Her eyes narrow slightly. "Why do I sense there's an emphasis on 'public' in that sentence?"
A small smile tugs at my mouth despite the situation. "Because you're perceptive. And because while I can respect your wish to handle this quietly, I won't allow the person who violated your privacy to go completely unchecked."
She studies me, seemingly weighing whether to press the issue. Finally, she sighs. "Just…nothing that makes headlines, okay? Nothing that keeps this story alive longer than it needs to be."
"I can work within those parameters." I pull her gently into my arms, relief washing through me when she comes willingly, her body relaxing against mine. "I'm sorry," I say again, lips pressed to her hair. "That your relationship with me has caused this intrusion."
"I knew what I was getting into," she murmurs against my chest. "Maybe not this specifically, but I knew being with Alexander Devereux wouldn't exactly be low-profile."
The simple acceptance in her voice—this acknowledgment that she chose me despite the complications I bring to her life—humbles me in ways I'm not accustomed to feeling.
"We'll weather this," I promise, my arms tightening around her. "Together."
When we return to the main floor of the bakery, the curious onlookers have multiplied. Clara squares her shoulders, professional mask sliding back into place as she moves behind the counter. I remain close, a physical presence that both claims connection and offers protection.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Garrett: "Photographer identified. Freelancer named James Wilson.Building security footage shows doorman tipping him off. Both being handled."
I read the message, then delete it without responding. Clara doesn't need to know the specifics of how I protect what's mine, only that I do so within the boundaries she's established. The photographer and doorman will face consequences, but quietly, discreetly—their careers ending with a whimper rather than the explosive destruction I'd prefer.
Because Clara's needs matter more than my satisfaction. Her comfort more than my revenge. Her wishes more than my instincts.
It's a novel prioritization for a man accustomed to orchestrating the world to his specifications. But as I watch her steadily serving customers despite her discomfort, handling unwanted attention with quiet dignity, I'm reminded again why she's worth this adjustment—why she's worth any adjustment required to keep her in my life.
The tabloid called her my "sweet obsession," meant as reductive mockery. They have no idea how accurate and yet how incomplete that label is—how she is not only my obsession but myeverything.
The security footage plays on my laptop screen, crisp and damning. My doorman—the same man who's greeted me respectfully each morning for three years, who's been trusted with the security of my home—leans toward a nondescript man with a camera bag, mouth moving in conversation too quiet for the audio to catch. Money changes hands. Information follows. Betrayal, sold for what I now know was five hundred dollars—the going rate, apparently, for compromising the privacy of the woman I love.
My office is silent and dark, the rest of the building's employees gone home hours ago. Only the soft glow of the computer screen illuminates the space, casting shadows that match my mood. Garrett's report lies open beside the laptop, meticulous in its detail:
The doorman: Edward Reeves, 42, six years of employment at my building, previously unremarkable service record. Financial troubles recently due to his son's medical bills.
The photographer: James Wilson, 38, freelancer specializing in celebrity gossip, known for aggressive tactics and borderline harassment.
The publication: City Insider, a tabloid struggling financially, recent acquisition by a media group with connections to Martin Shelby—the same developer pressuring Clara's landlord to break leases for redevelopment.
The coincidence is too neat, too convenient. Shelby's connection suggests this wasn't merely opportunistic paparazzi but a targeted effort—to what end, I'm not yet certain. Embarrassment? Leverage? A way to pressure Clara indirectly? The motivation matters less than the result: Clara's privacy violated, her business turned into a spectacle, her accomplishments reduced to her relationship with me.
My phone rings—Garrett, right on schedule.
"The doorman?" I ask without preamble.
"Terminated as of an hour ago. Security credentials revoked. Building access removed." Garrett's voice carries its usual clipped efficiency. "He's requesting an opportunity to explain, says it was a one-time lapse in judgment due to his son's medical situation."
The explanation aligns with the report's findings, but does nothing to mitigate my anger. A sob story about medical billsdoesn't erase the image of Clara's face when she realized her private life had become public entertainment.
"Ensure he never works security again in this city," I say, the decision already made. "But have his son's medical bills sent to me directly."
A brief pause on the line. "Sir?"
"The son shouldn't suffer for the father's poor judgment," I explain, surprised to find I mean it. "Handle it discretely, anonymous donation through the hospital."
"Understood. And the photographer?"
"That's personal." I close the laptop, having seen enough. "I'll handle Wilson myself."
Clara asked for discretion. For a measured response that wouldn't escalate the situation or generate additional publicity. A reasonable request that I agreed to honor. But she didn't specify what form that discrete response should take. Didn't prohibit private consequences for those who violated her privacy, only public spectacle that would extend her humiliation.
I can work within those parameters while still ensuring appropriate retribution.
