Chapter 12
Sienna
I drag myself through the front door, hands dusted with flour, still smelling faintly of apples, cinnamon, and sugar. My arms ache from the dozens of pies I’d baked today for the festival this weekend—pumpkin, pecan, cherry, and a few experimental flavors Lucy insisted on.
My back is stiff from carrying trays, bending over ovens, and racing the clock to get everything done before the bakery closed. My brain is buzzing with orders, ingredient lists, and the unending chatter of customers.
All I want to do is shower, eat, and pass out.
But, instead, a woman I don’t know sits in the living room with a glass of red wine in one hand. Every strand of her beautiful brown hair is perfectly in place. Her posture effortless and confident as she looks up at Ben.
Girlfriend?
Mistress?
I hope so.
Ben notices me almost immediately as I issue out those dreams, but he’s smiling and gestures with his hand for me to come closer.
“Sienna, I want you to meet someone,” he says, calm and smooth. “This is Dahlia Mitchell. She’ll be helping with the bakery.”
She’ll be doing what?
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Ben closes the distance between us, attired in his famous all black ensemble that makes him look like trouble and the devil. And I can’t help but take a step away as he gets closer, but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind.
“I closed the deal on the bakery today,” he conveys flatly as if that’s not a big deal. “So, that means you can start planning.”
“Planning?”
“Yes, sweetheart. The bakery.”
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 the mountain 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—real help. Someone to box pies or carry flour sacks or just tell me it was okay to sit down for five minutes.
Not this.
“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.”
I climb the rest of the way in silence, each step heavy, my body too tired to fight him even though part of me still wants to.
Habit, I guess.
By the time I get into the shower, I press my forehead to the tile, letting the steam cling to me.
Pies.
Pies.
Pies.
Plans.
Woman in dress.
Bakery design.
I closed on the bakery.
Lucy and I are handling the bakery.
My bakery.
He just handed me a bakery.
My bakery.
And that’s not something I can just pretend doesn’t matter because it’s my dream.
Of course I’m going to go see it.
I shut the water off and wrap myself in a towel, water still dripping on the tile floor as I pace toward my bedroom.
I should still be dead on my feet, but I’m buzzing.
Because no matter how complicated everything is, no matter how much Ben drives me insane, he gave me the one thing I’ve always wanted.
A new life.