Leila pressed her back against the kitchen wall, the thump of her heartbeat echoing in her ears like a war drum. Her hands were still coated in flour, but they were trembling now not from baking, but from memory. From him.

He was really back.

And worse… he was still him.

That sharp mouth. That stare that stripped her bare. That voice like midnight thunder.

She barely heard the knock at the back entrance.

“Leila?”

“Come in,” she called hoarsely, brushing her palms against a towel and trying to wipe away the shakiness.

The door opened, and Nathan stepped in, suit perfectly pressed, tie loosened like he’d been ready to relax. His laptop bag was slung across his chest, and the smell of expensive cologne followed him in.

Nathan Monroe. Her best friend. Her son’s godfather. Her rock.

He took one look at her and frowned. “What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have,” she said, motioning for him to follow her into the staff lounge at the back. “Roman Vance just walked into my bakery.”

Nathan blinked. “The Roman?”

She nodded, sinking onto the worn loveseat. “He’s back. Apparently, he’s some property tycoon now, buying out this entire block. And get this, he wants to buy the bakery.”

Nathan sat beside her, eyebrows knitting. “You're kidding.”

“I wish I were.” Her voice was bitter. “He didn’t come for closure. He came to destroy what little I have left.”

Nathan’s voice lowered. “Does he know?”

Leila swallowed. “No. I don’t think he even got a good look at Eli. But the second he does…”

Nathan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’ll handle it. Legally, emotionally, whatever it takes. You’re not alone in this, Leila. He can’t just bulldoze your family legacy because he’s still bitter.”

Before Leila could respond, the back door swung open again, this time without a knock.

Talia.

In skin-tight leather pants and a cropped sequin top, smelling like cheap perfume and last night’s regret. Her heels clicked against the tile like warning shots.

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Talia said, dropping her clutch on the table. “You, my big sister, crying into your coffee with your personal lawyer-priest.”

Leila stiffened. “What are you doing here?”

Talia shrugged, flicking her dark hair over her shoulder. “I came to see my nephew. But I overheard enough from the hallway to know Roman’s back. And apparently, he’s still obsessed with you.”

Leila stood slowly. “Don’t start, Talia.”

“Why not?” Talia’s voice rose. “You always act like you’re the victim. But if he came back for revenge, maybe you deserve it.”

Nathan stood between them. “Talia, this isn’t the time.”

“Stay out of it, Nate,” Talia snapped, stepping closer to Leila. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? You always had the perfect apron. The perfect family girl image. But you kissed him behind my back while I was in love with him.”

“I rejected him because of you!” Leila shouted, the words sharp and raw. “You think that was easy? Watching the only man I ever loved walk away because I chose you?”

Talia’s mouth twitched. Hurt flickered in her eyes, for just a second.

Then she smiled. Cruel. Tight. “Well, congratulations. You gave him up for me. And now he’s back to ruin you.”

Nathan stepped forward, calm but firm. “Talia, maybe you should go.”

She glanced at him, then at Leila. “I’ll go. But just know this, if Roman finds out the truth, it won’t be me he destroys. It’ll be you.”

She turned and walked out, heels echoing all the way down the hallway.

Silence fell.

Leila collapsed into the chair, holding her head.

Nathan touched her shoulder. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

“No,” Leila whispered. “And she can’t. Not until I’m ready.”

Nathan exhaled, long and heavy. “Then you better decide what ready looks like. Because Roman Vance is in town. And the past just rang your doorbell.”

Roman Vance wasn’t one to revisit old wounds. He preferred to cauterize them, seal them shut, and build something tall and lucrative over the scar. Like a high-rise. Or a hotel. Or a real estate empire big enough to make a woman like Leila Hart regret letting him go.

And yet, here he was.

In front of the same bakery.

Again.

The scent of sugar, warm yeast, and cinnamon drifted through the doorway like a memory that refused to be buried. He clenched his jaw. He’d meant to keep this simple, make the offer, buy the property, walk away with clean hands and a full portfolio.

But then she’d looked at him with those same tear-stung eyes. Not fragile. Not guilty. Just... haunted. And it messed with everything.

Roman pushed the door open, the little bell above chiming its song of too-sweet nostalgia.

There were no customers inside. Just a kid, standing on a stool behind the counter, reaching for a cookie jar that looked like it had been sitting there since the Reagan administration.

“Hey,” Roman said.

The boy startled, spun aroundand Roman stopped short.

Cinnamon curls.

Big, curious gray eyes.

His gray eyes.

“Whoa,” the boy said, blinking up at him. “You’re tall.”

Roman arched a brow, his practiced cool cracking. “And you’re... stealing cookies.”

The boy grinned, gap-toothed and fearless. “I wasn’t stealing. I was sampling. Quality control.”

Roman chuckled despite himself. “Is that right?”

The kid held out a cookie, as if it were a peace offering. “You look mad. Want one? They help.”

Roman took the cookie slowly, still staring at him. There was something unnerving in how familiar the kid’s features were. The curls. The angle of his jaw. The slightly crooked grin.

“What’s your name, kid?” Roman asked.

“Elijah. But everyone calls me Eli.” He hopped off the stool with more confidence than coordination. “My mom owns this place. Sort of. My great-grandma did, but she went to heaven last year. My mom runs it now.”

Roman’s pulse paused.

Leila.

This was her son?

“Your mom’s name wouldn’t happen to be Leila, would it?”

“Yup.” Eli nodded, munching on his own cookie. “She’s in the back with Uncle Nate. You wanna see her?”

Uncle Nate?

Roman’s hand tightened around the cookie. He was suddenly, irrationally, unreasonably annoyed.

Before he could respond, Eli reached for his hand. “Come on. She won’t mind. I can always tell when someone’s here for her.”

Roman let himself be led. It was ridiculous, really, a billionaire being tugged through the door of a bakery by a cookie-covered five-year-old. But he didn’t stop.

The boy was talking again. About flour fights and frosting, about how he wanted to invent the first-ever cinnamon cake with marshmallow lava, and how his mom cried when she thought he didn’t notice.

And Roman listened. Every word adding weight to the ache blooming in his chest.

He didn’t know who the father was — didn’t care, he told himself.

But if life were a cruel enough playwright, Roman had a sick suspicion.

The back door opened before they reached it.

And there she was.

Leila.

Flour-dusted apron. Hands wiping at her cheeks. Eyes widening the second she saw the two of them.

Eli ran up to her. “Mama! I gave him a cookie. The new guy. He wants to talk to you.”

Roman stared at her.

And she stared at him.

And in that stare, he saw something crack — something terrified.

And suddenly... he knew.

“Is he my s—”

The question hovered on the edge of his tongue.

But before it could escape his mouth, his phone rang, sharp and insistent in his jacket pocket. He cursed softly under his breath, jaw tightening as he answered.

“Hello—what? Okay. I’ll be there.”

He ended the call in a clipped tone.

Leila sucked in a sharp breath.

Nathan let out a loud sigh of relief behind her. Roman’s head turned slightly at the sound.

“I’ll be back,” Roman said coldly. His gaze was pinned to Leila. “And you better have some kind of explanation when I return.”

“Roman, it’s not—”

He raised a hand to silence her. No space for excuses. Not now.

Then he turned.

And just before walking out, he looked at Eli one more time.

The boy smiled innocently, his lips smeared with cinnamon.

Roman’s heart twisted painfully.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He just walked out, the scent of sin and sugar clinging to his skin like a curse.