"I don't recall mentioning it," I say, rising to approach the counter. "But I'm sure Clara's recommendation is sound. She has excellent taste." I extend my hand, forcing him into either a handshake or an obvious rejection. "Alexander Devereux."
Recognition flickers in his eyes—the name registering, connections forming, calculations running. He takes my hand with noticeably less confidence than he approached the counter.
"Mark Johnson," he offers, the flirtatious edge completely evaporated from his demeanor. "Just, uh, stopping in for a quick coffee. To go."
Clara prepares his order with efficient movements, no longer the object of his attention. I return to my seat, satisfaction warring with the lingering territorial impulse that wants to ensure he never returns. When the bell chimes his departure, Clara shoots me a look that's equal parts exasperation and affection.
"Was that really necessary?" she asks during a lull between customers.
"Yes," I say simply, not bothering to dissemble. "Though I did demonstrate remarkable restraint."
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth despite her attempt at sternness. "Your version of restraint is most people's idea of intimidation."
"I didn't touch him," I point out reasonably. "I didn't even threaten him. Merely introduced myself."
"While looking at him like you were calculating how to dispose of the body," she counters, but her eyes are warm with something that might be understanding.
She returns to serving customers, and I to pretending to work while actually watching her—the graceful efficiency of her movements, the genuine warmth she shows elderly regulars, the focused precision when packaging delicate pastries. Every interaction sends fresh waves of possessiveness through me, alongside something deeper, more complex—a pride in who she is, in her skill and kindness and integrity, that has nothing to do with ownership and everything to do with genuine admiration.
I've never felt this combination before—this possessive protectiveness tangled with respect, this desire to both shelter and showcase, to keep her safe while watching her shine. Previous relationships were transactional, compartmentalized, controlled. This is something else entirely—messy, all-consuming, simultaneously strengthening and destabilizing.
Clara glances my way again, a quick check-in that speaks to the connection forming between us. That small gesture—her awareness of my presence, her momentary attention amid her busy morning—settles something restless in my chest.
The possessiveness remains, a dark current running beneath more socially acceptable emotions. I recognize it for what it is—the fear of loss manifesting as a desire for control. After a lifetime of holding people at arm's length, of relationships designed for convenience rather than connection, the vulnerability of genuine attachment is terrifying. The more essential she becomes to my happiness, the more ferociously I want to protect what we're building.
But I'm learning. Watching her handle unwanted attention with calm professionalism reminds me that Clara doesn't need a protector—she needs a partner. Someone who recognizes herstrength rather than assuming weakness. Someone who adds to her life without attempting to consume it.
I can be that man. I want to be that man. For her, I will learn to channel this possessive instinct into something healthier, something that honors rather than constrains her independence.
Even if it means fighting my own nature every day for the privilege of keeping her in my life.
Jennifer places the tabloid on my desk with the careful precision of someone handling an active explosive. "This was published an hour ago," she says, her voice professionally neutral despite the tension evident in her posture. "Digital version is already trending." I glance down at the glossy pages, and something cold and lethal unfurls in my chest. The headline screams "DEVEREUX'S SWEET NEW OBSESSION" above photos of Clara leaving my penthouse yesterday morning—hair tousled, wearing one of my dress shirts, face clearly recognizable despite her attempt to avoid the photographer's lens.
I scan the article with growing fury. The text is a masterpiece of insinuation and barely disguised judgment—references to Clara's "meteoric rise" in the baking world followed by pointed questions about the "ingredients" of her success. Implications that our relationship began before the article that launched her bakery into prominence. Speculation about how long I'll remain "satisfied with this particular treat" before moving on to my "next course."
"Find out who took these," I say, my voice calm despite the rage building beneath it. "And who approved their publication."
Jennifer nods once, already typing on her tablet. "Garrett is tracing the photographer now. Legal is preparing cease and desist letters."
"Not enough." I stand, unable to contain the violent energy coursing through me. "I want to know who tipped them off about Clara leaving the penthouse. Building security, elevator footage, everything."
My mind is already calculating angles of attack, points of leverage against the publication, ways to contain the damage. Then, with sickening clarity, I realize—Clara. Has she seen these? Is she facing this alone?
I grab my phone, dialing her number with fingers that aren't quite steady. She answers on the fourth ring, her voice small and tight.
"You've seen it," she says, not a question.
"Just now." I try to modulate my tone, to contain the rage that won't help her. "Are you alright?"
A pause, filled with the background noise of the bakery. "There are people taking pictures through the window," she says finally. "Pretending to be customers while sneaking photos on their phones. Someone just asked if I provide 'special services' to all my wealthy clients."
The cold fury in my chest expands, threatening to consume everything in its path. "I'm coming over."
"Alex—"
"Twenty minutes." I end the call, already moving toward the door. "Cancel everything," I tell Jennifer. "Indefinitely."
The drive to Sweet Haven takes nineteen minutes and forty seconds. I spend each of them alternating between calculating exactly how to destroy the tabloid that published those photos and worrying about Clara—how this exposure will affect her, her business, her carefully guarded privacy.
