The "please" seems to catch her off guard. It's not a word I use often—not with her, not with anyone. Asking rather than directing goes against decades of habitual command.
She hesitates, then steps back, pulling the door wider. "Five minutes," she says as I enter. "And you're dripping all over my clean floor."
The bakery smells of sugar and vanilla and yeast—scents I've come to associate with Clara, with comfort, with a hungry longing I can't seem to satiate no matter how I try. She disappears into the back, returning moments later with a clean dish towel that she thrusts at me unceremoniously.
"You look ridiculous," she informs me, arms crossing over her chest in a defensive posture I've come to recognize. "Like a drowned rat in Armani."
"It's Brioni, actually," I say, the correction automatic. A ghost of a smile touches her lips before she suppresses it, and something in my chest loosens fractionally at this small sign that she's not completely immune to me.
I run the towel over my face, through my hair, achieving nothing but slightly less active dripping. "The bakery looks busy," I say, gesturing to the nearly empty display cases. "The article is working."
Her expression hardens immediately. "Is that why you're here? To say 'I told you so'? To remind me how your interference is benefiting me whether I wanted it or not?"
"No." I drop the towel on a nearby table, stepping closer despite her visible tension. "I'm here because I can't stay away. Because I've tried—God knows I've tried—but I can't stop thinking about you."
The raw honesty seems to startle her. She takes a half-step backward, wariness replacing anger in her eyes.
"I drive by every day," I continue, the confession spilling out now that I've started. "I read every mention of you in the press.I have reports on your bakery's sales figures, your customer counts, your supply orders. I tell myself it's to ensure the article had the intended effect, but that's a lie." I take another step toward her. "The truth is, I'm obsessed with knowing you're okay. That you're thriving. That you're happy—even if that happiness excludes me."
"Alex..." Her voice holds a warning note, but she doesn't retreat further.
"I know I overstepped," I say, the admission costing me more in pride than most corporate acquisitions cost in capital. "I know I violated your boundaries. I knew it when I did it, and I did it anyway because I thought I knew better than you what you needed." I run a hand through my wet hair, frustrated by my own inadequacy with words that aren't crafted to close deals or intimidate opponents. "I'm not good at this, Clara. At caring about someone else's wishes more than my own agenda. At respecting choices I disagree with. At feeling...this."
"Feeling what?" she asks, her voice softer now, something like curiosity replacing the defensive anger.
"Everything," I say simply. "When I'm with you, when I think about you—which is constantly, obsessively—I feel everything. It's terrifying. Destabilizing. I've built my life on control, on emotional distance, on never needing anyone or anything I couldn't acquire through strategy or force of will."
Rain continues to beat against the windows, the sound filling the silence between us. Water drips from my clothes onto the floor, creating small puddles that mirror the mess I've made of what should have been a simple conquest.
"I don't know how to want someone the way I want you," I admit finally, the words scraping my throat raw with their honesty. "I don't know how to care about someone's happiness more than my own agenda. I don't know how to love without trying to control."
The word "love" lands between us like a live grenade. Her eyes widen, her lips parting in shock or disbelief or some emotion I can't quite identify.
"You don't love me," she says after a long moment, her voice unsteady. "You don't even know me."
"I know that you hum when you're concentrating on decorations," I counter. "That you sleep with two pillows and prefer the right side of the bed. That you check your bank balance after midnight on Sundays, always looking worried. That you grow herbs on your roof even though you're afraid of heights. That you visit your mother's grave on the first Sunday of every month with fresh flowers and a pastry she loved."
Her face pales at these intimate details. "That's not knowing me. That's surveillance."
"It started that way," I acknowledge, unwilling to lie to her now, when honesty is all I have left to offer. "But it became something else. Something I've never felt before. Something I don't have strategies for or defenses against."
I close the remaining distance between us until I can see the individual lashes framing her wide brown eyes, the small freckle near her left temple, the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat.
"I can't promise I won't make more mistakes," I tell her, my voice dropping lower. "I can't promise I'll always understand boundaries without crossing them first. I've spent too long taking what I want without consideration for others to transform overnight. But I can promise that I want to be better. For you. Because of you."
Rain streams down the windows, cocooning us in a world separate from reality, suspended in this moment of raw vulnerability. I've never been this exposed, this defenseless, this honest—not in boardrooms where billions hang in the balance, not in bedrooms where the stakes were merely physical.
"Five minutes are up," she whispers, but makes no move to step away.
Water drips steadily from my clothes, forming a spreading puddle around my ruined shoes. I should leave. Should respect this boundary at least, having violated so many others. Should walk back into the rain and give her the space she explicitly requested.
Instead, I remain rooted to the spot, my heart hammering against my ribs with a desperation foreign to my carefully controlled existence, waiting for her to either send me back into the storm or offer shelter I haven't earned but desperately need.
Chapter
Eleven
CLARA
