I love Alex—the realization hit me weeks ago, undeniable despite my initial resistance. I love his intelligence, his unexpected vulnerability, the tenderness he shows in private moments that contradict his public persona. I love the way he holds me at night, like something precious he can't believe is real. I love his determination, his focus, his capacity for growth when challenged.
But this—this suffocating blanket of control disguised as care—is becoming increasingly difficult to breathe under.
"Was that necessary?" I ask when the customer leaves, disappointment evident in his empty hands.
Alex looks genuinely perplexed. "After what happened with those tabloid photos, I thought you'd prefer discretion."
"I prefer making my own decisions about my business," I counter, keeping my voice low despite the rising frustration. "About who takes photos, about which catering contracts to pursue, about whether I need security following me to the compost bin."
His expression shifts, acknowledgment flickering briefly before being replaced by calm certainty. "The security is temporary, just until I'm sure there won't be further intrusions. As for the rest—I'm only trying to support you, Clara."
"Support looks like respecting my choices," I say, the words emerging more forcefully than intended. "Even when you disagree with them. Even when you think you know better."
A customer approaches the counter, ending our conversation before it can escalate further. I slip into professional mode, smiling and packaging their selection while Alex retreats to his usual table. The familiar rhythm of the bakery continues around us, but something has shifted—a fault line appearing in the foundation we've built, hairline cracks spreading through what once seemed solid.
I glance at Alex, finding his gaze already fixed on me with that unwavering focus that once made me feel like the center of the universe. Now it registers differently—less like adoration and more like surveillance, a monitoring of variables that might deviate from his preferred parameters.
Something needs to change. The realization settles over me with quiet certainty.
I love him. But I can't breathe.
TheClosedsign clicks into place.
Mia’s gone, ovens off, everything locked down. But the air feels thick—too still, too small. Because he’s still here.
Alex sits at his usual table, laptop open but forgotten. Watching me. Always watching me. That gaze used to make me feel safe. Now it just makes me feel trapped.
“We need to talk.” My voice sounds steadier than it should, considering my heart’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.
He looks up, instantly alert. That CEO focus. Cold. Sharp. “Here?”
“No.” I grab my coat. “Let’s walk.”
Outside, December bites at my cheeks. The street’s dressed in Christmas lights, too cheerful for what’s coming. We walk side by side, close but not touching.
“Your security detail’s behind us,” I say. “Did you know I’ve seen them? Every single day for three weeks?”
He doesn’t deny it. “It’s for your protection. After the tabloids?—”
“It’s been three weeks,” I cut in. “The story’s dead. And yet you’re still having me followed. Don’t say it’s the bakery—they followme. Everywhere.”
His jaw flexes. “There could be others?—”
“So your answer is surveillance forever?”
“Not surveillance,” he snaps. “Protection.”
“Without my consent? That’s not protection, Alex. That’s control.”
We stop in a small park, white lights tangled through the bare trees. I sit on a bench, needing space between us even though every part of me wants to close it.
“It’s not just the guards,” I say quietly. “It’s the new locks you installed without asking. Clients backing out after you ‘talk’ to them. You telling customers what photos they can take. It’s like my whole life’s under your management.”
He stays silent, but tension rolls off him like heat.
“I’m trying to take care of you,” he says finally.
“No, you’re trying tocontrolme. There’s a difference.”
