"Yes. You did." I'm acutely aware of how close he is, of the heat radiating from his body, of how easy it would be to close the distance between us. The awareness infuriates me further—that even now, in the midst of legitimate anger, my traitorous body yearns toward him.
"I won't apologize for wanting to help you," he says, his voice dropping to that register that seems to bypass my ears and resonate directly in my core. "But I am sorry for ignoring your wishes. For…overriding your agency."
The precise language—an acknowledgment of exactly what upset me most—catches me off guard. I expected justification, defense, perhaps even dismissal of my concerns. Not this careful understanding.
"I don't know what to do with that," I admit, suddenly exhausted.
"You don't have to do anything." He moves closer still, the fabric of his suit jacket brushing against my arm. "Except tell me to leave if that's what you want."
The air between us feels thick, charged with anger and something far more dangerous. His eyes hold mine, dark with a hunger that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with the electric current running between us. For one mad moment, I consider closing the distance, channeling this fury into something physical, something that wouldn't require words or trust or vulnerability.
His head dips slightly, a question in the movement. My breathing quickens. My body sways toward his without conscious permission.
"Leave," I whisper, forcing the word past the tightness in my throat. "Please, just—go."
Something like pain flashes across his features, quickly masked. He straightens, creating distance between us that feels both necessary and agonizing.
"As you wish." He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. "For what it's worth, I meant what I said. I care about you, Clara. More than is sensible for either of us."
The door closes behind him with a quiet finality, leaving me alone in my bakery with the lingering scent of his cologne and the uncomfortable knowledge that sending him away was simultaneously the right decision and the hardest thing I've done in years.
I don't move for several seconds after the door closes behind him. My hands press flat against the counter, steadying my suddenly wobbly legs. I should feel relieved—I won, technically. I stood my ground. Maintained my boundaries. Sent Alexander Devereux away with his tail between his legs. But victory feels hollow, my righteous anger already cooling into something more complicated, more confused.
The bell chimes again, startling me so badly I knock over a stack of napkins. Alex stands in the doorway, face thunderous, looking nothing like the controlled, calculating businessman who first entered my bakery. This version of him radiates raw emotion—frustration, determination, and something darker I can't quite name.
"No," he says, the single syllable vibrating with intensity.
"No?" I repeat, confusion momentarily overriding anger.
"No, I'm not leaving like this." He strides back in, the door swinging shut behind him with enough force to rattle the glass."Not with you thinking I did this to control you, to make you indebted to me."
"What am I supposed to think?" I demand, arms crossing defensively over my chest. "You went behind my back, against my explicit wishes?—"
"I did it because I can't stand seeing you struggle!" He cuts me off, voice rising. "Your bakery was weeks away from financial crisis. Your landlord is actively trying to force you out to make way for a chain tenant who can pay triple the rent. You work sixteen-hour days and still barely keep up with expenses. And for what? Pride?"
Ice floods my veins. "How do you know about my landlord?"
He doesn't flinch from the question. "Because I make it my business to know everything about things that matter to me."
"Things?" I repeat, latching onto the word. "Is that what I am to you? A thing? A project? Another acquisition for the Devereux empire?"
"Don't twist my words," he growls, closing the distance between us with purposeful strides. "You know damn well that's not what I meant."
"Do I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're treating me exactly like one of your business deals. Identifying weaknesses, exploiting opportunities, disregarding inconvenient obstacles like my actual wishes."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "If I were treating you like a business deal, you'd already be in my bed."
The bluntness of the statement knocks the wind from me. "That's—that's not?—"
"Not what? True?" He's close enough now that I can see the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw, smell the lingering scent of his cologne. "We both know I could have pushed after the gala. After that kiss. You were ready. Willing. I was the onewho stepped back. Who gave you time. Who respected your boundaries when they mattered most."
"But not when it comes to my business? My livelihood? My independence?" I'm backing up now, retreating from his advance until my spine hits the wall behind the counter. "Those boundaries don't matter?"
"Not when they're rooted in stubborn pride rather than actual principles!" His palm slams against the wall beside my head, not threatening but certainly caging. "Not when they're keeping you from the success you deserve!"
"That's not your decision to make!" I shout back, refusing to be intimidated despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs. "You don't get to decide which of my choices are valid and which are just 'stubborn pride.' You don't get to override my agency because you think you know better!"
"Even when I do know better?" he challenges, his face inches from mine. "Even when your bakery is thriving because of that article? Even when you've gotten more business today than in the past month? You'd throw that away for what—the principle?"
