Put that way, it sounds reasonable, even thoughtful. But I know enough about men with power and money to recognize the danger of becoming accustomed to gifts that come with invisible strings.
"And Zenith Industries?" I challenge. "That was also just making my life easier?"
"That was business," he counters smoothly. "Your work is exceptional. They needed a quality vendor. A simple introduction that benefits both parties."
The bell over the door chimes yet again. A third courier, looking slightly apologetic about the early hour. This time it's a thick envelope rather than a package.
"Hold on," I tell Alex, setting the phone down to sign for the delivery.
Inside the envelope is an official invitation to cater the Mayor's Christmas Charity Ball—the most prestigious holiday event in the city, usually handled by established caterers with decades of experience and connections. The handwritten note at the bottom reads: "Mr. Devereux spoke highly of your work at the Children's Hospital Gala. We would be delighted to have Sweet Haven provide the dessert course."
I pick up the phone again. "The Mayor's Christmas Ball? Really, Alex?"
"Is that today's delivery?" He sounds pleased with himself. "They were looking for something fresh this year. I merely mentioned your name."
"This isn't..." I struggle to find the right words. "This feels like too much, too fast."
"It's opportunity, Clara. Nothing more, nothing less. You've earned it with your talent. I'm simply removing the barriers that would normally keep someone like you waiting years for recognition you deserve now."
His words hit a nerve, touching on the frustration I've felt watching less talented bakers with better connections advance while I struggle. But pride is a stubborn thing.
"I need to know these opportunities are coming because of my work, not because a billionaire is pulling strings," I say quietly.
"They are," he responds immediately. "I wouldn't recommend you if your work wasn't exceptional. I don't risk my reputation, Clara, not even for women I find irresistible."
The casually delivered compliment sends heat flooding my cheeks. Before I can respond, he continues.
"Accept the gifts or don't. Take the contracts or pass. But don't insult either of us by suggesting I'm trying to buy you. What I want from you can't be purchased."
The intensity in his voice makes my breath catch. I glance down at the invitation in my hand, the bracelet on my wrist, the piping tips gleaming on the counter. Opportunities and gifts that would change the trajectory of my small business. Of my life.
"I have to go," I say finally. "The morning rush starts soon."
"Dinner tonight," he says, not quite a question, not quite a command. "I'll pick you up at eight."
I should say no. Should establish boundaries. Should make it clear that expensive gifts and business connections don't automatically entitle him to my time.
"Fine," I hear myself say instead. "But I'm not wearing the bracelet."
His soft laugh is the last thing I hear before hanging up, my traitor pulse racing at the thought of seeing him again. I slip the bracelet off and tuck it into my pocket, where it sits like a small, warm secret against my thigh for the rest of the day.
I won't be bought. Not by gifts, not by opportunities, not by kisses that taste like possibilities I've never dared imagine.
But God help me, I might just give myself away for free.
I spend all day rehearsing the speech in my head. Firm but not harsh. Clear but not cruel. A perfectly calibrated declaration of independence that will make Alexander Devereux understand I'm not another acquisition for his collection. By the time I'm zipping up a simple black dress at 7:50, I've got it memorized—all the reasons his gifts are inappropriate, all the ways I need to succeed on my own merits. The bracelet sits on my dresser, small and accusing, waiting to be returned.
At precisely 8:00, the buzzer sounds. Not a minute early, not a minute late. I take a steadying breath, grab my purse and the small box containing the bracelet, and head downstairs.
Alex waits beside a sleek black car, looking devastating in a charcoal suit that fits him like he was poured into it. His eyes darken appreciably when he sees me, that storm-gray gaze sweeping over me with an intensity that makes my skin heat despite the December chill.
"Clara," he says, just my name, but somehow loaded with meaning.
"Alex." I clutch my purse tighter, already feeling my carefully prepared speech fragmenting under the weight of his presence.
He opens the car door, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as I slide in. That single point of contact shouldn't send electricity through me, but my body hasn't gotten the independence memo my brain drafted.
The restaurant, when we arrive, is exactly what I feared—the kind of exclusive establishment with no prices on the menu and staff who materialize like well-dressed ghosts. The maître d' greets Alex by name, leading us to a secluded corner table partially hidden by an artistic arrangement of fresh flowers.
