"I was in Tokyo." He says this like it explains everything, like international business is a reasonable excuse for ignoring explicit boundaries. "I just landed two hours ago."
I finally look up, and immediately wish I hadn't. He's wearing an impeccably tailored suit, probably straight from his flight, but there's something rumpled about him—the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the slight disarray of his usually perfect hair. He looks tired and determined and unreasonably handsome for someone I want to strangle.
"Tokyo, New York, the moon—I don't care where you were." I throw the rag into the sink with enough force to splash water over the edge. "What part of 'I don't want your help' was unclear? What language would you prefer I use next time? I'm pretty sure 'leave me the hell alone' is universal."
His jaw tightens. "The article was already in motion before our dinner. Before you…clarified your position."
"Bullshit." The profanity feels good on my tongue, sharp and honest. "Mrs. Abernathy saw you with the critic last week. After I returned your bracelet. After I explicitly told you I needed to succeed on my own."
He doesn't deny it, which somehow makes it worse. "The opportunity was too important to cancel."
"Too important to who? To you? To your ego?" I come around the counter, needing to face him directly, to make him understand. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You've undermined everything I've worked for. You've made my success a footnote to your influence."
"I've given your talent the platform it deserves," he counters, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "Removed artificial obstacles?—"
"That wasn't your decision to make!" My voice rises, filling the empty bakery. "You don't get to decide what obstacles I face or how I overcome them. You don't get to bypass my choices because you think yours are better!"
"The bakery was struggling," he says, his own voice hardening. "The exposure has already increased your business exponentially. You've received catering inquiries from clients who would never have found you otherwise."
"Because of you. Because of your connections. Not because of me or my work." I step closer, close enough to catch the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of recycled airplane air. "Do you have any idea how that feels? To have your achievements hollowed out? To wonder if any success is actually yours?"
Something flickers in his eyes—a recognition, perhaps, that he hadn't considered this perspective. But it's quickly subsumed by that familiar, infuriating certainty.
"The work is still yours," he insists. "The talent is yours. I merely provided visibility."
"Visibility I explicitly told you I didn't want. Not like this." I'm trembling now, anger and hurt coursing through me in equal measure. "You stripped away my agency. My choice. My voice."
"To give you opportunity?—"
"To control me," I cut in, the truth of it crystallizing as I speak. "Because that's what this is really about, isn't it? Control. You can't stand that I refused your gifts, set boundaries, insisted on independence. So you found another way to make me indebted to you."
His eyes darken to thundercloud gray. "That's not what this is."
"No? Then what is it, Alex? Why was it so goddamn important to interfere in my business after I specifically asked you not to?"
"Because I can't stand watching you struggle when I have the means to help!" The words burst from him with unexpected force, his composure cracking. "Because your talent deserves recognition. Because—" He cuts himself off, running a handthrough his hair in a gesture of frustration I've never seen from him before.
"Because what?" I push, unwilling to let him retreat now.
"Because I care about you," he says, the admission seeming to surprise him as much as me. "More than is rational. More than is wise. More than I've cared about anyone in longer than I can remember."
The words hang between us, raw and unexpected. I want to hold onto my anger—it's justified, righteous, safe—but something shifts in my chest, an unwanted softening.
"That doesn't give you the right to make decisions for me," I say, though my voice has lost some of its edge.
"No," he agrees, stepping closer until we're separated by inches rather than feet. "It doesn't. But it makes me want to tear down every obstacle between you and what you deserve. It makes me want to give you the world, even knowing you'd rather build it yourself."
The contradiction of him—this man who bulldozes boundaries while speaking of care, who violates trust while seeking connection—leaves me dizzy with confusion and an unwanted, inconvenient desire.
"I can't trust you," I whisper, the words painful but necessary. "Not when you do things like this. Not when you ignore what I actually want in favor of what you think I should want."
"I know," he says quietly. "I know that now."
He reaches out, his fingers hovering near my cheek without touching, respecting at least this physical boundary while his actions have violated others. The restraint in the gesture undermines my resolve in ways a touch wouldn't have.
"I'm still furious with you," I tell him, my voice unsteady.
"You should be." His eyes drop to my mouth, then return to mine with an intensity that makes my pulse skitter. "Your anger is justified. I overstepped."
