My stomach knots, and I step forward, voice tight from exhaustion. “I… I don’t need help. Lucy and I—we’ve got it handled.”
He blinks twice at me before asking, “Handled how?”
How do you explain to a mob boss that normal people do things on their own? That not every problem requires an army of experts and a mountain of money thrown at it.
“We have a plan for paint colors and cabinetry. And counters. Shelving. Just simple things.” I glance over at Dahlia and themountain of folders she’s spread out across Ben’s coffee table, neat stacks of sketches and glossy magazine clippings. My head swims just looking at it, the sharp contrast between her pristine vision and my messy exhaustion. “I’m not ready.”
I’m not ready for this.
I’m not ready for him to decide something so huge for me without even asking. Not ready to have some stranger take over the one part of my life that still feels like mine.
My legs ache from standing all day at the ovens. I can’t do glossy portfolios and designer talk right now. My brain doesn’t have space for it.
“You can do whatever you want, Sienna,” Ben says, his voice maddeningly even. “But Dahlia has ideas. I think she could help.”
Help.
That word lands heavy in my chest, because all day I needed help—realhelp. Someone to box pies or carry flour sacks or just tell me it was okay to sit down for five minutes.
Notthis.
“Sweetheart,” Dahlia breaks in, all polished charm and bright teeth. “Why don’t you sit down? Just five minutes. I promise you’ll like what I’ve put together.” She pats the spot next to her like we’re girlfriends about to gossip over wine, even pushing a glossy folder toward me as if it’s a gift. “This is a fresh start. You deserve something beautiful.”
Her tone is gentle, but there’s steel under it. She expects me to move.
To play along.
I don’t.
I plant my feet where I am, hands tightening around the strap of my bag. “I’d like to talk to Ben alone.”
My voice is flat, clipped even, leaving no room for negotiation because I’m not in the mood to be a social butterfly.
She’s beautiful and put together.
And I’m a walking baking ingredient.
For a second, Dahlia blinks, surprise flickering across her flawless face before she recovers with another dazzling smile. “Of course. But I really think you’ll be blown away once you see the vision?—”
“We’ll reschedule,” Ben cuts in, reaching to cup my elbow gently. “Thank you for your time, Miss Mitchell.”
Her lips part like she might protest, but the warning in his eyes stops her cold. She gathers her folders with sharp, efficient motions, draining the last sip of her wine before setting the glass neatly on the table.
“Of course. We’ll talk soon,” she says, directing the words to Ben but aiming her smile at me like it’s a dart meant to stick.
“Come on,” Ben says, his voice not commanding, more like coaxing. He guides me out of the living room with a hand at the small of my back, steering me toward the stairs. “You’re dead on your feet. Take a shower. Change. We’ll go see the bakery tomorrow, if you’d like.”
If you’d like.
The words sound strange coming from him, like velvet draped over steel.
I don’t answer because I can’t commit. My brain’s too foggy, too knotted with exhaustion to even picture a tomorrow that doesn’t involve more flour, more sugar, and aching legs.
Ben doesn’t press.
He just nods, like he understands more than he should.
“I’ll bring you something small to eat,” he murmurs as we reach the landing. His hand doesn’t fall away until I’m at the top of the stairs, where he finally eases back, letting me go with surprising gentleness. “Do what I ask for once, Sienna. Rest.”
