Claimed by the Billionaire Triplets (Her Enemies-to-Lovers Billionaires #3)

1. Bianca

BIANCA

My pinky toe has lost all feeling, my apron has a powdered sugar situation that’s beyond saving, and I am having the most nerve-wracking night of my life.

Not bad, nerve-wracking. My whole body is vibrating with the worry that something will go wrong, and my fingers won’t quite hold still. This event is a big opportunity for my bakery, and I over-prepared, because sometimes I’m neurotic.

But even with all of that over-preparing, it’s impossible to prepare for everything.

There are three hundred very important people here, and if I can impress them, maybe they will hire me to cater desserts for their events, too.

When I was contacted to put in a bid for this event, I didn’t think they’d actually hire me, but they did.

The Sawyer Foundation Charity Gala. Me. Bianca Donovan of Sugar Bloom Bakery is actually catering an event with people I could only dream about being in the same room with.

Celebrities. Politicians. Socialites. And billionaire socialites. Actually, the Sawyer triplets, probably the most famous billionaire socialites, are hosting the event.

Bakeries of my size typically do christening cakes and Saturday morning farmers’ markets. They don’t plate gold-leaf petits fours for senators.

But here I am. And every single petit four is perfect.

The brown butter sea salt truffles go first, and the lemon curd with candied thyme is a close second.

The air is warm and sweet from dessert plates circulating through the room.

I keep catching guests tucking extra napkin-wrapped pastries into clutch purses when they think nobody’s looking, which is one of the highest compliments a baker can receive.

My team is killing it. Four people, including me, running on caffeine and adrenaline, and the plating hasn’t slipped once.

Jamie catches my eye across the dessert station and gives me a tiny thumbs-up behind her tray, and my throat goes tight because this is working.

We belong here. My mother’s recipes belong here.

Focus, Donovan, I remind myself.

I straighten my apron, reload the tray, and head toward the east side of the ballroom, where a cluster of tables near the bar has been tragically neglected.

And then Theodore Sawyer takes the stage, and I almost trip over my own clogs.

He’s tall. Taller than the magazines suggest. Dark chestnut hair, a tuxedo that fits so precisely I’m fairly certain it was sewn onto his body this morning, and a jaw that makes me want to text Daphne immediately. Gray-blue eyes sweep the room, and everyone quiets.

Because when a Sawyer talks, you listen.

Must be nice.

His speech goes on for twenty minutes. No teleprompter, no notes.

He talks about responsibility, about kindness as infrastructure, about building systems that catch people that the world drops.

The room is so quiet I can make out ice shifting in glasses at the back tables.

Two senators in the front row are nodding.

A woman at table nine is dabbing her eyes with a cocktail napkin.

I’m standing in awe. He actually means what he’s saying. He wants the world to be a better place.

The applause hits, and I snap into my body. I need to refill the dessert station. I am not being paid to stand here getting emotional about a rich man’s speech, no matter how perfect his jawline is.

I load the tray and head for the dessert tables. The hallway between the kitchen corridor and the main floor takes a sharp left around a marble pillar.

I round the corner, but I stop, because someone is rounding the corner from the other side. I give that person space.

He’s looking at his phone, and his shoulder catches my arm. The tray launches. Forty-eight petits fours are airborne, and gravity does what gravity does. Vanilla bean on his lapels. Chocolate ganache down his shirt front. Lemon curd in a spectacular streak from his chest to his belt buckle.

The tray hits marble. The crash echoes.

Hours of work, smeared across a tuxedo that is very clearly custom, and very clearly stained. Shock flashes across his face before anger slams down over it.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Every trace of the man from that stage is gone. And what’s left is a man with bared teeth and ganache on his lapels.

“I—”

“Look at this.” He swipes at the chocolate on his lapel. It spreads. Makes it worse. “You ruined it.”

“You’re the one who ran into me!”

“I want your name, I want your company, and I want you to understand that you will not be paid for tonight.” He steps closer, and he’s so tall my neck cranes. “Are we clear?”

My hands are shaking.

I have been talked down to by vendors who assumed a twenty-five-year-old couldn’t run a kitchen. I have been stiffed by clients who ate every crumb and then disputed the invoice. I have buried my mother and taken over her bakery the next week. She would have haunted me if I’d let her bakery close.

I don’t shake for long.

“You came around that corner at full speed.” I set the tray down carefully beside my feet before I answer him.

“And that speech you gave—twenty minutes about kindness, about lifting people up—was beautiful. Really. Standing ovation, sweetie. But right now, you’re screaming at a caterer over a jacket you stained when you ran into me. ”

Dead silence.

Not from him. From the ballroom.

His lapel mic is still on.

The little black transmitter is pinned to his jacket, half-buried in ganache, broadcasting every word to three hundred guests. His mouth closes. His eyes cut to the mic. Color drains from his face.

Through the doorway, the ballroom is frozen. Three hundred faces turned toward the speakers. Phones are up. We’re being recorded.

I pick up my tray and walk to the kitchen on legs that carry me only because they don’t know how to stop.

I don’t cry. Not in the kitchen, not in front of my team, not during the next three hours while I finish the job, because a contract is a contract and my mother raised me to honor my commitments even when the golden boy turns out to be a fraud in a ruined tuxedo.

My staff keeps glancing at me. Nobody says a word. I love them for it.

I plate. I garnish. I direct. I smile at every server and thank every busboy.

I say a quick thanks to the universe when the guests finally leave.

The second brother finds me at the dessert station.

He’s leaning against the bar, all dark tousled hair and rolled sleeves and a grin so wide it borders on reckless.

Same gray-blue eyes as Theo—of course, triplets—but his are alive and warm and delighted in a way that has everything to do with a man who watched his brother get publicly demolished and enjoyed every second.

“So you’re the one who took out my brother with a cupcake.”

“Petits fours.” I’m packing up chocolate truffles from a tiered stand without looking up. “Different pastry.”

His laugh is loud, maybe too loud. “Yeah, I’m going to need whatever’s on that tray, because I’ve had a really bad night, and you improved it immensely.”

I pass him a napkin and two truffles. “On the house.”

He takes them, pops one in his mouth whole, and stops moving.

“Holy shit.” Mouth full. Zero shame. “Holy shit. What’s in these?”

“Brown butter, sea salt, and a secret I’ll take to my grave.”

He stares at me. At the truffle. At me.

“I’m Ander,” he says, as if he’s forgotten the fact that I should be the last person on earth he’s introducing himself to.

“I know who you are.”

“Yeah?” His grin is devastating. No wonder he’s known as the charming one. “And you’re not running?”

“Why would I run? I don’t think you could be any worse than your brother.”

He’s still laughing when the third triplet arrives at the dessert station.

This one doesn’t lean, doesn’t grin, and doesn’t charm. No warmth, no performance. His dark hair is short, almost a military haircut.

Gideon Sawyer.

“You’re the caterer.”

It’s not a question. So, I’m not sure how he wants me to respond.

“And you’re the Sawyer triplet I haven’t met yet.” I keep my smile bright while I stack petit four boxes for transport. “Lucky me.”

Gideon continues, “You’ve created a significant problem for my family tonight.”

“Your brother created a significant problem for my tray. And my dignity.” I close the box lid. “Your brother owes me an apology. Any problems your family is having are completely his fault.”

Two degrees. That’s how far Gideon’s head moves. His mouth stays flat, and I expect him to have a clever comeback.

It surprises me when he doesn’t.

But Ander does speak up after he swallows a piece of dessert. “Good luck with getting that apology!” He laughs. “Really, let me know how that goes.”

Gideon grabs his brother by the arm to guide him away.

“Have a good evening, Miss…” Gideon starts.

“Donovan.” I tuck the box under my arm. “Bianca Donovan. Sugar Bloom Bakery.”

No response. He turns and leaves.

It appears that Ander, the one known to be charming, is the only one with manners. Go figure.

The last of the equipment goes into the van at midnight. My team loads the final box. I sign the checkout clipboard and stand alone in the service corridor with my coat over my arm and my feet screaming in my clogs.

My phone has four hundred and twelve notifications.

What in the heck?

I don’t open them.

I lean against the cold marble wall and press my thumb to the birthmark on my wrist—the little heart, the one my mom called my angel kiss. My eyes burn. Not from the lights overhead.

Theodore Sawyer might be the worst human in the world. And to think I was almost mesmerized by his speech about kindness, until I learned he doesn’t have any.

I push off the wall, pull my coat on, and walk out through the service entrance. My van is parked under a single lamp in the loading zone. It’s freezing, and my breath fogs the air.

Tonight was rough. Really rough. But I won’t cry. Not here.

I have a bakery to open in six hours. Cinnamon rolls to proof. A life my mother built, and I rebuilt, and not a single Sawyer brother is going to take that from me. No matter how tall, how rich, or how unfairly attractive he is.

I climb into the van. Turn the key. The engine rattles through my whole body.

My phone buzzes. Four hundred and thirteen notifications.

I pull out of the loading zone and point the van toward my bakery, toward home.

Get it together, Donovan.

I drive.