Chapter 12 #2
I scan the article with growing fury. The text is a masterpiece of insinuation and barely disguised judgment—references to Clara's "meteoric rise" in the baking world followed by pointed questions about the "ingredients" of her success.
Implications that our relationship began before the article that launched her bakery into prominence.
Speculation about how long I'll remain "satisfied with this particular treat" before moving on to my "next course. "
"Find out who took these," I say, my voice calm despite the rage building beneath it. "And who approved their publication."
Jennifer nods once, already typing on her tablet. "Garrett is tracing the photographer now. Legal is preparing cease and desist letters."
"Not enough." I stand, unable to contain the violent energy coursing through me. "I want to know who tipped them off about Clara leaving the penthouse. Building security, elevator footage, everything."
My mind is already calculating angles of attack, points of leverage against the publication, ways to contain the damage. Then, with sickening clarity, I realize—Clara. Has she seen these? Is she facing this alone?
I grab my phone, dialing her number with fingers that aren't quite steady. She answers on the fourth ring, her voice small and tight.
"You've seen it," she says, not a question.
"Just now." I try to modulate my tone, to contain the rage that won't help her. "Are you alright?"
A pause, filled with the background noise of the bakery. "There are people taking pictures through the window," she says finally. "Pretending to be customers while sneaking photos on their phones. Someone just asked if I provide 'special services' to all my wealthy clients."
The cold fury in my chest expands, threatening to consume everything in its path. "I'm coming over."
"Alex—"
"Twenty minutes." I end the call, already moving toward the door. "Cancel everything," I tell Jennifer. "Indefinitely."
The drive to Sweet Haven takes nineteen minutes and forty seconds. I spend each of them alternating between calculating exactly how to destroy the tabloid that published those photos and worrying about Clara—how this exposure will affect her, her business, her carefully guarded privacy.
The scene at the bakery confirms my worst fears.
A small crowd has gathered outside, a mixture of paparazzi with long-lens cameras and curiosity seekers hoping to glimpse the woman currently being served up for public consumption.
I exit the car directly into their midst, using my height and the natural authority that has clearing paths for me since adolescence.
"Mr. Devereux! Is Clara Benson your latest girlfriend?"
"How long have you been together?"
"Was the food article your idea to boost her business?"
I ignore them all, face a neutral mask that betrays nothing
I ignore them all, face a neutral mask that betrays nothing of the calculated violence simmering beneath.
The bell above the door chimes my entrance into Sweet Haven, and the contrast between the vulture's clamor outside and the bakery's warm interior would be jarring if not for the obvious tension permeating the space.
Clara stands behind the counter, professional smile fixed in place, but I know her well enough now to see the strain beneath it—the slightly too-rigid posture, the faint tremor in her hands as she boxes a customer's order, the flush of humiliation staining her cheeks.
Mia hovers nearby, shooting venomous glares at anyone who lingers too long or whose questions stray beyond pastry selection.
Several phones raise when I enter, capturing the reunion for whatever social media narrative is currently unfolding. I ignore them, moving directly to the counter, creating a barrier between Clara and the curious eyes feasting on her discomfort.
"We need to talk," I say quietly, for her ears only.
She nods, then turns to Mia. "Can you handle things for fifteen minutes?"
The girl's eyes flick between us, protective loyalty evident in her expression. "Take as long as you need. I'll run interference."
Clara leads me through the kitchen to the small office in the back—a glorified closet with a desk crammed against one wall and barely enough space for the two of us to stand without touching.
She closes the door, then leans against it, arms wrapping around herself in an unconsciously defensive posture that makes my chest ache.
"I'm sorry," I say immediately.
Her eyes widen slightly, surprise momentarily displacing distress. "For what?"
"For this exposure. For the invasion of your privacy. For the fact that my presence in your life has made you a target."
She exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "It's not your fault some photographer has nothing better to do than stake out your building."
"It is my fault," I counter. "My notoriety made you interesting to them. My enemies made you valuable as leverage. My..." I struggle for the right word, "...history with women made this newsworthy."
Her eyes search mine, finding the rage I'm trying to contain. "You're angry."
"Furious," I correct, not bothering to disguise it. "Someone violated your privacy. Used you to sell magazines. Implied that your success comes from sleeping with me rather than your own talent." My fists clench involuntarily. "They will regret it."
Clara's expression shifts, something like concern replacing her earlier distress. "What are you planning to do?"
The cold, calculating part of my brain—the part that built an empire through strategic elimination of obstacles—is already formulating responses.
Buying the publication to fire everyone involved.
Using my extensive network to ensure the photographer never works in this city again.
Leveraging business relationships to destroy the editor who approved the story.
"Whatever is necessary," I say instead, unwilling to burden her with specifics she might find disturbing.
"Alex." She steps closer, one hand touching my arm. "I'm humiliated, yes. Uncomfortable with being gossip fodder. But I don't want you starting some kind of vendetta that makes this a bigger story."
I cover her hand with mine, the simple contact grounding me, reminding me that my rage, however justified, isn't helping her. "What do you want, then?"
She considers this, the question seeming to focus her thoughts.
"I want my bakery to be about my work, not my relationship status.
I want customers who come for the pastries, not for glimpses of 'Devereux's latest obsession.
' I want..." her voice wavers slightly, ".
..I want my life to still be mine, even with you in it. "
The simple honesty of her answer cuts through my anger, reminding me that Clara's priorities differ from mine. Where I see attacks to be countered, boundaries to be enforced through strategic retaliation, she sees her carefully constructed life being altered by outside forces. By me.
"Tell me how to help," I say, setting aside my own instincts to prioritize her needs.
"Just…be here," she says, surprising me with the simplicity of the request. "Help me weather this without making it worse. If you go on some revenge campaign, it only validates their story—turns us into exactly the kind of tabloid drama I'm trying to avoid."
Her logic is sound, though it chafes against my every instinct to allow this violation to go unanswered. But this isn't about what I want or what I think is appropriate retaliation. It's about what Clara needs to feel secure, to maintain the independent life she's built that I admire so much.
"Alright," I agree, though the concession costs me. "No public retaliation."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "Why do I sense there's an emphasis on 'public' in that sentence?"
A small smile tugs at my mouth despite the situation. "Because you're perceptive. And because while I can respect your wish to handle this quietly, I won't allow the person who violated your privacy to go completely unchecked."
She studies me, seemingly weighing whether to press the issue. Finally, she sighs. "Just…nothing that makes headlines, okay? Nothing that keeps this story alive longer than it needs to be."
"I can work within those parameters." I pull her gently into my arms, relief washing through me when she comes willingly, her body relaxing against mine. "I'm sorry," I say again, lips pressed to her hair. "That your relationship with me has caused this intrusion."
"I knew what I was getting into," she murmurs against my chest. "Maybe not this specifically, but I knew being with Alexander Devereux wouldn't exactly be low-profile."
The simple acceptance in her voice—this acknowledgment that she chose me despite the complications I bring to her life—humbles me in ways I'm not accustomed to feeling.
"We'll weather this," I promise, my arms tightening around her. "Together."
When we return to the main floor of the bakery, the curious onlookers have multiplied. Clara squares her shoulders, professional mask sliding back into place as she moves behind the counter. I remain close, a physical presence that both claims connection and offers protection.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Garrett: "Photographer identified. Freelancer named James Wilson. Building security footage shows doorman tipping him off. Both being handled."
I read the message, then delete it without responding.
Clara doesn't need to know the specifics of how I protect what's mine, only that I do so within the boundaries she's established.
The photographer and doorman will face consequences, but quietly, discreetly—their careers ending with a whimper rather than the explosive destruction I'd prefer.
Because Clara's needs matter more than my satisfaction. Her comfort more than my revenge. Her wishes more than my instincts.