Sebastian Kairen had never been one to linger. His life was a constant rhythm of boardrooms, briefings, and flights between cities that blurred into one another. He wore sharp suits and sharper words, moving through the world with the assured air of a man who owned more than he could count.
He was always in motion, always calculating, always maintaining the distance that kept him untouchable.
Desire was a distraction he rarely permitted, and attachment was a liability he never risked.
Elin Chen had lodged herself beneath his skin in a way that irritated him more than it frightened him.
At first, he told himself it was mere curiosity. She was nothing like the women who populated his world — not the polished, glamorous figures who laughed at his jokes or smiled at his attention. Elin was soft where he was steel, grounded where he hovered in a world of ambition and control.
It was magnetic, in a way he had never anticipated.
The memory of her smile in the supermarket refused to leave him. It had been bright, genuine, the kind of light that reached her eyes before it reached her lips. He remembered the way she had laughed at a little joke from an elderly woman inspecting the apples, the hair falling carelessly across her forehead, the smudge of flour on her cheek from whatever she had been baking that morning.
No makeup. No pretence.
Just... her.
And then the smile had faltered the moment she saw him. Her body had shifted subtly, the faint step backward, the quick adjustment of her posture. Her voice had carried the careful edge of politeness, and there had been that fleeting attempt to escape, to erase the encounter before it could unfold.
That reaction had done something to him. It had caught his attention in a way that strategy and instinct could not explain.
Sebastian had built his empire on control. Every deal, every alliance, every carefully calculated risk was designed to bend the world to his will. Yet here he was, parked in his car across the street from Bluebell Bakes, unable to tear himself away. He told himself it was simply observation, reconnaissance even, but the truth was more uncomfortable.
He wanted to see her again, not for strategy, not for leverage, but for the strange calm that came from watching her work.
The next morning, he found himself passing the bakery more than once. The first time had been a glance through the window, a measure of curiosity. The second had been an excuse, telling himself the neighbourhood was worth noting for business purposes. By the third time, he could not deny it.
Sebastian realized with a flash of something he refused to name that he was not merely observing. He was captivated. He wanted to be near her, to understand her world, to see the moments when she was herself — unguarded, authentic, untouched by his universe of glass and steel.
The pastel walls, the scent of buttered bread, the sunlight spilling over her shoulders, and the quiet rhythm of her work pulled something from him he had thought long buried.
He lingered a moment longer, leaning back in the driver's seat, his hand resting on the wheel, unwilling to move. He had been a master of strategy, of planning, of anticipating outcomes, but he could not plan for this. He could not predict the draw of her presence or the way it unsettled him.
When she finally noticed him through the bakery's large glass window, Elin's smile faltered. It was subtle, but enough to catch his attention. Her eyes widened just slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise passing over her features. She looked startled, almost wary, like a small animal sensing something unfamiliar in her territory. Sebastian raised a hand in a polite greeting, his posture relaxed, his expression carefully neutral.
She hesitated. The movement of her body seemed almost choreographed, then, after a long moment, she gave a small, uncertain nod before disappearing through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Sebastian's lips curved. She wasn't going to make it easy. That was clear.
And he respected that more than he wanted to admit. There was a challenge in her restraint, a delicate tension in her avoidance that made him lean forward slightly in his seat. He allowed himself a rare, private smile. Most people he met were predictable, their intentions easy to read. Elin was neither. She moved through the world with both simplicity and authenticity.
It made her all the more compelling.
Later that evening, as the city hummed beneath his penthouse, his phone buzzed. The name on the screen was expected, and unwelcome: Vivian.
"Sebastian," she began, her tone clipped and polished, each word sharp and controlled, but threaded with irritation he could hear clearly. "You're taking too long. I thought you were supposed to distract her, not fall for her."
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the light catch along the curves of the crystal. Leaning back in his chair, he let the warmth of the scotch seep into his hands, grounding him. "You misunderstand me," he said smoothly. "I am not falling. I am simply observing."
"Observing?" Her incredulity cut across the line like glass. "She's a baker, Sebastian. For God's sake. You cannot be serious."
He did not immediately respond. His gaze drifted to the skyline outside his window, the city lights sprawling like constellations he could touch if he reached out.
"I wasn't," he said finally, voice low and deliberate. "But then I saw her."
The line went silent. He could almost hear her disbelief vibrating through the receiver. "You're deviating from the plan," she said after a long pause, her voice hardening, the control she prided herself on straining at the edges.
"Perhaps," he said, and allowed a faint, almost secret smile to tug at his lips. "Or perhaps I have simply found a better one."
Vivian's sigh was audible, sharp with exasperation, but it lacked conviction. Sebastian knew her well enough to detect the edge of uncertainty beneath her polish. He could sense her trying to mask it with irritation, trying to maintain authority over a situation that had already begun slipping from her grasp.
"I do not deviate without reason," he added, letting the words linger. "I evaluate. I adapt. And sometimes, the best plans are those that are not written in advance."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. He imagined Vivian frowning, tapping her manicured nails against her desk, calculating, weighing, trying to maintain control of a narrative that he no longer fully adhered to.
"Just remember," she said finally, voice low, edged with a quiet threat, "our goal has not changed. Distraction, Sebastian. Nothing else."
He allowed a slow, measured chuckle to escape him. "Of course. Nothing else. "
He hung up the phone and set it aside, feeling the weight of anticipation settle over him like a cloak. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the city sprawling endlessly below him. Elin was small in comparison, a flicker of movement in a world too large and too calculated. And yet, somehow, she had captured his attention, disrupted his rhythm, challenged the control he prided himself on.
He thought of her hands as she worked, the dusting of flour on her cheeks, the subtle tilt of her head when she laughed. The way she tried to avoid him without seeming rude. The way the sunlight caught her hair as she moved behind the counter, simple and unguarded.
He poured another measure of scotch and lifted the glass to the dim light, letting the warmth roll over his tongue. Watching her would not be enough. Observing from afar would not suffice. He wanted her attention. He wanted her presence. And he would find a way to make her see him, truly see him, without anyone else noticing.
***
The morning crowd at Bluebell Bakes had thinned to a quiet hum. Sunlight poured through the glass windows, scattering across the pastel blue walls and catching the golden flakes of croissants in the display.
When the door chimed, she glanced up briefly, offering a polite smile. It faltered when she saw who it was.
Sebastian Kairen.
He walked in with the kind of easy grace that filled the room without needing to announce itself. His suit was charcoal, pressed sharp, the kind that caught the light at the seams. His eyes swept over the bakery slowly before landing on her.
"Elin," he greeted, voice low, smooth.
She tensed. "Sebastian?"
He smiled faintly, unbothered by her coolness. "You remember my name. That's a good start."
Her lips pressed together. "What can I get you?"
He leaned slightly against the counter, studying the neat row of pastries before looking up at her again. "Maybe just a recommendation. You're the expert, after all."
"The raspberry danish," she said quickly, her tone clipped. "They're fresh out of the oven."
He could tell she wanted the interaction over before it began.
There was a faint stiffness in her voice, a polite efficiency that left no space for conversation. Most people bent under his charm — some out of admiration, others out of fear — but Elin didn't bend.
"I'll take one," he said, watching her pack the pastry. Her movements were steady, like she was overcompensating for his presence.
When she set the box in front of him, he didn't take it right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on her hands — small, dusted with flour, steady as stone. He wondered what they looked like when they weren't guarded.
"You run this place well," he said softly.
She gave a small nod, not looking up. "Thank you."
The conversation should have ended there, but he didn't move. He tilted his head, watching her work as she rearranged the pastries. "I've passed by here a few times. You always seem busy."
"I am."
He smiled at her bluntness. "Axton's lucky."
Her head lifted sharply at that, eyes narrowing slightly. "Excuse me?"
He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. "To have someone like you. So grounded and steady."
Something flickered across her face, surprise, maybe discomfort. Before she looked away again. "We're both busy people," she said after a beat. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"
He stepped aside, giving her space, but there was amusement in his eyes. "Of course. I didn't mean to interrupt your... flow."
She didn't respond.
He studied her for another moment, trying to find the rhythm of her. The way her movements carried quiet confidence, the way her eyes softened when she spoke to a customer but turned guarded when she faced him. Every small resistance intrigued him more.
"Persistent, aren't I?" he murmured, almost to himself.
Elin's gaze snapped to his, sharp and tired. "Some people would call it rude."
He chuckled softly. "Then I suppose I should work on my manners."
"I think you should work on leaving," she said, voice calm but final.
Her tone should have made him step back. Instead, he found himself smiling again, slower this time, like he'd discovered something precious and dangerous all at once. "You don't like me very much."
"I don't know you," she said evenly. "And I'd like to keep it that way."
He tilted his head, studying her. Then, feigning a faint hurt, he said, "You don't know me? I helped you when you sprained your ankle, remember?"
That startled her for just a moment — her eyes flicked to his, then away. He had indeed helped her that day in here, this bakery weeks ago, when she had almost fell, only to twist her ankle.
But she had also realized later that he was that Sebastian — the man that Axton had told her to stay away from.
She kept her tone neutral. "I'm thankful for that."
When he finally picked up the pastry box, his fingers brushed hers briefly. She drew back as if burned.
"Enjoy your day, Elin," he said softly, and walked out.
The bell above the door chimed again, leaving the faint scent of his cologne in the air. Elin let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
She was already speaking to another customer, her smile back in place, her expression bright and professional.
It was as if he hadn't been there at all.
Outside, the city noise pressed against the glass. Sebastian stood on the sidewalk, staring through the window at the woman moving gracefully behind the counter. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then a slow, thoughtful smile curved his lips.