Chapter 21
PORTIA
S ilas never showed.
Midnight came and went like a breath held too long.
I told myself it was for the best.
Told myself I didn’t need him to show up at my suite door with those storm-colored eyes and that bruised-knuckle hunger. Told myself that last night’s mess—ribbons, ghosts, Monte’s truth like a blade pressed to my ribs—was all the clarity I needed.
And still …
A part of me had waited.
Not in the window like some lovesick fool, no. But I hadn’t gone to sleep right away either. I’d lingered in the shower. I’d left the door unlocked. I’d turned off all the lights but one, the room bathed in a soft, golden glow like I was hoping someone would follow it home.
But he didn’t.
And by morning, I was back in motion. Back to lipstick and scheduling apps and the illusion of perfect control.
Now I stood in the sun-drenched foyer of Lustre, Charleston’s most sought-after wedding bakery, pretending my heart wasn’t still bruised from the night before.
The shop was tucked on a corner in the historic district, all warm brick and oversized windows framed in navy blue trim.
Inside, it was the kind of space that made you forget the world outside existed—floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with jars of sugar flowers and glimmering edible pearls, the air thick with the scent of buttercream and vanilla bean.
Gold leaf danced on fondant swatches displayed beneath antique glass domes.
A chandelier of hand-blown glass orbs floated above the center tasting table, catching sunlight and fracturing it across the marble floor in prismatic shards.
It was luxury. Charm. Magic.
And I ran the room like a symphony.
Six couples. Six different opinions on things.
And yet somehow, it was more than that.
Because this wasn’t just about cake.
It was about this moment. This sliver of sweetness.
I looked at them—each bride radiant in her own way, laughing softly.
There was Claire, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, who’d survived hell just to get here—dragged through darkness, held captive, and still she stood, Brooklyn-tough in heels, eyes never leaving Marcus like he was her lighthouse in a war zone.
There was Isabel, who’d sworn she’d never fall for a Dane—least of all her brother’s best friend—and yet she sat beside Ryker now, their knees brushing under the table.
Anna, graceful and quiet, had parents who’d fled Russia with nothing but a dream.
And then Sloane, poised and controlled, the perfect daughter of Charleston socialites who still clung to pearls and propriety.
Her parents had never pictured her with a Dane, let alone one who didn’t give a damn about debutante rules or country club lineage.
But she had, and now here she was, pinky entwined with Charlie’s, daring the world to say a word.
Vivienne, elegant as ever, cracked when Elias fed her a bite of blood orange buttercream, the kind of laughter bursting out of her that made the whole room pause, like joy had just walked in wearing red lipstick.
These weren’t just brides.
They were women in love—flawed, fierce, unforgettable.
This was their moment.
And Hallie Mae.
God.
She was smiling. Laughing even. But I saw the way her fingers gripped the stem of her champagne flute just a little too tight. I saw the way she kept looking toward the door, like maybe—just maybe—her father might still walk through it. That ache never truly left her eyes. Not since she buried him.
This cake tasting wasn’t fluff.
It was memory-making. Healing. A sacred little pocket of celebration, soft and golden around the edges.
That was what I wanted for them.
That was why I did this.
The day before, somewhere between floral spreadsheets and emergency espresso, I’d made a call.
It had come to me in a rush—something I knew they wouldn’t think to ask for but would treasure forever.
I’d hired a photographer. Not just any photographer.
A visual poet. Someone who could melt into the background and catch the unguarded things—Anna’s eyes going glassy when Atlas wiped buttercream off her nose, the way Sloane held Charlie’s pinky under the table like it was the only thing anchoring her to Earth, Hallie Mae blinking hard at a slice of hummingbird cake her dad used to love.
The photographer was already here. A quiet woman named Jules Rosero with a mirrorless camera and a sixth sense for emotion. She drifted like a breeze, never in the way, her lens soft and reverent. She’d be joining us through the final stages of planning. A silent witness to every small miracle.
I didn’t tell the brides she was here for them. Not yet. I wanted to give them the gift later—a private gallery of moments they didn’t know had been saved.
Because someday, when the weddings were over and the dresses were boxed and the flowers had long since wilted, they’d look back at these photos and remember not just how the cake tasted, but how they felt.
Seen. Held. Celebrated.
Loved.
I glanced at Hallie Mae just as she laughed at something, her eyes wet but her smile wide.
Yes. This mattered.
More than they knew.
“Okay,” I said, my iPad in one hand and a clipboard in the other. “We’re going to start with the signature flight—four core cake bases with rotating fillings. Once we narrow down your preferences, we’ll move into custom pairings.”
A server with impossibly good cheekbones glided forward, placing trays in front of each couple. Bite-sized squares arranged like art: almond with amaretto mousse, lemon chiffon with blackberry preserves, dark chocolate with espresso ganache, vanilla bean with salted caramel.
Monte and Bea sat at the far end, flanking the group. Monte caught my eye once, his expression unreadable, and I immediately looked away. I couldn’t handle that gaze again—not when the echo of his words still lingered.
I moved between couples, adjusting place cards and answering questions.
“Yes, there’s a gluten-free option that doesn’t taste like sadness.”
“No, gold leaf isn’t edible in theory—it’s edible in practice. Yes, it’s real gold.”
“We can absolutely make a red velvet cake that won’t remind your fiancé of his grandmother’s funeral.”
The room buzzed with quiet laughter. Crumbs dotted linen napkins. Frosting streaked fingertips. I felt the rhythm settle into place, my rhythm, the one I lived in when everything else felt like drowning.
And then?—
The door opened.
A small bell chimed.
And I knew.
Before I turned. Before I even looked.
I knew it was him.
Silas Dane.
The air shifted.
He stepped into the bakery, all broad shoulders and storm-cloud gaze, his hair slightly tousled, his jacket clutched in one hand like he’d carried it just to have something to do with his fingers.
He wore a dark henley, sleeves shoved to the elbows, veins visible in his forearms, like even his casualness came with a warning.
Conversation stuttered. Heads turned.
Bea blinked. Monte stiffened.
I didn’t move.
Because I couldn’t.
He looked at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered. Like maybe he’d meant to come last night after all, and the weight of not doing so was still dragging behind him.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he said, low and smooth.
He wasn’t on the guest list. He wasn’t even supposed to be in this room.
But there he was.
And I couldn’t decide if I wanted to throw my clipboard at his chest or drag him into a back room and remind him exactly what he’d missed.
Instead, I gave him the only thing I could offer in that moment.
Professional detachment.
“You’re interrupting a tasting,” I said, my voice level, clipped.
His gaze didn’t waver. “Didn’t want to miss the sweetness.”
My spine locked. The way he said it—like we were the only ones who knew what it really meant. Like the cake was just frosting over the fire still burning between us.
Bea cleared her throat, pretending not to smirk.
I turned sharply back to the couples. “Let’s move on to the fruit-forward pairings, shall we?”
As the servers brought out the next round of confections—champagne raspberry, blood orange buttercream, mango passionfruit—I felt Silas’s gaze track my every move.
Watching. Waiting.
And I knew, without a doubt, the storm I’d been trying to outrun had found me again.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.
Silas moved to the back without a word. Just slipped behind the counter and disappeared down the hallway like he had every right to be there. Like he already knew the way.
Maybe he did.
I tried not to react. Tried not to feel the heat of his presence still clinging to the air he left behind.
Instead, I adjusted Isabel’s tasting notes, offered Vivienne a napkin, and made a quick joke about passionfruit being the “Leo of fillings—bold, dramatic, and desperate to be the center of attention.”
But I wasn’t tasting anything. Not really.
Because my pulse had started to race.
And every breath felt like a countdown.
Silas wasn’t supposed to be here. Not today. Not after the night we’d both walked away from like two strangers who had no business missing each other. He hadn’t shown up at midnight like he said. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called.
And yet now he was here.
Walking through the back hallway of a luxury bakery like a man with unfinished business.
I took a breath. Then another. And then I followed.
I slipped behind the velvet curtain near the service station, past racks of extra dishware and clinking trays, ignoring the arched brow from the pastry chef plating mini éclairs.
The kitchen buzzed with soft movement—metal, steam, the distant whirr of a mixer—and somewhere beyond it, just past the scent of sugar and the soft hum of classical music, I saw him.
Silas.
He didn’t wait for me to call out. Just reached, caught my wrist, and pulled me through a half-open storage door.
The lock clicked behind us.
And the second the latch caught, the air changed.
It wasn’t quiet. We could still hear the bustle of the bakery on the other side of the door—voices, laughter, music.
But in here, it was just us.
Crates of powdered sugar lined the walls. A rack of fondant mats stood in the corner. Light from a narrow window sliced across the floor in a golden line, dust motes dancing in it like secrets.
And then he was on me.
Mouth crashing to mine with the kind of hunger that made thought impossible. That made the world tilt and narrow and disappear. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my back, my thighs—like he couldn’t touch me fast enough. Like he’d been starved and I was the first breath of air.
“You didn’t come,” I gasped against his mouth, even as my fingers fumbled for the hem of his shirt.
“I couldn’t,” he breathed.
His mouth was at my throat now, teeth scraping, tongue tasting. “But you waited, didn’t you?”
I hated how much that truth lived in my silence.
We tore at each other like the world was ending. Like maybe it already had.
He spun me, pressing me against a stack of boxed cake rounds, one hand yanking my skirt up, the other freeing himself with practiced desperation. His fingers slid between my legs, testing, teasing, finding me slick and furious and ready.
“You’re soaked,” he growled, voice ragged.
“Shut up,” I hissed, dragging him forward.
He sank into me with a groan so deep I felt it in my ribs.
The first thrust stole my breath.
The second made me bite his shoulder to keep from screaming.
This was madness. Heat and hunger and chaos. A storage closet orgasm waiting to happen.
We moved in rhythm, in defiance, in worship.
My hands gripped his shoulders, my thighs locked around his hips.
He moved with the kind of brutal tenderness that felt like an apology wrapped in violence.
And when I came, it was silent and shattering, my body clenching around him as he cursed and followed, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to mine.
We stood there, breathing like we’d survived something.
Maybe we had.
Minutes passed before I could form words.
“This can’t keep happening,” I whispered. “We can’t do this anymore.”
Silas didn’t move.
“You didn’t come to the hotel last night. I thought—maybe—I could finally breathe. But then you walked into this shop, and I forgot how to fucking stand still.”
He pulled back enough to meet my eyes. And what I saw there made my stomach twist.
It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
“Something’s coming,” he said, voice low. “Something bad.”
I swallowed hard.
“What?”
“I can’t say yet. Not here. But the ribbon?” He paused, like the words were knives in his mouth. “It's not what you thought.”
My throat went dry. “Silas?—”
“I just need more time,” he said. “To figure it out. To get ahead of it. But I need you to trust me, Portia. I need you .”
I stared at him. My walls rebuilding, brick by brick, even as my body still trembled from the aftershocks of him.
“I don’t know if I can.”
His jaw worked. “Then don’t trust me. Just talk to me. Tonight. I’ll come to your suite. Please.”
I nodded slowly, the silence around us trembling like spun sugar.
Because for all my better judgment …
I would.