lighter than before, presumably because the weight of the Baroness’s grudge had been lifted. But there was an extra weight in his step, one of financial dread.

  Svetlana handed him an envelope with a crispness that only she could manage. The ominous envelope bore the breakdown of the expenses, hiring ten thousand extras, the musical arrangements, the professional criers (a touch I was particularly proud of), the expertly designed parade float, and, of course, my fee.

  Gunther opened the envelope slowly, peering inside as if expecting a cobra to jump out. And when he pulled out the invoice, his face turned a shade I’d previously thought was exclusive to funerals.

  “This... this is a very comprehensive bill, Fred,” he managed, voice trembling.

  “Spectacular apologies come at a price,” I replied proudly.

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  He swallowed, eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. But upon meeting Svetlana’s unyielding stare that held the stopping power of a dozen iron gates, he suddenly seemed more inclined to negotiate than navigate an exit.

  “I... I don’t think I can pay this all at once.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a proposal?”

  Gunther cleared his throat. “How do you feel about... pastries?”

  I blinked. “Come again?”

  “Pastries, Fred. Fresh, delicious, daily pastries. For life!” He seemed to be warming up to his own idea. “Think about it. Croissants so buttery they practically melt in your mouth. Strudels filled with the freshest fruits. Cakes so light they’d make clouds jealous.”

  I pondered the proposition. While cash was king, the allure of a lifetime supply of baked goods was tempting.

  Svetlana leaned over, whispering in my ear. “Think of the Pretzels, sir.”

  A drool-worthy thought indeed.

  I extended a hand to Gunther. “Very well. Pastries for life, it is. But throw in a daily basket of Pretzels, and we’ll call it even.”

  Gunther, relieved beyond measure, shook my hand vigorously. “Deal!”

  As Gunther left, I propped my feet up on my oak desk, contemplating my strange journey in the world of apologies. Who knew saying ‘sorry’ could be this entertaining? “Life’s a comedy,” I chuckled to myself, “and I’ve got the best seat in the house.”

  Remember, if ever in a dire need of an apology. You know what to do!

  The End