MARION

“We meet again.” After saying that, and my mother curiously asking if we knew each other, I wasn't paying attention to her. I was just admiring the stranger, also known as the mysterious baker behind this deal.

She looked… composed. That’s the first word that came to mind when she walked in. A crisp white silk blouse tucked neatly into tailored beige pants, hugging her figure in all the right ways, polished but not flashy. It gave her a quiet kind of authority, one that didn’t need sequins or diamonds to demand attention.

She wasn’t dressed to provoke. Yet, somehow, she did. And I hated how much I noticed.

Her voice was steady when she answered my mother’s questions, but I noticed the slight tremor in her fingers as she set the samples down. Pretending. She wanted control, wanted me to believe she was unaffected. But the flush creeping up her neck gave her away.

Then she said it, cinnamon cookies. My favorite. That was bold. Smart. And damn if it didn’t make my blood heat knowing she had unknowingly catered to me.

When my mother told me to introduce myself, I stretched my hand, slow and deliberate. Her palm slid against mine, soft, warm, trembling ever so slightly. Electricity shot up my arm. For a moment, I didn’t want to let go. Neither did she. I felt the hitch in her breath, saw the way her pupils dilated. She was turned on, though she’d rather die than admit it.

Fuck. This woman.

She tried to cover it, pushing the plate toward my mother as if the contact hadn’t lit her up from the inside. But I saw it. I felt it.

When I finally tasted her tartlet, I made a show of dragging my tongue across my bottom lip, savoring the sweetness.

“Hmm… tastes just right. I approve.” My eyes never left hers as I said it. And when she looked away, avoiding my gaze, I knew I had her cornered. She was fighting it, fighting me. And it only made me want her more.

Throughout the tasting, I couldn’t stop watching her mouth as she spoke, the way her lips glossed under the light, how she’d bite down on the corner when she was nervous.

She had no idea the effect she was having on me, sitting across the table, defiant, stubborn, fire in her eyes. She's a Wildfire, that one. My dick stirred just from the thought of shutting her up with a kiss, just to have a taste of her. Strawberry.

I can smell her just from where I'm sitting; the distance between us seems too far. I needed to feel her in my skin.

But I kept my composure. Stoic. Detached. That was my game.

So when I told my mother we’d need another tasting, I wasn’t just talking about desserts. I wanted to see her again. Needed to. To watch her squirm under my stare, to watch her fight that undeniable pull between us.

She thought she hated me. She thought she was immune. She had no idea.

And as she glared at me. Wide, almond-shaped eyes framed by long lashes, a deep espresso brown that can go from fiery when she’s angry to honey-soft when she’s vulnerable.

They burn with fury and something else, something hotter. I knew one thing for sure.

This wasn’t just business anymore.

It was a dangerous game.

And I fully intended to win.

I'll surely see her again.

I needed to get out of her presence any longer, and I might’ve crossed a line neither of us was ready for. So I forced myself to turn away and leave immediately.

Right now, standing in the elevator to go and have a conversation with my mother, she's all I think of.

What are you doing to me, Demetria?

I've never felt this kind of attraction towards any woman before. There's something about her that I can't seem to catch, but it's there, in her look, like comfort.

She's vulnerable, but she refuses to break.

I chuckled, drawing myself back to present as I entered the meeting room.

“Has she left?” Mom asked.

“Yes, mother.”

“I like her, Marion. I see you admiring Demetria. I could feel the tension in the air between the two of you.”

“Mom, this is not the time for your psychological thinking”. I teased, sitting down beside her.

“You have my blessings already”. She says, watching me keenly while smiling.

“Mom… Enough, please”.

“Sure, I'll be here when you need advice”.

“Who says I'll speak to you about a relationship with Demetria?”

She shrugged. “When it happens, and you speak to your father about it, he'll tell me”. She said with a knowing smile. “His mouth can't hold water when he's with me”.

I laugh hysterically. “I'll keep that in mind then”.

Marcel would be the best option then.

“How much did you give her?” I ask, referring to the envelope.

“Thousand dollars,” she replies.

“Hmmm”. I'll ask my assistant to arrange flowers for her and a simple diamond necklace from Cartier. We produce diamonds for them.

A bouquet of blush roses and white lilies with a single orchid in the center would do as an apology. At the same time, she is unique and beautiful.

“Son…

“Mother…

She stands carrying her coffee-brown Birkin bag, which matches her outfit. A birthday gift from me.

“I'll leave now, I need to go home and have a rest.”

I also stood to hug her.

“I leave for Las Vegas on Saturday morning. I'll come back early on Monday to meet up with Demetria, Mother. I need to see things for myself there quickly, it's been a while”.

“As I have told you, rest son, and find a good woman by your side while you travel for the weekend, not Paula.”

Currently, Paula’s the one I’m having an affair with. Proud to say, we’ve made it a whole two months, longer than most. It’s May now. We’re in what I like to call a “committed uncommitment”. Either one of us could end it any time and go our separate ways without hard feelings.

There was no love here. Lust, yes. Excitement, yes. But love? No. And maybe that was safer.

For her sake, I hoped she understood that. Because if she didn’t, things were bound to get messy.

“I'm not going with Paula, Mother.”

“Sure.”

As soon as I opened the door for her. She added. “The right woman is just around the corner, son”.

“I hear you, Mom”. This woman won't let go of this topic now, and I don't know when.

At the car park, I wait for her car to pull off before sliding into my Lamborghini Huracan, going back to my office.

Back in my office, I loosen my tie, sitting behind my desk, but my mind hasn’t left her. Demetria Hernandez. She carried herself with a quiet fire I couldn’t ignore, polished, defiant, and frustratingly intoxicating. The taste of her desserts still lingered on my tongue, but it was her presence that had me restless.

I pressed the intercom to call one of my assistants.

“Yes, sir?”

“Two things,” I said, my tone clipped, decisive. “Send an arrangement of blush roses and white lilies with a single orchid in the center to Miss Demetria Hernandez. The note should be handwritten, nothing generic. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. And the second?”

I leaned back in my chair, a smirk tugging at my lips. I noticed the type of necklace she put on, which wasn't expensive but still stood out.

“I want a diamond necklace from Cartier, something elegant, timeless, not ostentatious. Have it boxed and delivered along with the flowers. Ask Stephen for her address. Send them tomorrow morning. No mistakes.”

There was a pause before she replied. “Of course, Mr. Whitfield.”

I ended the call and leaned back, staring at the city skyline through the glass. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her. Yet here I was, crossing a line I couldn’t uncross.

The corner of my mouth tugged in a faint smirk.

Let’s see how long she can resist me.