Camila’s POV 

Morning came far too quickly.

I expected some relief after signing the papers, but instead I woke with a heaviness pressing into my chest, like the contract had stitched invisible chains around me overnight.

Rosa sat at the kitchen table when I emerged, sipping coffee, her eyes already on me. “So, Mrs. Wolfe.”

“Don’t start,” I muttered, pouring myself a cup.

Her brows lifted. “I wasn’t joking. He’ll drag you into his world now. You ready for that?”

I stirred the coffee too hard, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. “I don’t think anyone’s ready for Damian Wolfe’s world.”

She didn’t argue and that silence said everything.

**************************

By late afternoon, I got the call. His assistant, sharp, polite, terrifyingly efficient,told me Damian would send a car. There’s a function tonight. Mr. Wolfe requests your presence.

Requests. As if it were optional.

At seven, a sleek black car pulled up outside Hazel & Crumb, its glossy frame reflecting the bakery’s fading sign. The driver opened the door for me, his eyes trained forward, giving me no room to refuse.

Inside, Damian was waiting. Perfect suit. Perfect posture. The kind of presence that filled the car even in silence.

“Could’ve at least asked,” I muttered, crossing my arms.

His lips twitched. “If I asked, you’d have said no.”

“You’re right.”

That earned me a sidelong glance, one that lingered a little too long before he turned back to the city lights flashing past the tinted windows.

The car pulled up to a hotel that looked less like a building and more like a monument, gold light spilling across marble steps, reporters clustered at the entrance like vultures waiting to feast.

My stomach sank. “What is this?”

“A charity gala,” Damian said smoothly, already stepping out. Cameras erupted, flashes blinding, voices shouting his name. “And tonight, you’re on my arm.”

Before I could protest, his hand closed around mine, firm and grounding, pulling me into the chaos.

The world exploded.

“Mr. Wolfe, over here!”

“Who’s she?”

“Is that your fiancée?”

“Smile for us!”

I froze under the flashes, every instinct screaming to run, but Damian leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Breathe, Camila. If you falter, they’ll eat you alive.”

“Kind of late for a pep talk,” I hissed, forcing my feet to move as he led me forward.

“Not a pep talk,” he murmured, his eyes flicking to the cameras. “A survival tip.”

Something in his tone, a warning, a promise, steadied me. I lifted my chin, refusing to cower. If this was his world, then fine. I’d walk through it. But I wouldn’t let it swallow me.

Inside, the ballroom glittered with chandeliers and diamonds. Women draped in gowns that cost more than my bakery, men in suits stitched with power. The moment we entered, heads turned. Whispers spread through the room.

“That’s her?”

“She’s not from here.”

“Doesn’t fit the mold.”

I burned under their stares, but Damian’s grip tightened slightly around my hand, silent but unyielding.

“Why bring me here?” I whispered through clenched teeth.

“Because they need to see you,” he said simply. “See us.”

“Us? There is no us, Damian. This is a business arrangement.”

He stopped mid-step, forcing me to turn toward him. His eyes caught mine, dark and dangerous. “Everything with me is business, Camila. But don’t confuse that with it not being real.”

Before I could answer, an older man with steel-gray hair and an aura colder than the ice sculptures approached. His gaze slid over me like I was a detail he hadn’t approved.

“Father,” Damian said coolly.

My heart stuttered. Father?

“So this is the girl,” Mr. Wolfe said, not even addressing me, just appraising. “The one you think can carry our name.”

I bristled. “I’m not here to carry anyone’s name.”

That drew his eyes to me, sharp and assessing. For a beat, silence stretched. Then, he smirked. Not kindly. Like a fatber who was seeing if his son future wife will fit into his world.

“Interesting choice,” he said, before turning away.

Damian’s jaw flexed, his hand tightening on mine. “Ignore him.”

But I couldn’t. That exchange told me more than Damian ever had: this wasn’t just about my bakery. This contract marriage had threads tangled deep in his family, his empire.

The rest of the night blurred into introductions and handshakes, champagne and conversations laced with smiles disguised as compliments.

One woman leaned close with a glass of wine, her smile sugary-sweet. “You must be Camila. Damian’s fiancée. My, you’re… different than I imagined.”

“Different?” I asked, lifting my chin.

Her eyes flicked to my dress, to my hands, even to the faint flour stain I’d missed near the hem. “Yes. Refreshing.”

I smiled tightly. “Refreshing usually means not good enough.”

She blinked, caught off guard, and excused herself quickly.

Damian’s low chuckle brushed my ear. “Sharp tongue, bakery girl.”

I glared. “Maybe I wouldn’t need it if you didn’t drop me in shark-infested waters.”

“Sharks respect bite,” he said, raising his glass. “And you just proved you have one.”

At one point, a board member cornered Damian. “She’s not exactly… polished. Are you sure….”

Damian cut him off, his voice cold and laced with anger “I don’t make mistakes.”

The board member’s eyes darted to me, then back to Damian, and he nodded quickly before retreating.

I turned to him, whispering fiercely, “You can’t just bulldoze through everyone with that arrogance.”

He leaned down, his lips curving. “Watch me.”

But every now and then, when no one was watching, his hand would linger on mine. His gaze would drop to me like he was seeing something no one else could. And those moments unsettled me more than the whispers.

Because beneath all his power and control, Damian Wolfe wanted something.

Something only I could give and though I’d signed the contract, I had the sinking feeling I hadn’t just saved my bakery.

That night, back in my apartment, Rosa was waiting. She took one look at me, the gown, the exhaustion, the shadows in my eyes, and said, “You’re in deeper than you think, aren’t you?”

I sank onto the couch, the echoes of Damian’s father still chilling my bones.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Much deeper.”

Rosa came closer, studying me carefully. “And him? Is he as cold as you thought… or worse?”

I swallowed hard, replaying the flashes of softness hidden in his touch, the way he’d shielded me even while dragging me into the fire. “Both,” I admitted. “He’s worse… and somehow better and I don’t know which scares me more.”

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure I wanted out.