For the first time in longer than I can remember, I, Alexander Devereux, am completely out of my depth.
Five days, seven hours, and approximately twenty-three minutes since I walked out of Sweet Haven. Not that I'm counting.I've thrown myself into work with the single-minded focus that built my empire—eighteen-hour days, back-to-back meetings, decisions worth millions made between elevator floors. My calendar is weaponized against empty moments that might allow thoughts of flour-dusted hands and stubborn brown eyes to infiltrate my concentration.
It's not working.
I stare at the acquisition proposal before me, numbers blurring into meaningless patterns. The Tokyo deal that should be consuming my attention feels distant, irrelevant compared to the question that keeps circling my thoughts like a hungry predator: Is she okay? Is the bakery thriving after the article? Is
Five days, seven hours, and approximately twenty-three minutes since I walked out of Sweet Haven. Not that I'm counting. I've thrown myself into work with the single-minded focus that built my empire—eighteen-hour days, back-to-back meetings, decisions worth millions made between elevator floors. My calendar is weaponized against empty moments that might allow thoughts of flour-dusted hands and stubborn brown eyes to infiltrate my concentration.
It's not working.
I stare at the acquisition proposal before me, numbers blurring into meaningless patterns. The Tokyo deal that should be consuming my attention feels distant, irrelevant compared to the question that keeps circling my thoughts like a hungry predator: Is she okay? Is the bakery thriving after the article? Is she still furious? Does she think of me at all?
My phone buzzes—Garrett with his daily report that I didn't request but haven't forbidden either. I pick it up immediately, hating myself for the eagerness.
"Sir," he says, no preamble as usual. "Update on the Sweet Haven situation."
I say nothing, unwilling to admit aloud that I'm desperate for this information while simultaneously unable to ask for it directly. Garrett continues into my silence, understanding my unspoken need.
"Business has increased approximately 127% since the article. Lines form before opening. They're selling out by early afternoon. The owner has extended hours and hired additional help—the part-timer's hours doubled, plus two new employees."
My chest tightens with conflicting emotions—satisfaction that the article achieved exactly what I intended, bitterness that Clara's success comes at the price of my absence from her life.
"She looks tired," Garrett adds, the personal observation uncharacteristic from my usually clinical head of security. "Successful, but tired."
I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "That's all."
"One more thing," he says. "The Tribune ran a follow-up piece today. Front page of the lifestyle section."
I end the call without responding, already reaching for the newspaper I haven't yet opened. The lifestyle section is filled with the usual society drivel—charity announcements, restaurant reviews, profiles of people more famous than significant. And there, taking up half the page, is Clara.
The photographer caught her in a moment of unguarded joy—head thrown back in laughter, flour dusting one cheek, hands mid-gesture as she explains something to someone outside the frame. The headline reads "SWEET SENSATION: How Clara Benson Became the City's Hottest Baker Overnight." The subheadline twists the knife: "Local Baker Proves Success Comes to Those Who Persevere."
I trace her image with my fingertip before I can stop myself. She looks beautiful. Vibrant. Alive in a way that makes my chest ache with something between desire and longing.
Perseverance. The article gives her that, at least—acknowledges her years of work, her dedication to quality, her refusal to cut corners even when facing financial pressure. It mentions the article that "discovered" her but credits her talent for the subsequent success.
Small mercies.
I read every word, absorbing details about her that I already know from Garrett's reports and my own observations during those quiet mornings at her bakery. Her daily routine starting at 4 AM. Her commitment to European butter and traditional techniques. Her plans to expand the menu now that she has additional help.
What the article doesn't mention—can't mention—is how her eyes crinkle at the corners when she genuinely smiles. How she hums under her breath when concentrating on intricate decorations. How she remembers every regular customer's preferences and family details. How her rare, unguarded laugh sounds like something precious breaking open.
I fold the paper with careful precision and set it aside. Five days of respecting her demand that I get out of her life. Five days of restraint that feels like withdrawal from a particularly potent drug. Five days of telling myself that giving her space is the right thing, the respectful thing, the only thing I can offer after trampling her boundaries.
Five days of absolute hell.
My calendar alert chimes—a meeting with investors in fifteen minutes. I should be reviewing numbers, preparing arguments, planning strategic responses to anticipated concerns. Instead, I'm staring at the folded newspaper, Clara's image burned into my retinas like I've looked directly at the sun.
I cancel the meeting with a text to Jennifer. Reschedule. Family emergency. Not entirely a lie—this feels like anemergency, and Clara has somehow become more important than blood family ever was.
My driver looks surprised when I slide into the backseat without warning or scheduled appointment. "Where to, sir?"
"Just drive," I say, unable to give voice to what I actually want. He knows better than to ask questions, pulling smoothly into traffic while I stare out the window at a city that suddenly feels too small to contain both Clara and myself without collision.
Fifteen minutes later, we're approaching her neighborhood. I didn't give directions. Didn't need to. The car seems drawn by the same magnetic pull I've been fighting for days, as if Clara Benson has her own gravitational field that bends everything in her vicinity—including my ironclad self-control.
"Just past Sweet Haven," I instruct as we approach. "Slowly."
