"Yes!" I plant my hands against his chest, not quite pushing him away but establishing distance. "Yes, I would. Because success that isn't mine isn't success at all—it's charity. And I've never wanted to be a charity case, especially not yours."
"It's not charity when it's earned," he says, voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Your talent earned that article. Your work earned those customers. I just made sure the right people noticed."
"After I explicitly asked you not to." My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid warmth of his chest beneath. "After I made it clear I needed to do this myself."
Something shifts in his expression—frustration giving way to something more complex, more vulnerable. "Why?" he asks, thequestion unexpectedly soft. "Why is it so important to struggle alone when help is being offered freely?"
The genuine confusion in his voice catches me off guard. "Because I need to know I can do it," I admit, my own voice dropping. "That I'm not just…lucky. Or connected. Or sleeping with the right person."
"Is that what you think?" His hand moves from the wall to hover near my face, not quite touching. "That the only value you have is what you build entirely alone?"
"It's the only value I can trust," I whisper, the truth of it aching in my chest. "The only success that can't be taken away."
His eyes search mine, storm-gray and suddenly too perceptive. "Clara," he says, my name almost a caress. "Nothing I've done changes the fact that your talent is extraordinary. Your determination is remarkable. Your refusal to compromise on quality despite financial pressure is something I respect more than you know."
The unexpected praise undermines my anger in ways his defense didn't. "Then why couldn't you respect my wish to succeed on my own terms?"
"Because I—" He stops, seeming to catch himself before revealing something crucial. His expression hardens again, control reasserting itself. "Because I wanted to help. And I'm not accustomed to having my help refused."
The withdrawal is almost visible—the vulnerability vanishing behind familiar arrogance. It infuriates me anew, this glimpse of something real immediately hidden away.
"Well, get used to it," I snap, shoving against his chest with enough force that he takes a step back. "I don't want your kind of help. Not when it comes with strings and conditions and complete disregard for what I actually want."
"Fine." The word is clipped, his jaw tight. "Struggle unnecessarily. Reject opportunity out of misplaced pride. Let your bakery falter when it could flourish."
"My bakery is doing just fine," I lie, knowing full well the financial reality he somehow already understands.
"Is it?" His laugh holds no humor. "You're one bad month away from closing. Your equipment is failing. Your lease is precarious. But by all means, refuse the connections that could save everything you've built because accepting help somehow diminishes your achievement."
Each accurate assessment feels like a slap. "Get out," I say, voice shaking with renewed anger. "Get out of my bakery. Get out of my business. Get out of my life."
Something flashes across his face—hurt, quickly masked by cold fury. "Gladly."
He turns on his heel, stalking toward the door with the lethal grace of a predator. His hand closes around the knob with enough force to make the metal groan.
"For the record," he says without turning, voice tight with barely controlled emotion, "I never saw you as a charity case. I saw you as someone exceptional who deserved every advantage I could provide. My mistake."
The door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the windows, the bell above it jangling discordantly in his wake. Through the glass, I watch him stride to his waiting car, back rigid, movements sharp with anger. He doesn't look back as the vehicle pulls away from the curb.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, knees drawn to my chest, body trembling with the aftershocks of confrontation. My anger remains—justified, righteous—but now it's tangled with something else. Something that recognized the rare vulnerability in his eyes before walls slammed back intoplace. Something that responded to the raw emotion in his voice, so different from his usual controlled demeanor.
I press my palms against my burning cheeks, disgusted with myself for still wanting him even after all of this. For finding his passion compelling even when directed against me. For wondering what it would be like to have all that intensity, all that focus, all that care directed into more intimate channels.
"Damn it," I whisper to the empty bakery. "Damn him."
Chapter
Ten
ALEX
I've putmy fist through drywall twice in my life. Once at seventeen, when I realized my trust fund had been depleted by a guardian who saw it as his personal ATM. Once at twenty-four, when I lost my first major client to a competitor's underhanded tactics. Tonight, at thirty-five, I stand in my penthouse staring at the pristine wall, knuckles white with restraint, wondering if it's about to become the third occasion. The fact that a five-foot-two baker has pushed me to this point would be laughable if I could remember how to laugh.
My tie lies discarded on the marble counter where I flung it upon entering. My jacket followed, crumpled in a way that would make my tailor weep. I've never been careless with possessions—when you've had nothing, you learn to value everything—but tonight my legendary control hangs by a thread.
Get out of my bakery. Get out of my business. Get out of my life.
Her words echo in my head, each repetition like a physical blow. I've been dismissed by people before—competitors, women, the occasional board member with more arrogance thansense. None of them left this hollow feeling in my chest, this restless energy with nowhere to go.
