Chapter 3: Back to Reality

Three days since the club, and I still couldn't get his hands out of my head.

I threw myself into work, kneading dough until my shoulders ached, perfecting croissants I'd made a thousand times, scrubbing the counters until they gleamed. Anything to stop thinking about silver eyes and the word *mate* and the way my wolf had recognized something I couldn't name.

Monday morning was busy. Amy arrived at six, right on time like always. She's a college student who works mornings before her classes start at ten. She's been with me for almost a year now—showed up one day asking if I needed help, and I've never regretted saying yes.

 

"Morning!" She tied on her apron and immediately started singing some pop song I didn't know. Amy always sings while she works. It used to annoy me. Now it feels normal.

 

She put the new bread in the display case while I worked the cash register.

 

"All done," she said. "Want me to wash dishes?"

 

"You're the best."

 

Mrs. Park came in for her weekly bread. I was wrapping it when the bell rang again.

 

Marcus.

He stood in the doorway like he had any right to be here, looking guilty and pathetic and somehow still expecting sympathy.

"Della, please—"

"Get out."

"Just five minutes. Let me explain—"

"Explain what?" My voice came out louder than I'd meant. "That you've been fucking my best friend for two months? That you looked me in the eye every single day and lied?"

Mrs. Park made a small noise. Other customers had gone quiet, watching.

"It wasn't—it just happened, I couldn't—"

"Two months, Marcus." My hands were shaking. I gripped the counter. "You had two months to tell me the truth."

"We had three years together." He reached for my hand, and I jerked back like he'd tried to burn me. "Doesn't that mean anything?"

"It meant everything. Past tense." I pointed to the door. "Leave. Don't come back."

His face cycled through emotions, shame, anger, desperation. "You'll regret this. When you're alone and—"

"Out. Now."

He left, finally, and I managed to hold it together until the door closed behind him. Then Amy was beside me, hand on my shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." I wasn't, but I would be. "Thanks."

The lunch rush kept me busy enough to almost forget. Almost. Amy took her break around noon, and I was reorganizing supplies when Mr. Chen came in.

One look at his face and my stomach dropped.

"We need to talk." He wouldn't meet my eyes.

I led him to a corner table, dread building with every step.

"Someone wants to buy the building." He took off his glasses, cleaned them, a nervous habit I'd seen before, never a good sign. "They made an offer yesterday."

"You're not selling." It wasn't a question. It couldn't be a question.

"The offer was... substantial. But I said no. I have tenants." He finally looked at me. "They said they'd force the sale."

"They can't do that—"

"They have lawyers. Resources. I'm just—" He gestured helplessly. "They want to demolish it. Build something new."

The room tilted slightly. "This is my mother's bakery. I'm not leaving."

"The company owner is Dante Blackwood." Mr. Chen said the name carefully, like it might conjure something. "He owns half the city. Nobody tells him no."

The name shouldn't have meant anything to me. But something stirred, my wolf, paying attention in a way she hadn't in days.

"I don't care if he owns the whole city." My voice came out steady despite the fear crawling up my spine. "Mom built this place from nothing. I'm not letting some billionaire destroy it because he can."

"I'll delay as long as possible." Mr. Chen stood, looking older than he had five minutes ago. "But start thinking about contingencies. Just in case."

"There is no 'just in case.'" But he was already leaving, and I was alone with the reality that everything I'd built here was suddenly, impossibly fragile.

Amy came back to find me staring at nothing.

"What happened?"

"Landlord stuff. Nothing." I stood too fast. "Can you cover the front? I need a minute."

In the back room, I leaned against the wall and tried to breathe. Mom's face flashed through my mind, the way she'd looked those last few months, wasted by cancer but still smiling, making me promise to keep the bakery alive.

My phone rang. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Miss Della Hart?" Male, professional, cold.

"Speaking."

"I'm calling on behalf of Dante Blackwood. He'd like to meet with you tomorrow at two p.m. Blackwood Tower downtown."

My throat went dry. "Why would he want to meet—"

"Mr. Blackwood doesn't accept refusals. Two p.m., Miss Hart. Don't be late."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, pulse hammering. The man who wanted to destroy my life wanted to meet me face to face.

Part of me wanted to refuse. To make him come to me if he wanted a fight.

But the smarter part, the part that had survived five years outside my pack, that had built a human life from nothing, knew better. You didn't ignore a summons from someone like Dante Blackwood.

Not if you wanted to keep what was yours.

I saved the number, hands steadier than I felt. Then I texted back a single word:

*Fine.*

The response came immediately:

*A car will pick you up at 1:45.*

Of course it would. Men like that always had drivers. Always had people to do their bidding.

I pocketed my phone and went back to work. I had pastries to bake and customers to serve and approximately twenty-six hours to figure out how to tell a billionaire to go to hell without losing everything.

Tomorrow at two, I'd walk into Dante Blackwood's tower.

And I'd walk out with my bakery still standing, whatever it took.