But I've built an empire by recognizing quality when I see it. By claiming what others overlook.
I get out of the car. The winter air bites at my face, carrying the scent of her baking even to the sidewalk. My hand hovers above the door before I finally get ahold of myself and pull it back like I’ve been scalded.
With a curse, I head back to my car and slam myself in it. I watch Clara through the window of her bakery until I can’t stand it anymore and pull my rock-hard cock from my pants. I stroke myself in the dark, the glass fogging with my breath. She’s closing up, counting the till, humming off-key, oblivious to what she’s doing to me. I fist my cock and imagine her mouth, her hands, her flushed face from earlier—imagine her kneeling on the bakery tile, palms sticky with sugar, her lips glossed with caramel and cream.
I come in my own hand, eyes never leaving her through the glass.
Pathetic, but the release only makes it worse. I’m still hungry, still hollowed out, still vibrating with need.
I clean up with a napkin from the console, throw it on the floor, and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I remind myself: I have women. Options. A list of names and numbers longer than her entire address book. None of them matter. None of them hold a candle to the thought of Clara, her skin dusted in flour and her voice trembling when she says my name.
I don’t want to scare Clara. I just want her. I want to peel her open like warm bread and devour the soft center. I want to know every part of her, every recipe, every secret.
I want her so bad it’s a fucking problem.
I've barely slept.
The memory of Clara's face when she saw me in her bakery—the startled doe-in-headlights look—kept me awake until dawn painted the sky the color of bruises. By six, I'm at my desk. By six-fifteen, I've made the call.
Garrett enters my office with the efficient silence I pay him obscenely well to maintain. My head of security is ex-military, ex-special forces, and makes ninety percent of people uncomfortable just by existing in the same room. I appreciate his complete lack of unnecessary conversation.
"Sir," he says, the only greeting he ever offers.
"I need information." I slide a piece of paper across my desk. On it, I've written only two things: Clara Benson. Sweet Haven Bakery.
Garrett's face remains impassive, but I catch the microscopic raise of an eyebrow. In our fifteen years together, I've never asked him to investigate a woman.
"Everything?" he asks.
"Everything," I confirm. "Financials. Background. Family. Suppliers. Customer base. Daily routine. The brand of flour she prefers. If she has a cat, I want to know what she named it."
He nods once. "Timeline?"
"Yesterday."
Another infinitesimal reaction. "Three hours," he counters.
I glance at my watch. "Nine-thirty, then."
He nods again and exits, leaving me with the thought that if I'd asked him to commit murder, the conversation would have unfolded identically. But what I've requested feels more intimate somehow. More invasive.
I tell myself it's basic due diligence. I never enter any arrangement—business or personal—without complete information. Knowledge is control, and control is survival. I've lived by this principle since I was old enough to understand that the world gives nothing freely.
Still, something squirms uncomfortably beneath my ribs.
For the next three hours, I'm physically present in budget meetings and strategy sessions, but my mind remains in a small bakery with peeling paint and the scent of vanilla in the air. I catch my CFO giving me strange looks when I miss questions directed at me—something that's never happened before in the company's history.
At precisely nine-thirty, my private line rings.
"It's ready," Garrett says.
The elevator to the basement security suite seems slower than usual. When I enter, Garrett is alone, a slim folder on the desk in front of him and a laptop open to a series of photographs.
"Go," I say, and he begins the briefing with military precision.
Clara Benson. Twenty-five years old. No siblings. Parents divorced when she was twelve; father remarried and moved to Arizona, minimal contact. Mother died of cancer three years ago. No serious romantic relationships in the past two years. Graduated top of her class from Westfield Culinary Institute, turned down prestigious positions at three high-end restaurants to open her own bakery eighteen months ago.
Sweet Haven operates in the black, but barely. The location is good but the rent is punishing. She lives in the small apartment above the shop, works sixteen-hour days, has no employees except a part-time high school student who helps on weekends. She grows her own herbs on the roof. Supplies top-tier ingredients despite the cost, refuses to compromise quality.Has a growing word-of-mouth reputation but lacks the capital for meaningful marketing.
