Chapter 3 - Terms of Engagement
By Friday morning, my simple bakery had become ground zero for a high-stakes family war I barely understood.
At 6:50 a.m., Lily arrived at the back door of Honey & Rye wearing flour-dusted jeans and a dark green sweater. She didn't say much at first, but as I handed her a rolling pin and walked her through the delicate, layered fold of butter-laminated dough, the tension in her young shoulders slowly melted away.
She was smart, precise, and remarkably patient—traits I suspected she inherited from her terrifying uncle.
“He doesn’t sleep, you know,” Lily murmured around 7:30, keeping her eyes fixed on the dough sheet in front of her.
I paused from shaping cinnamon twists. “Who? Roman?”
“Yeah,” Lily said quietly. “He stays up in his study until four in the morning, reading through legal papers and court documents. He’s trying to secure my permanent guardianship before Aunt Sophia’s lawyers file their petition next Friday.”
I wiped a smear of butter off my thumb. “Is Sophia really that bad?”
“She isn't evil,” Lily sighed, dusting a fine coat of flour onto the wooden bench. “She just thinks Uncle Roman is going to get killed, like my dad did. She thinks his life is a war zone. She wants to lock me away in a golden cage in Geneva where nothing bad can ever reach me. But I don't want a golden cage, Clare. I just want... to stay home.”
My heart bruised a little for her. I knew what it felt like to have your world torn out from under you. My own parents had passed when I was twenty-two, leaving me with a mountain of bakery debt and a dream I had to fight tooth and nail to keep alive.
Before I could answer, the front bell chimed.
I stepped out from the kitchen into the front shop. Roman was standing near the register. But he wasn't alone.
Beside him stood Aunt Sophia—a woman in her late sixties who looked like she had just stepped off a runway in Milan, wearing an immaculate ivory coat, oversized diamond earrings, and a look of supreme disapproval.
Behind them stood two built men in dark suits who practically screamed armed security.
“Ah,” Sophia said, her sharp eyes sweeping over my flour-dusted apron, messy topknot, and wooden spoon. “The baker.”
“Aunt Sophia,” Roman warned, his voice low and dangerous. “We agreed you wouldn't invade Clare's workplace.”
“I am not invading, Roman,” Sophia said smoothly, stepping up to the glass display case and peering at the fresh fruit tarts with an aristocratic tilt of her head. “I am simply evaluating the woman my nephew claims has tamed his barbaric schedule. A woman who, if rumors are correct, threw baking supplies at his head three days ago.”
I leaned both hands on the counter, looking Sophia dead in the eye. “It was unbleached Gold Medal flour, Mrs. Duca. And he deserved it for trying to buy out my morning line.”
Sophia froze. Then, slowly, a cold, sharp smile spread across her face. “She has spine. I’ll give her that.”
“Clare isn't on trial here, Sophia,” Roman stepped between us, his posture rigid.
“Isn't she?” Sophia asked softly, her eyes flashing with cold strategy. “You want the family council to grant you full custody of Lily, Roman. You claim you are providing a stable, domestic, normal life for a traumatized orphan. Yet your house has no female presence, your schedule is chaotic, and your 'relationship' with Miss Bennett seems remarkably convenient.”
Sophia turned to me, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness. “Tell me, Miss Bennett. How long have you and my nephew been intimate?”
I felt a sudden flush of heat creep up my neck. I looked at Roman. His jaw was locked tight, his dark eyes silently pleading with me not to blow his cover, yet simultaneously offering me an exit if I wanted to pull the pin and walk away.
I looked past them toward the kitchen doorway, where Lily was peeking out, her knuckles white as she clutched her rolling pin, terror plain on her face.
If I told the truth right now, Sophia would win. Lily would be on a plane to Switzerland by next week.
I took a slow, deep breath, cleared my throat, and looked directly at Aunt Sophia.
“We’ve been seeing each other for six weeks, Mrs. Duca,” I said, my voice steady, warm, and entirely convincing. “Roman comes in every morning at eight-fifteen for coffee. He brings me my favorite dark roast, he listens to me complain about flour prices, and on Sunday nights, he cooks dinner for me at his apartment while Lily does her homework.”
Roman’s head snapped toward me, his dark eyes widening in pure shock.
Sophia raised a manicured eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“It is,” I lied smoothly, stepping around the counter and walking right up to Roman. I reached out, gently straightening his silk tie, letting my fingers brush against the warm skin of his throat. “He’s terrible at baking, but he’s remarkably good at paying attention to what I need.”
Roman didn't move. He barely breathed. But his hand rose instinctively, cupping the side of my waist, his warm palm pressing against the small of my back with an electric intensity that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
“She’s telling the truth, Aunt Sophia,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly purr that vibrated against my fingers. “And to prove how serious we are... Clare is coming to the family’s Sunday gala at the estate as my official guest.”
May you like
My head whipped up to look at Roman. We had not agreed to a gala.
Sophia smiled, a predator watching a trap spring shut. “Wonderful. Sunday at eight, then. Don't be late, Miss Bennett. The Duca family loves a good interrogation.”
