DEMETRIA

Sitting in my car, parked at the bakery lot, I pondered on what had just happened at the restaurant with Marion Whitfield.

We’ll see each other again after the gala is over, Demetria. It’s a promise. His last words before I left. We’ll see.

Let me text Anastasia to see if she’s busy. It’s 1:38 pm now.

Are you busy? I text and hit send. A few seconds later, she calls.

“Hey girl! How are you? I’ve missed you,” She starts, asking questions all at once.

“I’m fine. I’ve missed you, too. How are you?”

“I’m also fine. What’s up?”

“Guess who I met today?”.

“Mark?”

“Nope”

“Hmmm… hot stranger?”

“Yes”

“Eerrrr!” she shrieks. “Where?”

“Well… he happens to be Mrs. Whitfield’s son”.

“WHAT!” She exclaims in shock. “We need to meet in person, girl, like… right now. I didn’t go for lunch break; I was attending to clients. I’m free now. Let’s meet at Simonette. It’s close to my workplace and not far from your bakery.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

“Hurry, girl! But before we end the call, which one of her sons?”

“She has two?”

“Yes…”

“I see. I met Marion Whitfield”.

“OMG! Deme… It’s your time to shine, girl!”

“How?”

“Demetria. Really? This is fate.”

“Anastasia, please, don’t start with your fairytales.”

“Yeah, whatever. Come quickly, girl, this is tea. I’ll be waiting.”

“Alright”. I guess I won’t be entering the bakery then. Let me call, Amanda.

“Hello, Amanda?”

“Miss Hernandez. How did it go?”

“It went well, but we’ll be having a second tasting with another batch of goodies. They’ll be coming to the bakery on Monday: Mrs. Whitfield and her son. I came to the parking lot at the bakery, but I’m meeting with Anastasia. Can you take care of things running in the bakery? I’d like to go home after my lunch with Anastasia and rest after that.”

“Yes, everything is going well here, Bosslady. Enjoy your lunch and have a good rest. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay, sure, I’ll give you more details tomorrow.”

“Sure, enjoy your day, Madam.”

“You too, Amanda.”

The moment I stepped into Simonette, it felt like I’d walked into a slice of Paris tucked away in Culver City. The hum of soft French jazz floated above the gentle clinking of glasses, wrapping the air in something both elegant and relaxed. Sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, catching the golden accents of the bar and bouncing off the marble tabletops, giving the whole place a subtle glow.

The scent of fresh espresso and buttered brioche drifted from the open café counter, mingling with the richer aroma of roasted chicken being carried past me on a tray. Everything about the space—the woven bistro chairs, the leafy greenery tucked into corners, the understated chatter—felt effortlessly chic, without even trying.

Then I spotted Anastasia. Of course, she’d chosen a seat that made her look like she owned the place—back straight, her sunglasses perched on the table, tapping a manicured nail against her wine glass as though she’d been waiting forever. Typical.

I exhaled, a small smile tugging at my lips. Trust Anastasia to pick a spot that made even lunch feel like an occasion. Her workplace, the Wende Museum, is closer.

She spotted me before I could even reach the table, waving dramatically like I’d just come back from war instead of the freeway. “Demetria!” she called out, loud enough for half the restaurant to glance our way. I shook my head, fighting the urge to laugh, and slid into the seat across from her.

A waiter appeared almost immediately, clearly familiar with Anastasia’s energy. Without even glancing at the menu, she announced, “I’ll start with the steak tartare—extra capers—and a glass of Sancerre. Oh, and fries. Thin and crispy, not soggy.”

I exhaled, amused but also starving, my stomach reminding me I’d only had an apple all morning. “I’ll have the roasted chicken with pommes purée, please. And a glass of Chardonnay.”

The waiter nodded, jotting it down, before gliding away.

Anastasia gave me a look, lips twitching. “Now that’s more like it. None of that rabbit food you usually order.”

I smirked, unfolding my napkin. “Some of us didn’t exactly get a chance to eat at the Whitfields’. It was all business and… distractions.”

Her eyes narrowed knowingly, a slow grin spreading. “Ahhh. That explains the look on your face. Spill. Now.”

I narrated everything to her, spilling my guts about what happened today.

“WOW!” She exclaims, leaning back in her seat, taking a sip of her wine. “He’s interested in you.”

“Then, he has a funny way of showing it.”

“I live to see this hate unfold into something else,” she said, a mischievous light sparking in her eyes. Typical Anastasia.

“Whatever.” I taunt her.

“This guy is a billionaire, Demetria — not just running hotels and casinos here in L.A., but across states, across countries. He practically owns the playgrounds of the rich.”

I swallowed, the weight of her words pressing in. A boss with the world at his feet.

She leaned in, lowering her voice as if she were about to spill state secrets. “Ever heard of Oceanview Oasis?”

“Yeah…” I said slowly. “Don’t tell me it’s his?”

Her grin widened like she’d just dropped a bomb. “Yep. All his.”

I rolled my eyes, cutting a piece of chicken a little too aggressively. “Anas, he’s arrogant. Arrogant, infuriating, and full of himself. If you think I’m going to swoon just because his jawline looks like it was carved by God Himself, you’re mistaken.”

She nearly choked on her wine, laughing. “Oh my God, listen to yourself. You noticed his jawline. You noticed his eyes, too, I bet. Don’t even lie.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I busy myself picking a piece of chicken with the fork. “I notice a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I like them.”

“Mhmm,” she hummed, eyes glittering with amusement. “You know what this is? This is enemies-to-lovers, babe. You’re already living the plotline.”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “I don’t need a plotline, I need a contract. I need this deal to secure more clients, stabilize the bakery, and maybe even expand next year. That’s all I care about.”

“And yet…” She stretched the words, her grin sly. “You can’t stop talking about him. Not the contract. Not his mother. Him.”

I dropped my hands and glared at her, though it lacked conviction. “I don’t know whether to strangle you or order you another glass of wine to shut you up.”

She raised her glass toward me, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wine. Because trust me, you’re going to need it. This Whitfield man is going to be more than just a contract in your life. I can feel it.”

I sipped my Chardonnay, willing my pulse to slow. But even as I tried to dismiss her words, deep down, I hated how right she sounded.

And somehow, I had the sinking feeling the universe was about to prove it.