Autopilot kicks in. I serve customers, make change, answer questions, all while trying to process what's happening. The article sits open on the counter, drawing my eyes between transactions like a car crash I can't look away from.
Three hours pass in a blur of faces and orders. We sell out of everything by 10 AM—even the day-old items I'd planned to discount. As I'm wiping down the counter for the hundredthtime, Mrs. Abernathy, my most loyal regular, approaches with her usual tea.
"Quite a morning," she says, eyes twinkling behind rimmed glasses. "Though I can't say I'm surprised. Your baking always deserved wider recognition."
I smile weakly. "Did you see the article?"
"Oh yes. Though I knew something was brewing when I saw that handsome man of yours with Eliza Winters last week."
My hand freezes mid-wipe. "What man? What are you talking about?"
"Your gentleman friend. The tall one with the serious eyes who sits by the window most mornings." She taps the magazine. "He was here with Eliza—she writes the food column. Very intense conversation they were having."
Ice slides down my spine. Alex. With the food critic. Last week—days after I explicitly told him I didn't want his help, his connections, his intervention. After I returned his gifts and made it crystal clear I needed to succeed on my own merits.
"Are you sure it was him?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Quite sure, dear. Hard to forget a man like that." She pats my hand. "You should be pleased. This kind of publicity usually costs a fortune."
I manage to maintain my professional smile until she leaves, then snatch up the magazine again, reading properly this time. The article gushes about Sweet Haven's "unpretentious authenticity" and my "innovative techniques that honor traditional French pastry while boldly incorporating unexpected flavors." It mentions my training, my mother's influence on my baking—details I've never shared with a journalist.
But I have shared them with Alex. During quiet mornings at the bakery. Over dinner. In unguarded moments when I thought he was just showing interest, not gathering ammunition.
My phone hasn't stopped buzzing all morning. Voicemails from three other publications requesting interviews. Emails from potential clients interested in catering. A text from the Mayor's office confirming my participation in the Christmas Ball. In three hours, I've received more business inquiries than in the past three months combined.
It's everything a struggling bakery owner could want. Everything I've worked toward for years.
And it makes me absolutely furious.
"This is amazing!" Mia squeals, counting the day's receipts—already triple our usual daily take. "We should frame the article! Do you think we'll need to hire more help? Should we extend our hours? Oh my God, Clara, we're going viral on Instagram!"
I don't answer. Can't answer. My throat feels too tight, like I'm trying to swallow broken glass. I should be ecstatic. Should be celebrating. Instead, I'm fighting the urge to put my fist through the wall.
Because none of this—none of this success, this attention, this opportunity—is mine. Not really. It's Alexander Devereux pulling strings again, using his influence to make things happen regardless of what I want. Manipulating my life, my business, my future to suit his vision of what should be.
Making decisions for me, as if my opinions, my boundaries, my explicit requests mean nothing compared to his determination to get his way.
I grab my phone and dial his number, not caring that the bakery is still full of customers. It goes straight to voicemail—of course it does. Alexander Devereux is probably too busy arranging other people's lives to answer his phone.
"You had no right," I say when the beep sounds, my voice shaking with barely controlled rage. "I told you I didn't want your help. I told you I needed to do this myself. But you justcouldn't stand not getting your way, could you? Call me back. We need to talk. Now."
I hang up, hands trembling with adrenaline and anger. Mia stares at me, her celebration cut short by the venom in my voice.
"Clara? What's wrong? Isn't this a good thing?"
I look down at the magazine spread—my food, my bakery, my story, all packaged and presented without my knowledge or consent. The ultimate violation of trust disguised as a favor.
"No," I say quietly, closing the magazine with decisive finality. "It's not a good thing at all."
The bell above the door chimes at precisely 7:45 PM, long after closing. I don't need to look up to know it's him. I feel Alex's presence like a pressure change before a storm, the air suddenly charged with electricity. I continue wiping down the counter with unnecessary force, the muscles in my arm burning with the effort. Let him wait. Let him stand there watching me ignore him. Small retribution for the boundary he bulldozed this morning.
"Clara." Just my name, but laden with complexities—apology, defiance, something else I refuse to identify.
"We're closed," I say, still not looking at him. "There's a sign. Perhaps you can pay someone to read it to you, since you're so good at getting people to do things."
I hear him sigh, the soft fall of expensive footsteps as he approaches the counter. "I got your message."
"All six of them? Impressive. I thought you might be too busy orchestrating my life to check your phone."
