Enrico: 1.
Valentina: 0.
TWELVE
VALENTINA MUNIZ
I pulled another tray of cookies from the oven and immediately caught the unmistakable bitter smell of something burned.
I closed my eyes hard, holding back a frustrated sigh as I stared at the ruined cookies on the sheet pan.
“Perfect,” I muttered, shaking my head. “At this rate, Enrico won’t even have to take my bakery from me. I’ll manage to bankrupt it all by myself first.”
Ever since I’d run into him again—four days ago—I couldn’t seem to do a single thing right. Every batch that came out of my oven felt doomed, like my hands had forgotten what they’d known for years. A perfect reflection of what my life had become since that man had crawled back into my thoughts.
No matter how many times I tried, my mind refused to focus—especially when I was standing in front of heat and timers and measurements.
The whole situation with him was bleeding into everything.
Even something as simple as baking cookies.
Four days.
Four days since he’d reappeared and turned my quiet life into something that felt like a constant nightmare. And since the disastrous meeting at city hall two days ago, Enrico had simply vanished.
The silence was almost worse than the direct attacks.
It felt like waiting for a storm you knew was coming—without knowing when the first lightning strike would hit.
I shook my head again, dumped the burned cookies into the trash with irritation, and dropped the sheet pan onto the counter harder than I meant to.
I inhaled, forcing myself to close my eyes and push his image away—when the doorbell rang.
Once. Then again.
Firm. Insistent.
I frowned, glancing at the clock on the wall.
It was after ten p.m.
No one came to my house at that hour. Not without warning.
My heart slammed hard as a possibility I didn’t want to name crept in anyway.
Slowly, I walked to the door, every muscle in my body tightening with growing apprehension.
I opened it.
And my heart nearly stopped.
Enrico Ferrara stood on my doorstep—tall, imposing, gray eyes cold and hard, his expression carved from stone as he looked at me like I was something he’d come to claim.
“Good evening, Valentina,” he said, his voice low and controlled, stripped of any warmth.
I swallowed hard as irritation and fear collided inside me.
“What are you doing here, Enrico?” My voice came out sharp. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about—especially not at this hour.”
