CHAPTER 2

Celeste's POV

The world is just a blur of blinding headlights, splashing water, and the heavy pounding of my own heart against my ribs. I step blindly off the curb, my mind entirely numb from shock. The cardboard box in my arms feels heavy, like a small casket carrying the corpse of everything I worked for over the past five years. A loud, sharp honk cuts through the rainy night air, followed by the terrifying screech of tires locking up on wet asphalt.

Before I can even process the danger, a massive black SUV slides to a violent halt just inches from my knees. The momentum jars me so hard that the cardboard box slips from my grip, spilling metal whisks, spatulas, and the framed photo across the wet pavement with a clatter.

"What the hell are you doing, are you trying to get yourself killed?!" a deep, furious voice barks as the driver's side door flies open.

I flinch, blinking hard against the glare of the headlights. My breath hitches in my throat as a tall, imposing figure steps out into the pouring rain. Even under the gloomy streetlamps, the man exudes an unmistakable, dangerous authority. He’s dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that is already getting ruined by the downpour, his broad shoulders squared, and his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitches furiously.

This isn't just some random driver. This is Dominic Reynaud.

I recognize him immediately from the business magazines stacked on my bakery's front counter—the ruthless real estate tycoon who recently bought out half the commercial district downtown, the man whose cold, calculated business moves make corporate veterans tremble. But right now, he doesn't look like a glossy magazine cover. He looks like a ticking time bomb, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his sharp eyes blazing with an intensity that matches my own internal wreckage.

"Are you deaf, or just suicidal?" Dominic snaps again, stepping closer, his imposing height towering over me as I crouch on the wet pavement.

Instead of apologizing or crying like a normal person, a sudden, wild bubble of hysteria rises in my chest. I look down at my ruined designer heels, then at the scattered kitchen tools lying in the muddy puddle, and finally back up at his furious face.

"Is this your way of applying for a job as a delivery driver?" I fire back, my voice shaking with a mix of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated rage. "Because if you wanted to crash into my life, you could have just made an appointment instead of using a two-ton SUV!"

Dominic freezes. For a second, the harsh lines of his face slacken in absolute disbelief, as if he expected me to burst into tears and cower instead of snapping right back at him. He stares down at me, taking in the pathetic sight I make—the streaks of smeared mascara running down my cheeks, the white silk blouse plastered to my skin, and the stubborn, blazing fire in my eyes that refuses to go out even when I have nothing left.

His dark gaze drops lower, lingering for a fraction of a second on the dried smudge of red velvet cake frosting still staining the lapel of my jacket. A strange shift happens in his expression, the fiery anger suddenly cooling into something sharp, analytical, and heavily calculated.

"You're a mess," he says flatly, his voice dropping an octave as he surveys the ruined street around us.

"Oh, really? What gave it away? The professional styling or the fact that I'm sitting in a puddle?" I retort bitterly, scrambling onto my knees to gather my scattered whisks before he can trample them. My fingers are freezing, numb against the cold metal.

Before I can grab the framed photo of my old life, a large, warm hand suddenly closes over the edge of the frame, stopping me. I look up, startled, finding Dominic kneeling down right beside me in the mud, completely unbothered by the ruined fabric of his expensive trousers.

He picks up the frame, turning it over to look at the glass. In the photo, a younger, smiling me and Mark are standing proudly in front of a small pastry cart, holding up a "We're Open!" sign. Dominic’s eyes narrow as he reads the name painted on the cart—Celeste’s Confections.

"Celeste Harrington," he murmurs, reading the small embossed nameplate on the back of the frame. He looks back up at me, his gaze piercing right through my defenses. "The pastry chef who just lost her entire storefront to Mark Vance's new corporate merger tonight. It was all over the evening financial news ticker in my car five minutes ago."

My breath catches sharply. Of course. Everyone in the city's upper crust probably watched my life get dismantled on live television or read about it on their phones while sipping martini cocktails. Humiliation burns hot beneath my skin, sharper and more painful than the rain.

"Hand it back," I whisper, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to sound strong. I reach out to snatch the frame from his grip, but he pulls it just out of reach, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an unnerving intensity.

"You're angry," Dominic states, his voice low and steady, completely devoid of mockery. "And you have every right to be. But standing in the middle of a four-lane highway crying over a cheating ex and an 85,000-dollar bank debt isn't going to get your shop back."

My jaw drops open. "How do you—"

"I know everything about real estate transactions in this city, Miss Harrington. And I know that Mark Vance just used your intellectual property rights to secure a multi-million-dollar commercial lease with the Montgomery group," Dominic interrupts, standing up smoothly and pulling me up by my elbow with surprising strength before I can protest.

I stumble against his chest, catching a faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with the sharp smell of rain. I try to pull back, but his grip remains firm, his gaze holding me captive under the flashing yellow light of a nearby traffic signal.

"Where are you going right now?" he asks, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Back to a cold apartment? A cheap motel? To wander the streets until you freeze?"

"That's none of your business," I snap, trying to wrench my arm free. "Just let go of me, Mr. Reynaud. I have enough problems tonight without a billionaire playing savior."

A dark, humorless smirk touches the corner of his lips. "Good. Because I'm not looking to play the savior. I'm looking for a partner. And as it turns out, you and I share a very specific, very inconvenient enemy named Vance."

Without waiting for my reply, Dominic opens the passenger door of his SUV and firmly guides me inside, slamming the heavy door shut before I can even process what is happening.