All Chapters of The Baker's Billionaire : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

DEMETRIA“¿Así te pones con todos los hombres, mi princesa?” So this is how he acts with every man, my princess?Papá stared between Marion and me, amusement flickering in his eyes despite the tension. He folded his arms over his chest as he spoke, his lips twitching.I shot him a warning glare, already feeling heat climb my neck. Before I could reply, Marion spoke, smooth, steady, and in Spanish.“Perdón, señor. No fue mi intención faltarle el respeto.” Forgive me, sir. I didn’t intend any disrespect.My head snapped toward him. “You speak Spanish?” I blurted, eyes narrowed.Marion turned to me with that maddening smirk. “I understand more than you think, Wildfire.”Papá laughed under his breath. “Bien. Porque vas a necesitarlo con ella.” Good. Because you’ll need it with her.I rolled my eyes. “Alright, enough of the comedy hour. Let’s sit. I’ve cooked, and Papá hasn’t eaten yet.”Marion’s gaze flicked over me, calmer now, but still simmering from earlier. I led them both toward

DEMETRIAAfter the text with Marion, I got ready to leave. I sent a message back asking him why he said he would handle it when I said I was taking my dad to watch the Lakers game. I have to ask Anastasia if they are playing a game this week. Her guy is a sports lawyer; maybe he might help. While I was dressing, I saw my phone vibrating, knowing it was him. He’ll call back. That I know. The basketball game is a surprise thing I want to do for my dad because, aside from horse racing, he loves watching basketball games. A Lakers fan. As if he lives in Los Angeles.I locked the front door behind us and slipped my purse over my shoulder. Papá walked beside me down the hallway, hands casually in his pockets, humming some old ranchera under his breath. His presence in my space still felt surreal, in a comforting way and in a I-ca n’t-hide-anything way.He glanced at me once we stepped into the elevator. “So… ese hombre, Marion,” he murmured lightly, as if he were discussing the weather: t

MARIONI didn’t bother killing the engine right away. The low rumble of the car was intentional, announcing me before anyone had a chance to pretend they weren’t waiting for whoever had just pulled up. After saying goodbye to my family, I decided to come here for Demetria. I’ve missed her presence. I couldn’t wait any longer.The front door opened, and there she was, Demetria, standing on the porch with Anastasia behind her. Her eyes widened when she saw my car, then narrowed like she was weighing irritation against curiosity.She crossed her arms as I stepped out and shut the door. “What are you doing here, Marion?”I smirked, taking my time walking toward them. “Good afternoon to you, too, Wildfire.”Before she could snap back, her father appeared in the doorway. His sharp gaze landed on me—curious, unreadable. Two people behind him, I believe to be Anastasia’s parents, were watching me keenly. “Señor Hernández,” I said respectfully with a slight nod.He returned it, voice even. “¿

MARIONDemetria laid across my chest, fingers absentmindedly stroking the lines of my collarbone. There was no sound except the crash of the ocean beyond the glass walls and the slow rise and fall of her breathing.“When my Nanna died… everything shifted,” she whispered.I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. I just dragged my hand through her hair gently and waited. My instincts screamed to ask questions, but something in her tone warned me: push, and she’d close.“She raised me,” she continued softly. “She and my dad did everything for me. When she passed, something in me snapped. I couldn’t stay in L.A. I couldn’t breathe here. So I left and went back to Mérida.”Her voice stayed calm, but grief lived behind every controlled word.“I told Mark, my ex-fiancé, I was leaving for a while… told him he could visit… told him I needed him to try,” she said with a hollow laugh. “And do you know what he said?”I already hated every version of the answer.“Whenever I called to ask when he plans to visi

MARIONThe conference room of Whitfield Diamond Corporation was all glass, chrome, and caution. Men who controlled global supply chains sat with their backs straight, hands folded — calculating. The ones who didn't know better were waiting to see who held the real power in this room.They were looking at me.But the man sitting at the head of the table — the Chairman's seat — was my father.Maxwell Whitfield. Billionaire. Legend. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command the room — he simply was the room.He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even nod. He just sat there, hands clasped on the table, watching me like a man measuring the worth of his own blood.I stood, palms resting on the polished mahogany table. My presentation behind me displayed bold numbers:Projected Q3 Revenue — $3.8 Trillion. Global Expansion.The room went silent.Even seasoned board members who’d sat through decades of financial reports leaned forward, their expressions flickering between d