Chapter 4: Bittersweet

Aria

Damien Von Adler is in my bakery.

He’s been sitting at a table in the corner for far too long, ordering nothing—just his fingers twitching like they’ve forgotten what they were made for. His presence slices through the comforting scent of brown sugar, cinnamon, and cooling puff pastry like a cold front. I can see my waitresses shifting, uneasy.

He’s never been here. Not once. Not in six years.

And I’ve owned this place for four of them.

From the narrow slit in the kitchen door, I watch him. My heart drops out of rhythm, thudding low and uneven with the weight of everything unsaid.

Last night, I told myself I was done. Done letting his memory linger in the corners of my mind like a stubborn shadow. And now he’s here. Casting it over everything again.

Maeve slips in beside me, voice low and mischievous. “There’s a guy out there. Tall. Dark. Drenched. Looks like he owns Wall Street or maybe just casually dismantled it before breakfast. Friend of yours?”

Not anymore.

“I got it,” I say, already untying my apron. My fingers tremble as I dust flour from my sleeves.

I don’t got this.

I push through the swinging door.

Damien turns at the sound, his eyes locking onto me like a match catching flame. He takes in the whole picture-my hair tied up, sleeves rolled, and probably a smear of chocolate across my wrist. His gaze lingers. Something flickers in his expression. Something old. Familiar. Dangerous.

“Hi,” I say, voice cool. “Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me, like whatever line he’d rehearsed evaporated the second I appeared. Maybe he thought this would be cinematic. Like closure. Redemption.

It’s not. It’s just quiet. And aching. And real.

“May I please have a croissant?” he asks finally, voice lower than I remember. Gentler.

I blink. He hates croissants. Too flaky, too fussy. He used to complain every time I brought one into study hall.

“Sure,” I say. “And coffee?”

His lips tug, barely. “Black. No sugar.”

I busy myself behind the counter, letting the routine steady my pulse. Pour. Plate. Fold napkin. Breathe.

Then, almost without thinking, I swap the croissant for a slice of lemon tart.

I know he’d rather have that.

He notices.

His brow furrows. Then, a faint, reluctant smile ghosts his mouth. “This isn’t a croissant.”

“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”

A beat.

“It’s good to see you, Aria.”

My fingers tighten around the tray.

“It’s good to see you too,” I murmur, though the words sting on the way out.

“I mean it,” he says softly. “Aria…”

I meet his gaze. And for a moment, all the steel of his name—Von Adler—melts into that boy who once held my hand like it was his compass. That boy who used to walk me to my dorm in the rain. That boy who shattered everything.

I shouldn’t care.

But I do.

I slide into the seat across from him, spine straight, smile sweet. “How’s your wife?” I ask. “And little Theo?”

The question slices cleanly through the air between us. I ask it like a knife-sharp, deliberate. A reminder. A defence.

His expression falters. Just for a moment. So brief anyone else would’ve missed it. But I know him. I knew him.

“They’re… well.”

The pause before the word lands heavy.

I nod. Brisk. Busy myself rearranging sugar packets like they matter.

“Good,” I say. “That’s good.”

Silence stretches again, taut and loaded. Every second feels like it’s vibrating with what we’re not saying.

Then the bell above the door chimes, and salvation walks in wearing a black turtleneck and the self-assurance of someone born to steal attention.

“Arrriiiiiaaaaaa,” Adrian announces, all flair and swagger, “my divine goddess of gluten. Tell me you saved me a cheese danish or I’ll start a revolution out there with the Upper East Side PTA moms.”

I laugh.Real, sudden. Like exhaling after holding my breath too long. Adrian always knows how to anchor me.

“There’s one left,” I say. “But you will have to duel for it.”

“I’d let you win,” he declares. “But only because I love you. Mostly.”

Then, finally, Adrian turns to Damien. His tone cools, but only slightly.

“Mr. Von Adler,” he says. “Didn’t expect to find you among carbs.”

Damien’s jaw shifts. “Nor did I expect to be.”

Adrian smiles thinly. “Well, welcome to Joie du Sucre. Try the scones. Emotionally healing.”

I hold back a laugh. Adrian knows what he is doing.

Damien sets his cup down gently. “I should go.” We both stand, I walk to the counter and he walks to the door.

“Take care,” I say, arms folded tightly across my chest so I don’t reach for him.

He offers a faint nod. One last look. Then he leaves, the bell chiming like a whisper behind him.

I watch the door long after it swings closed.

Adrian doesn’t speak. He just unwraps his danish and leans against the counter beside me, presence solid, steady.

“He’s never been here,” I whisper.

“I figured.”

“I don’t know what he wants.”

“I don’t think he does either.”

I nod. Eyes locked on the chair he left behind, like I’m waiting for it to explain something.

“Is it weird,” I ask slowly, “that part of me wishes he’d stayed?”

Adrian chews thoughtfully. Then swallows.

“It’s not weird,” he says gently. “It’s just the part of you that remembers how it felt to be loved by him.”

The ovens hiss. Somewhere in the back, a timer beeps. I should move. I should do something.

Instead, I just stand there.

Because Damien von Adler walked into my bakery like nothing.

And I’m terrified that some lost part of me still belongs to him.