"You look beautiful," Alex says once we're seated, the soft lighting casting his sharp features into dramatic relief. "Though you're missing something." His eyes flick to my bare wrist.
The perfect opening. I place the small box on the table between us.
"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about," I say, meeting his gaze directly. "I can't accept this. Or the piping tips. Or the business connections."
He doesn't reach for the box. "May I ask why?"
"Because I need to know I'm succeeding on my own merits," I tell him, the words coming easier now that I've started. "Because I've worked too hard to have people thinking I got opportunities because I'm sleeping with Alexander Devereux."
His eyebrow raises slightly. "Are you sleeping with me? That's a development I seem to have missed."
Heat floods my face. "You know what I mean. People will assume?—"
"People always assume," he cuts in smoothly. "The question is whether you care more about their assumptions than your own opportunities."
"It's not that simple," I counter, leaning forward. "My reputation is all I have. My work, my talent—that's what defines me. Not who I know or who…wants me."
Something flickers in his expression at those last words. "And if I want to support that talent? To eliminate obstacles that have nothing to do with your abilities and everything to do with an industry built on exclusion and gatekeeping?"
The waiter appears with champagne we didn't order. Alex waves him away without looking, his focus entirely on me.
"I didn't get where I am by having things handed to me," I say, frustration building. "I need to know every success is mine—really mine."
"And if I remove artificial barriers? If I simply introduce you to people who would benefit from your work but would never discover it otherwise?" His voice remains calm, reasonable, making me feel like I'm the irrational one.
"That's still intervention. Still your influence, not my work, opening doors." I push the box closer to him. "I won't be your charity project, Alex. Or your…conquest."
Instead of offense, a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "You think that's what this is about? Making you a conquest?"
"Isn't it?" I challenge. "The expensive gifts, the exclusive opportunities—they're about making me indebted to you. About control."
"No, Clara," he says, leaning forward until I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that makes my treacherous brain imagine how it would cling to my sheets. "They're about removing obstacles between what you deserve and what you have. Between what I want and what I'm waiting for you to offer."
The air between us practically crackles with tension. I'm acutely aware of every inch of space separating us, of how easy it would be to close that distance.
"I need to stand on my own," I insist, my voice softer than intended. "Build my business my way."
"Even if that means taking longer? Working harder than necessary? Watching less talented people succeed because they have connections you refuse to use?"
His questions hit nerves I didn't want exposed. The frustration of watching mediocre bakers with industry connections or family money advance while I struggle. The exhaustion of doing everything alone.
"Even then," I say, though the words taste bitter. "My success has to be mine, Alex. Otherwise, what am I?"
"Practical," he suggests. "Strategic."
"Compromised," I counter.
He studies me for a long moment, those gray eyes seeing far too much. Then, surprisingly, he takes the box and slips it into his jacket pocket.
"Your integrity is…unexpected," he says finally. "Refreshing, even. Most people in your position would take everything offered and ask for more."
"I'm not most people."
"No," he agrees, something like admiration warming his gaze. "You're not. Which is precisely why I want you. Not as a conquest, Clara. As something far more valuable."
The simple honesty in his voice catches me off guard. For a moment, I glimpse something beneath the polished, controlled exterior—something raw and genuine that makes my resolve waver.
"What do you want from me, then?" I ask, the question barely above a whisper.
