The scene at the bakery confirms my worst fears. A small crowd has gathered outside, a mixture of paparazzi with long-lens cameras and curiosity seekers hoping to glimpse the woman currently being served up for public consumption. I exit the car directly into their midst, using my height and the natural authority that has clearing paths for me since adolescence.
"Mr. Devereux! Is Clara Benson your latest girlfriend?"
"How long have you been together?"
"Was the food article your idea to boost her business?"
I ignore them all, face a neutral mask that betrays nothing
I ignore them all, face a neutral mask that betrays nothing of the calculated violence simmering beneath. The bell above the door chimes my entrance into Sweet Haven, and the contrast between the vulture's clamor outside and the bakery's warm interior would be jarring if not for the obvious tension permeating the space.
Clara stands behind the counter, professional smile fixed in place, but I know her well enough now to see the strain beneath it—the slightly too-rigid posture, the faint tremor in her hands as she boxes a customer's order, the flush of humiliation staining her cheeks. Mia hovers nearby, shooting venomous glares at anyone who lingers too long or whose questions stray beyond pastry selection.
Several phones raise when I enter, capturing the reunion for whatever social media narrative is currently unfolding. I ignore them, moving directly to the counter, creating a barrier between Clara and the curious eyes feasting on her discomfort.
"We need to talk," I say quietly, for her ears only.
She nods, then turns to Mia. "Can you handle things for fifteen minutes?"
The girl's eyes flick between us, protective loyalty evident in her expression. "Take as long as you need. I'll run interference."
Clara leads me through the kitchen to the small office in the back—a glorified closet with a desk crammed against one wall and barely enough space for the two of us to stand without touching. She closes the door, then leans against it, arms wrapping around herself in an unconsciously defensive posture that makes my chest ache.
"I'm sorry," I say immediately.
Her eyes widen slightly, surprise momentarily displacing distress. "For what?"
"For this exposure. For the invasion of your privacy. For the fact that my presence in your life has made you a target."
She exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "It's not your fault some photographer has nothing better to do than stake out your building."
"It is my fault," I counter. "My notoriety made you interesting to them. My enemies made you valuable as leverage. My..." I struggle for the right word, "...history with women made this newsworthy."
Her eyes search mine, finding the rage I'm trying to contain. "You're angry."
"Furious," I correct, not bothering to disguise it. "Someone violated your privacy. Used you to sell magazines. Implied that your success comes from sleeping with me rather than your own talent." My fists clench involuntarily. "They will regret it."
Clara's expression shifts, something like concern replacing her earlier distress. "What are you planning to do?"
The cold, calculating part of my brain—the part that built an empire through strategic elimination of obstacles—is already formulating responses. Buying the publication to fire everyone involved. Using my extensive network to ensure the photographer never works in this city again. Leveraging business relationships to destroy the editor who approved the story.
"Whatever is necessary," I say instead, unwilling to burden her with specifics she might find disturbing.
"Alex." She steps closer, one hand touching my arm. "I'm humiliated, yes. Uncomfortable with being gossip fodder. But I don't want you starting some kind of vendetta that makes this a bigger story."
I cover her hand with mine, the simple contact grounding me, reminding me that my rage, however justified, isn't helping her. "What do you want, then?"
She considers this, the question seeming to focus her thoughts. "I want my bakery to be about my work, not my relationship status. I want customers who come for the pastries, not for glimpses of 'Devereux's latest obsession.' I want..." her voice wavers slightly, "...I want my life to still be mine, even with you in it."
The simple honesty of her answer cuts through my anger, reminding me that Clara's priorities differ from mine. Where I see attacks to be countered, boundaries to be enforced through strategic retaliation, she sees her carefully constructed life being altered by outside forces. By me.
"Tell me how to help," I say, setting aside my own instincts to prioritize her needs.
"Just…be here," she says, surprising me with the simplicity of the request. "Help me weather this without making it worse. If you go on some revenge campaign, it only validates their story—turns us into exactly the kind of tabloid drama I'm trying to avoid."
Her logic is sound, though it chafes against my every instinct to allow this violation to go unanswered. But this isn't about what I want or what I think is appropriate retaliation. It's about what Clara needs to feel secure, to maintain the independent life she's built that I admire so much.
"Alright," I agree, though the concession costs me. "No public retaliation."
