I don't merely want Clara Benson in my bed, though God knows I do want that. I want her in my life. Under my protection. Mine in ways I've never wanted anyone before.
The realization is as unsettling as it is undeniable.
Chapter
Five
CLARA
"You're sleeping with him,aren't you?" Mia asks, dropping the bomb with all the subtlety of a teenager who thinks sex was invented last Tuesday. My hot chocolate sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my mug, and Zoe chokes on her latte, drawing annoyed glances from the hipsters at the next table. We're at Groundwork Coffee, three blocks from my bakery, supposedly enjoying our bi-weekly girls' night that usually consists of caffeine, sugar, and unfiltered conversation. Apparently, tonight's unfiltered topic is my non-existent sex life with Alexander Devereux.
"Jesus, Mia," I hiss, dabbing at the spilled chocolate with a napkin. "Keep your voice down. And no, I am not sleeping with him."
Mia looks disappointed. At nineteen, my part-time helper views my life as a potential romantic comedy where she has front-row seats. "But he comes in every morning. And he looks at you like you're one of your own pastries he wants to devour."
Zoe, my best friend since culinary school and the proud owner of exactly zero romantic delusions, sets her mug down with precision. "That's exactly why Clara needs to be careful.Men like Alexander Devereux don't 'date' women like us. They consume them and move on."
"Women like us?" I repeat, bristling slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Normal women," Zoe clarifies, tucking her curly hair behind her ear. "Women with student loans and rent checks that sometimes bounce. Women who can't jet off to Paris for the weekend or recover from having their hearts obliterated by buying a small island."
I fiddle with my napkin, tearing it into progressively smaller pieces. "It's not like that. He just likes my baking."
The synchronization with which both my friends roll their eyes would impress an Olympic judge.
"He likes something, alright," Mia snickers. "The way he watches you when you're not looking? That man is starving, and it's not for croissants."
"You don't know him," I protest, then immediately wonder why I'm defending a man who still makes me nervous on a good day and terrified on others.
"Actually," Zoe says carefully, "I do know his type. My sister worked as an events coordinator at The Ritz last year. She handled three of his corporate parties."
Something in her tone makes my stomach tighten. "And?"
"And he has a reputation, Clara. He dates women briefly and intensely. When he loses interest, they're dismissed from his life completely. No explanation, no closure. One woman—a model he dated for about two months—showed up at his office after he ghosted her. Security escorted her out, and she was served with a restraining order the next day."
I stare into my hot chocolate, watching the mini marshmallows melt into uneven white patches. "That's just gossip."
"Remember Anna Wells?" Zoe continues, undeterred. "That jewelry designer who was getting big press about three years ago? She dated Devereux for a few months. He invested in her company, got her into all the right social circles. When they broke up, he pulled his investment. Her business collapsed six months later."
A cold feeling spreads through my chest. "That could've been coincidence."
"Could've been," Zoe agrees. "But there are at least four similar stories. The details change, but the pattern is the same. He becomes intensely fixated, makes himself the center of a woman's universe, then vanishes when he gets bored."
Mia frowns, some of her romantic enthusiasm dimming. "That's seriously messed up."
"Look," I say, pushing my mug away, suddenly not in the mood for chocolate, "I appreciate the concern, but you're both acting like I'm about to elope with the guy. He sits in my bakery, drinks coffee, and occasionally says things that make me question my sanity. That's it."
"For now," Zoe says, her voice gentler. "But Clara, I've seen how you look at him too. And I get it—he's objectively gorgeous, rich as God, and apparently interested in you. It would turn anyone's head."
I want to deny it, but I've never been able to lie to Zoe. She sees right through me. "He's…different than I expected," I admit. "Not as cold. He asks questions about baking techniques and actually listens to the answers. Yesterday he spent twenty minutes debating the merits of cultured versus regular butter for laminated doughs."
"Sexy," Mia deadpans, but her eyes are thoughtful.
"The point is," Zoe presses, "even if he's genuine—and that's a big if—there's a fundamental imbalance here. He could buy your entire building without checking his account balancefirst. He has power and connections you can't even imagine. What happens when things go south? Because they always do, eventually."
Her words hit home in a way the gossip didn't. I think about my struggling bakery, the notices from the landlord, the slim margins I operate on. One bad review from someone with influence could tank me. One missed loan payment could end everything I've built.
"Maybe he just really likes pastries," I offer weakly.
