The box sat in front of her like a dare, gleaming against the polished counter. The words It's the necklace from the charity ball still hung in the air, the kind of words that didn't know how to disappear quietly.
For a long moment, Isla didn't move. The bakery hum continued around her — the soft scrape of chairs, the hiss of the espresso machine, Callie whispering an incredulous what the hell under her breath — but all of it felt distant, muffled by the weight of the small velvet box sitting between her and the man who'd brought it.
Elliot Whitmore stood like someone trained not to fidget, coat pressed sharp, expression unreadable. He didn't push, didn't speak — just waited with the patience of someone who'd spent years mastering silence.
Then, calmly, he reached into his coat and drew out a small folded note. Cream-colored paper, edges pressed flat, sealed with a wax insignia she recognized even before the light hit it — the royal crest, deep red and perfect.
He set it carefully on top of the box.
"His Highness asked that I deliver this with the necklace," he said.
Isla stared at it, half-expecting it to vanish. "Of course he did," she muttered.
Her fingers hesitated before breaking the seal. The paper gave with a quiet snap — one of those tiny, final sounds that somehow felt louder than they should.
Inside, the handwriting was as neat as she'd feared — deliberate, sharp-edged, the kind of penmanship that screamed royal tutor and too much free time.
It read:
Forgive the delay in returning your property. The courier system at the palace has been dreadfully slow lately.
If you have complaints, please address them to my secretary.
– D.
That was it.
No flourish, no apology, no explanation — just two lines and a signature so arrogant it didn't even need a full name.
Isla stared at it for a few seconds, her jaw tightening in something halfway between disbelief and reluctant laughter. "You've got to be kidding me," she whispered.
Callie, already leaning so far over the counter she was practically horizontal, squinted at the paper. "Oh, is that royal stationery? Does it smell expensive?"
Isla turned just enough to shoot her a look. "Callie."
"What? I'm just saying, it looks like the kind of paper that costs more than my rent."
Elliot didn't comment — of course he didn't. He simply waited, hands clasped neatly behind his back, as if this entire exchange were a routine errand.
Isla exhaled, setting the note down beside the velvet box. The neat lines of Dorian's message seemed to mock her from the countertop — smug, self-satisfied, and perfectly in character.
Because of course he'd do this.
Of course he'd send her a necklace she never wanted and a note that turned it into a joke.
Isla's eyes lingered on the note for another beat before she looked up again.
"Right," she said flatly, pushing a hand through her hair. "Well, you can tell His Highness that I can't accept this."
Elliot blinked once, the faintest nod acknowledging her words but offering no reaction. "It's a personal gift from His Highness," he said evenly.
"Then you can also tell His Highness," Isla replied, her voice climbing a notch, "that I don't accept personal gifts worth more than my entire bakery."
Callie leaned against the counter, arms folded. "You could at least auction it first. Fund our retirement, maybe?"
"Callie." Isla shot her a warning glare.
"What? I'm being practical," she said, deadpan. "You could finally replace that sad espresso machine that sounds like it's dying inside."
Isla groaned, half-exasperated, half amused. "I mean, what does he expect me to do with it? Keep it on the counter next to the biscotti? Hang it from the ceiling fan?"
Elliot remained immovable, the quiet center of a storm he clearly anticipated. He didn't interrupt. Didn't even blink.
"I can't possibly keep something that costs more than my apartment," Isla went on, gesturing helplessly. "Or my oven. Or my sanity, for that matter. Where would I even wear it? The grocery store?"
That earned a laugh from Callie, small but sharp enough to cut the tension. "You'd be the most glamorous person ever to buy milk."
Isla shot her a look, though her lips twitched. "Not helping."
Elliot finally spoke, tone still as diplomatic as a glass surface. "His Highness anticipated your... hesitation."
"Oh, I'm sure he did." She folded her arms, heat creeping into her cheeks. "He probably counted on it."
He gave no sign of agreement or denial. Only the kind of professional patience that said this wasn't the first argument he'd endured on royal behalf. His calm was infuriating — and, in some distant way, impressive.
Elliot adjusted his stance just slightly, the motion almost imperceptible — a small shift of weight, a straightening of the shoulders. When he spoke, his tone was still courteous, but firmer now, like the words had been rehearsed long before he ever stepped foot in her bakery.
"His Highness anticipated your... reservations."
Isla blinked. "My what now?"
"Your decision to refuse the gift." Elliot's phrasing was precise, chosen like someone afraid to spill a single unnecessary syllable. "He instructed that, should you decline, I was to bring you to him personally."
The words dropped between them like something too heavy to ignore.
Callie's brows shot up. "Bring her to him? Like, physically?"
Elliot turned his calm, diplomatic gaze toward her. "Preferably with her consent."
"Preferably?" Callie muttered. "That's comforting."
Isla just stared at him, sure she'd misheard. "I'm sorry, you want me to what?"
"It's a matter of courtesy, Miss Reed," he replied evenly. "So that you may return it properly, without misunderstanding or—" he paused, searching for the word, "—discourtesy."
Isla's eyebrows arched, disbelief fighting with amusement. "Rude to him? Or rude to you?"
He gave her a small, polite smile — the kind that didn't reach the eyes but managed to seem genuine anyway. "Both, perhaps."
Callie snorted before she could stop herself. "Oh, this is good. Royal etiquette and passive aggression before nine A.M.? Love that for you."
Isla ignored her, though her lips twitched despite herself. "Look, I appreciate the gesture, really, but I'm not about to make some grand return-trip to the palace just to hand back something I didn't ask for."
Elliot didn't move. "His Highness also instructed me to inform you that the matter would not be considered resolved until the item was returned directly to him."
She blinked again. "You mean, personally returned?"
"That would be the correct interpretation."
Callie whispered, "Oh, he's totally doing this on purpose."
Isla could feel the tension gathering behind her ribs, irritation curling warm in her chest. "He's unbelievable."
Elliot's composure didn't falter. "His Highness rarely issues requests lightly."
"Yeah," Isla said dryly, "I noticed."
The box still gleamed between them on the counter — quiet, expensive, and taunting. It was ridiculous, but somehow she could almost hear the prince's voice in the back of her head, all calm arrogance and careful phrasing: If you have complaints, please address them to my secretary.
She took a slow breath, pressing her palms against the counter. "So, just to be clear—if I don't go to him, what? You'll drag me there?"
His tone didn't change. "I would never use that word, Miss Reed."
Callie grinned. "But you're thinking it."
For a moment, something like humor flickered across Elliot's face — gone before it could be confirmed.