“Move it,” I command, pointing a frosting-covered spatula at him. “You are not contaminating my workspace.”
Dax freezes. He looks at the spatula, then up at me, his forest-green eyes narrowing. He’s huge in this space, his broad shoulders blocking out the recessed lighting. “We need to put our supplies somewhere. Unless you own the countertops, too?”
“I rented the countertops,” I hiss. “Which means I have rights to them. And right now, they are designated for baked goods, not your militant hydration station.”
“Militant hydration,” Malik sighs, rubbing his temples as he leans against the doorframe. “We are not looking for a fight, Sierra.”
“Could have fooled me,” I say, turning on him. “Considering fighting is your entire business model. Aggressive expansion. Hostile takeovers. Bullying independent planners out of the market.”
The room goes dead silent. The air pressure seems to drop, and it has nothing to do with the storm outside.
Malik pushes off the doorframe, his calm demeanor fracturing just enough to show the shark beneath. “Is that what you tell people? That we bully you?”
“I tell them the truth. That you poached High-End Florals three weeks before one of my major events. You knew they were my primary vendor. You offered them double their rate for exclusivity just to leave me scrambling.”
“It’s called securing resources,” Malik says coolly. “We needed the best. We paid for the best.”
“You didn’t even use them!” I shout, my voice rising anoctave. My hands are shaking, and I grip the edge of the island to steady them. “I saw the photos of the event you were working on that month. You used minimalist greenery. You bought exclusivity on thousands of dollars of imported hydrangeas just so I couldn’t have them.”
“Strategy,” Dax grunts.
“This isn’t war, Dax!” I throw my hands up.
“The client wanted impressive,” Cole chimes in, leaning hip-first against the breakfast bar. “We gave them impressive. You were going to give them... what was it? ‘Garden whimsy’?” He snorts. “We saved them from a Pinterest disaster.”
That stings more than the theft.
“My design was intimate,” I say, my voice trembling with rage. “It was personal. I would have given them a memory.”
“They seem to remember it just fine,” Jalen speaks up for the first time. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the noise. He’s standing by the window, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “They booked us for their anniversary party next year.”
I turn to Jalen, feeling betrayed. He was the one I thought might be different. The one who nodded at me at mixers. “Of course they did. Because once you’re in the Knightley machine, you can’t get out.”
“You’re bitter,” Dax states flatly. “You lost the contract because we’re better. Faster. More efficient. Stop blaming ‘tactics’ and look at the scoreboard.”
“I’m not bitter,” I lie through my teeth. “I’m exhausted. I came here to escape you people. To escape the constant looking over my shoulder to see what you’re going to steal next.”
I grab the tray of cinnamon rolls, the ceramic clattering loudly against the granite.
“And now you’re in my house. In my kitchen. Ruining my peace.” I glare at each of them in turn. “Stay on your side of the room. Don’t talk to me about business. Don’t talk to me about efficiency. And for the love of god, don’t touch my food.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Cole calls out as I turn my heel. “Too much sugar makes you sluggish anyway.”
“Go to hell, Cole.”
“Been there,” Dax mutters. “Sand was worse.”
I march toward the hallway, fury heating my blood to a boiling point. But underneath the anger, there’s something else. A flicker of heat that has nothing to do with the argument.
As I pass Jalen, he steps back to give me space, his nostrils flaring slightly. He frowns, his gaze dropping to my shaking hands.
I walk right past him.
They are insufferable. Arrogant, dismissive, ruthless alpha jerks.
Behind me, I hear Cole mutter, “She’s making cinnamon rolls?”
“Stress baking,” Jalen says quietly. “Omegas do it sometimes when they’re anxious.”
