If ensuring those things requires moral compromises she's better off not knowing about, it's a burden I'll carry willingly—another secret kept to protect what matters most.
Chapter
Thirteen
CLARA
I spothim on my third trip to the compost bin behind the bakery—a man in an unremarkable dark suit, reading a newspaper that he hasn't turned a page of in twenty minutes. Yesterday it was a woman in workout clothes who jogged the same block six times. The day before, a "delivery person" who lingered far too long after dropping off a package at the shop next door. Alex thinks he's being subtle. Alex is wrong. The knowledge that I'm being watched—protected, he would say—sits like a stone in my stomach, heavy and indigestible.
Back inside, I attack a batch of bread dough with perhaps more force than necessary, my hands working the resilient mass with rhythmic violence. Flour clouds around me, settling on my hair, my cheeks, my eyelashes—a physical manifestation of the fog I feel closing in. Three weeks since the tabloid photos. Three weeks of Alex's "discrete" protection that feels less like safety and more like surveillance with each passing day.
I understand his concern. Those first few days after the photos leaked were awful—gawkers pretending to be customers, social media speculation, the humiliating sense of exposure. But the attention has largely faded now, yesterday's gossipreplaced by newer scandals, more interesting targets. Everyone has moved on except Alex, whose protective instincts seem to be intensifying rather than relaxing.
Last week, he had my apartment's locks changed without telling me, presenting the new keys as a fait accompli over dinner. "The previous system was inadequate," he explained, as if this justified the decision to alter my home without consultation. The day before, he'd added my name to the security clearance at his penthouse—a gesture simultaneously intimate and presumptuous. Access to his private sanctuary should have felt like a significant step forward. Instead, it felt like another move in an elaborate chess game I didn't realize we were playing.
The dough finally surrenders under my assault, transforming from shaggy resistance to silken compliance. I set it aside to rise, wiping flour-covered hands on my apron as the phone rings.
"Sweet Haven Bakery, this is Clara."
"Ms. Benson? This is Thomas Reynolds from Luxe Hotels." The man sounds uncomfortable, his professional tone strained. "I'm calling about the catering proposal you submitted last week."
"Yes, of course," I cradle the phone against my shoulder, reaching for a pen. "I was hoping to hear back about that."
"We've decided to go in a different direction." The words come in a rush, like ripping off a bandage. "While your offerings were impressive, we've opted for a more established vendor for our holiday events."
Disappointment curdles in my stomach. The Luxe contract would have been significant—steady income during the winter months when bakery traffic naturally slows. "I understand. May I ask what influenced your decision? Was the pricing not competitive, or?—"
"It wasn't that," he interrupts, discomfort evident in his voice. "Your proposal was excellent, very competitive. It's just—" He stops, seems to reconsider his words. "We feel another vendor better aligns with our brand positioning at this time."
The formal phrasing strikes a discordant note. "Did something change since our meeting last week? You seemed quite enthusiastic then."
A weighted pause. "Ms. Benson, I'd rather not…That is, we appreciate your interest and would be happy to consider Sweet Haven for future opportunities."
The call ends with stilted pleasantries, leaving me staring at the phone with growing suspicion. The abrupt about-face feels familiar—the same uncomfortable withdrawal I've witnessed from several potential clients recently. As if something—or someone—had intervened behind the scenes.
The bell over the door chimes, and I look up to see Alex entering, immaculate in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. The sight of him still triggers an involuntary flutter in my chest, a Pavlovian response to his presence that persists despite my growing unease.
"You look troubled," he says, crossing to the counter with that focused intensity that simultaneously draws and unnerves me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I lie, unable to articulate suspicions I can't yet prove. "Just a disappointing call about a catering opportunity."
His expression shifts subtly. "Their loss," he says, dismissing what would have been significant income for my small business with three casual syllables. "I've been thinking you're overextending yourself with these additional contracts anyway."
The presumption ignites a spark of irritation. "Have you? Interesting, since my business's financial strategy wasn't something I asked for input on."
If he notices the edge in my voice, he doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, his attention shifts to a customer who's been taking photos of the display case—probably for social media, a practice I usually encourage.
"Excuse me," Alex approaches the man with deceptive casualness. "Would you mind deleting those photos?"
The customer blinks in confusion. "I was just posting about the bakery. Free publicity, you know?"
"Clara prefers not to have her business featured on social media without permission," Alex says, the polite words belied by the steel beneath them. "I'm sure you understand."
I've never expressed any such preference. In fact, social media posts have been crucial to Sweet Haven's growth. But before I can intervene, the customer mumbles an apology and deletes the photos under Alex's watchful eye.
This is how it happens—small increments of control, justified as protection, as care. Decisions about my life, my business, my interactions made without consultation. Security guards I didn't hire watching my movements. Potential clients mysteriously changing their minds. Social media policies I never created being enforced on my behalf.
When did protection become possession? When did his support start feeling like supervision?
