DEMETRIA

The next morning, I stood in the middle of the bakery’s kitchen, apron tied neatly around my waist, my tote bag still hanging off one shoulder. The air was warm with the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon rolls cooling on the racks. My team, Amanda, and two of our junior bakers looked up from their stations as I clapped my hands lightly for attention.

“Okay, everyone, quick meeting,” I began, my tone calm but carrying the weight of what I was about to say. “I met with Mrs. Whitfield and her son yesterday.”

Amanda perked up, eyes bright with curiosity. “So? How did it go? Did they like the samples?”

“They did,” I replied, exhaling slowly. “Mrs. Whitfield was pleased. She even praised the shortbread cookies and tartlets.” I paused, glancing down at the countertop before meeting their eyes again. “But… Marion Whitfield, her son, insisted on a second tasting before giving final approval. He said it was to make sure nothing goes wrong on the day of the gala.”

A murmur ran through the group. Amanda frowned. “But the contract was already signed, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “We have the contract. That part is secure. But apparently, his approval was just as important. He wanted to come here, to the bakery, for another round next Monday, at eleven o’clock a.m., together with his mom.”

Brielle groaned softly. “So we’re basically auditioning again? We’ve spent one week, so a week is left to the gala, Madam.”

I gave a small, wry smile. “That’s one way to put it. But we’re not treating this as an audition—we’re treating it as a chance to impress them even more. This is the Whitfields. If we do this right, word will spread far beyond just the gala. It could open doors we can’t even imagine right now.”

Amanda crossed her arms, shaking her head. “Sounds like the son’s just making things difficult on purpose.”

“You’re not wrong,” I muttered under my breath before straightening my shoulders. “But difficult or not, we’re going to rise to the challenge. I want new variations tested ASAP—refined versions of the tartlets, and we’ll add something unexpected, something elegant that screams ‘gala.’ I’ll need extra hands today before the week ends tomorrow.”

The team nodded, some reluctantly, some excitedly. Amanda gave me a small smile of reassurance.

“Don’t worry, Bosslady,” she said. “If they want another show, we’ll give them the best one they’ve ever seen.”

I smiled back, though inwardly my chest tightened. A second tasting wasn’t just about desserts—it was about facing him again.

After a few hours of prepping, we took a break. In my small office, I leaned back, propping my feet on the desk. I was tired; I had been standing for half the day. I was enjoying my chicken sandwich when Amanda entered.

“Bosslady, you have a delivery.”

“Delivery? From who?”

“The delivery man didn’t say. He said it’s a surprise from someone you know.”

“Hmmm… let’s go then.”

We walked out of the office together, the hum of the kitchen filling my ears — mixers whirring, trays clinking, the faint scent of butter and sugar lingering in the air. At the front counter sat a sleek black box embossed with Cartier in gold, tied with a satin emerald ribbon.

I froze. This wasn’t from a supplier. This was deliberate. Intentional.

Amanda clapped her hands together like a kid on Christmas. “Bosslady, I told you. Open it!”

My hands trembled slightly as I untied the ribbon, lifting the lid.

The scent hit me first — soft, intoxicating. Nestled inside was an arrangement of blush roses and white lilies, carefully spiraled together with a single orchid in the center, bold and impossible to ignore. Elegant. Intentional. The kind of bouquet that wasn’t random — it was chosen, thought through.

And then my breath caught.

Resting against the velvet lining, just below the flowers, was a small Cartier red box. My pulse roared in my ears as I flicked it open with careful fingers. Inside gleamed a diamond necklace — delicate yet commanding, the kind of piece you don’t just buy. The kind of piece you send.

My throat tightened.

Amanda practically squealed beside me. “OH. MY. GOD. This is next-level romance novel stuff, Bosslady. Cartier? Do you realize what this means?”

I didn’t answer. My eyes landed on the folded card tucked between the roses, my fingers almost hesitant as I drew it out. Bold, sharp handwriting cut across the page:

For the woman who thinks she can resist me, consider this the first move — M.W.

Heat flushed through me, traitorous and unwelcome. Marion Whitfield. His contact is attached.

My jaw tightened, my chest aching with irritation and something else I didn’t want to name. He thought he could send flowers and diamonds like it was some kind of game? Like I was another one of his… playthings?

Amanda fanned herself dramatically. “Bosslady, he loves you.”

I snapped the box shut, clutching it close. “He thinks he can buy me.”

But the truth was, I loved it. The blush roses, the orchid, the weight of the diamonds against the velvet — it all stirred something inside me I didn’t want to admit out loud.

Still, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

No thank-you message. No acknowledgment. Nothing.

Back in my office, I snapped a picture of the gifts and sent it to Anastasia. That girl was my sister through and through; we shared everything, and this was no exception.

From Mr. Handsome Devil, I typed before hitting send.

A few minutes later, her reply popped up:

Girl, I wish I were in your shoes right now.

You don’t want your man anymore? I teased back.

Maybe… she answered, adding a laughing emoji.

Let’s go out tonight, and wear the necklace.

Where?

It’s a surprise. Hmm…

Okay.

Good, I’ll come to your place, and we'll go together.

Sure. Later, Anas. I can tell you are busy. She would’ve called me when she saw the message at first.

Okay, later.

Leaning back in my chair, I let a devilish smile curl across my lips.

I got up and headed back into the kitchen to finish what I had started with my team. I need to hurry, I have somewhere to be at night. If we stayed focused, we could wrap up early, head home, and return tomorrow to continue.

I smiled faintly, tucking the box away containing my surprise gifts.

If Marion Whitfield wanted to play this game, then I would play it better. Let him wonder if his gift had impressed me, if it had moved me, if it had reached me at all.

Suspense, after all, was a taste far sweeter than surrender.