The delicate chime of the bell above the bakery door sliced through the quiet morning, its soft sound echoing off the tile floor.
Elin's hand froze mid-motion, hovering over a tray of still-warm croissants she was arranging for the display case. The rich, heavy smell of melted butter and brewing coffee hung in the air, a comforting, familiar blanket she usually found peace in. But something sharp and cold seized her chest all the same. She knew that the chime was not for a customer looking for breakfast.
The footsteps that followed were unhurried, measured, and entirely too confident. They resonated on the wooden floor with a calculated ease that was utterly familiar, a presence she had hoped to avoid for weeks. When she finally turned, her breath hitched, a sudden, panicked tightening in her throat.
Sebastian stood just inside the entrance.
He looked precisely as he always did—like a man who existed purely in magazine spreads. He wore a crisp, immaculate white shirt that seemed to glow in the bakery's soft light, paired with perfectly tailored charcoal trousers.
The faintest, expensive hint of his cologne—something woody and sharp—drifted in as he moved past the door, contaminating the pure scent of yeast and sugar. His dark, practiced eyes swept over the entire bakery, lingering on the overflowing baskets of bread and the gleaming pastries, before finally settling on her.
They held her gaze for a heartbeat too long, a possessive scrutiny that made her skin crawl.
"Morning, Elin," he greeted, his tone warm, easy, entirely too casual. "Didn't think I'd find you open this early. Hard at work?"
Elin forced a professional, polite smile, clutching the stainless-steel tray of croissants like it was a vital anchor grounding her against the sudden shift in the atmosphere. "We open at seven, Sebastian," she replied, her voice steady despite the frantic drumming of her heart.
He strolled closer, moving with the unhurried grace of someone who expected to command the space. He stopped just across the marble counter, leaning his forearms on the cool surface, invading her invisible boundary.
"I couldn't sleep," he confided, his voice dropping slightly, laced with a manufactured intimacy. "Too much on my mind, I suppose. And I thought, well, a perfect croissant is about the only thing that fixes a rough night." His eyes held hers, a silent, knowing reference to the drama that had consumed the last forty-eight hours.
A wave of nausea washed over Elin. The sight of him, the sound of his voice, triggered an instant replay of the argument with Axton, the staged breakup, and the sheer terror of realizing she had been a pawn in his corporate game. She knew she had to perform the act Axton had outlined, but the resentment was a bitter bile in her throat.
"Right. Well, we have plenty of croissants," she said curtly, turning back to the display case, carefully arranging the pastries in neat, buttery rows. She kept her focus on the task, using the rhythm of her work as a shield. "Are you buying, or just browsing?"
He chuckled softly, a low, smooth sound that was immediately unnerving. "Always the professional, even after a rough night."
His voice had always carried that same effortless, silver-tongued charm, but now it felt heavier, weighted, and utterly calculated. Every word was a probe, a test.
Elin's heart beat a little too fast, a rapid, frantic rhythm against her ribs. She forced herself to complete the task, setting the empty stainless-steel tray down behind the counter with a loud, unnecessary clatter. She remembered Axton's urgent, coded message from last night, the one she'd reread at least a dozen times, the words searing themselves into her memory before she finally managed to drift into a shallow, fitful sleep.
If he comes, act heartbroken. Distracted. Let him think we're over. You're mourning the relationship, remember?
She swallowed hard, her throat feeling like sandpaper. She lowered her gaze, deliberately obscuring her face, and fussed with a clean cloth that certainly didn't need fixing, mimicking the nervous displacement of someone in turmoil. "What brings you here?" she managed, injecting a tone of strained indifference into her voice.
"Checking in on you." Sebastian's tone remained casual, laced with feigned concern, but his dark eyes were sharp as knives as he leaned closer against the counter. He watched her every minute movement. "You looked... upset yesterday. And when you left Axton at the corner, well, that didn't look like a good conversation." He pressed the issue, fishing for confirmation of the emotional damage they had caused.
Elin bit the inside of her cheek. She needed to deliver the performance of grief. She took a slow, shuddering breath that sounded suspiciously like a nascent sob and let her voice break just a little when she answered.
"It wasn't," she whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on the countertop. She let the silence stretch, hoping the ambiguity sounded like overwhelming sorrow. "It was final."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Elin. I truly am. He's a fool to let you go." His gaze was now sympathetic, oozing an opportunistic tenderness. "But honestly, I wasn't surprised. That man is married to his company. You need someone who actually sees you."
His words, meant to be comforting, were a venomous echo of her own past doubts—the very doubts that had made her vulnerable to his initial manipulation. The hypocrisy of his statement, knowing he was only here to confirm a corporate win, fuelled a genuine, cold anger that tightened her grip on the cleaning cloth.
"How are you holding up?"
There it was—the core question, the prize he'd come for. His voice was soft, smooth with feigned concern, but his eyes betrayed him completely. They were too watchful, too keenly interested in the precise shade of her misery.
Elin remembered Axton's instruction again, the words a silent mantra in her head: He'll try to comfort you. Let him. He needs to believe he has an opening.
So she let her shoulders slump just a little, the weariness appearing genuine. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her stance communicating profound defeat. "I'm managing," she murmured, her voice sounding thin. "Trying to, at least. It's hard to focus."
Sebastian's practiced smirk softened into a look that could almost pass as genuine sympathy.
She blinked up at him, her eyelashes still damp and heavy from a truly restless night, making her eyes look authentically miserable. "Maybe I didn't deserve him," she countered, inflecting the sentence with bitter self-reproach, a classic sign of someone processing grief.
He studied her carefully, his head tilting slightly as he analysed her response. "You sound like you still care for him."
Elin gave a small, broken laugh that sounded utterly unforced, a sharp, choked noise of genuine emotional pain. "It's not that easy to stop, is it? Not when you still love them."
"You're not the kind of woman who should be crying over a man like him. You're too bright for that kind of shadow."
Elin tried for a faint, watery smile, selling the tragedy of her situation. "Sometimes we don't get to choose who we fall for, Sebastian. Feelings aren't rational."
"Maybe not," he conceded quietly, his voice a silky assurance, "but we get to choose who we move on with."
Her pulse stuttered, a sudden sharp, irregular beat.
"What?"
Sebastian's expression softened further, his voice dipping lower, moving seamlessly from friendly listener to eager suitor. "I'm just saying... you deserve someone who actually sees you. Someone who won't make you feel like you're second to everything else in his life, or who won't leave you stranded when things get complicated."
He was close enough now that his crisp cologne—faintly spiced, expensive, but suddenly suffocating—dominated the air. He was overtly positioning himself as the replacement, the easy solution to her supposed heartbreak.
Elin's fingers tightened around the counter edge, her knuckles pressing white against the marble. She could feel her heartbeat pounding against her ribs, a frantic, visible pulse throbbing in her throat. She needed to look fragile, broken, and emotionally open to his suggestion.
But standing here, absorbing Sebastian's false charm and opportunistic pursuit, her stomach turned over with genuine revulsion.
She glanced away, lowering her gaze to break the intense eye contact, feigning reluctance and hesitation. "I don't think I'm ready for that, Sebastian. It's too soon. I—I just need time." She had to play the heartbroken victim, but she couldn't let him think she was rejecting him; she had to stall.
"I appreciate you saying that, but I can't think about anyone right now." This was the bait—the promise of a future attempt.
Sebastian brushed his thumb against the back of Elin's wrist.
Elin froze. Every muscle in her body instantly locked, a silent, internal scream urging her to recoil from the invasive contact.
He tilted his head, his smile remaining soft, practiced. His voice became a low, almost coaxing murmur. "You don't have to be ready right now. Just... let someone take care of you for once, Elin." He was offering himself as the gentle rescuer, the man who would finally prioritize her.
Her breath came in shallow, panicked gasps. Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to yank her hand away, to shatter the illusion, but the memory of Axton's voice—Trust me. Don't reject him completely.—was a more potent command.
She forced herself to stay still, enduring the unsettling contact for a full, deliberate heartbeat. It was just long enough for Sebastian to receive the intended signal: she wasn't rejecting him, merely the idea of moving on yet.
Then, slowly, with the convincing hesitation of an emotionally vulnerable woman, she stepped back, her eyes flicking down to convey uncertainty. "I... I should get back to work," she whispered, her voice infused with the necessary note of retreat.
Sebastian studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly in faint calculation, searching for any hint of rejection. But his smile didn't waver; he accepted the delay. "Of course. I didn't mean to make things awkward, Elin. I just hate seeing you so down."
He reached into the impeccable pocket of his trousers, pulled out a sleek black business card, and set it squarely on the counter between them. The card was thick, glossy, and entirely too formal for a breakfast invitation. "If you ever need someone to talk to—no pressure, just a distraction—call me."
Elin nodded weakly, letting her fingers brush the very edge of the card without actually committing to picking it up. "Okay," she managed.
Sebastian lingered, drawing out the moment a fraction longer than necessary, solidifying his role as the concerned bystander who had offered a solution. His dark eyes held a mixture of triumph and anticipation.
He finally turned for the door. "Take care of yourself, Elin. And honestly, don't let him ruin your appetite. Those croissants are too good for wasted tears."
When the bell chimed again, signalling his departure, the sudden release of tension was almost overwhelming. She waited until the sound of his footsteps faded entirely down the street. Then, she finally let her hand fall from the counter, leaning heavily against the marble. Her knees felt weak, her pulse still racing a frantic rhythm against the sudden, profound quiet of the bakery.
She slid her gaze to the counter. The black card sat there, stark and foreign against the pale marble, a trophy Sebastian had left behind to mark his territory and confirm his access. She didn't touch it
Instead, she inhaled deeply, pulling the clean, honest scent of butter and yeast back into her lungs, trying to cleanse the air of his suffocating cologne.
Her phone buzzed quietly, a small vibration against her hip inside her apron pocket. The faint sound was a stark contrast to the high emotional pitch of the last half hour.
Elin pulled it out, her fingers still slightly trembling from the adrenaline rush of the confrontation. The screen glowed with Axton's name.
Axton: He came, didn't he?
The question was a statement, confirming their synchronized actions.
Elin: Yes. He thinks I'm broken. He tried to touch me.
There was a long, agonizing pause, during which Elin stared at the screen, imagining the scene playing out in Axton's mind. She could almost feel his control tightening.
Then the reply finally came, immediate and absolute:
Axton: You did well. Don't worry. I won't let him come near you again.
She glanced once more at Sebastian's card, then swept it off the counter into the bin.
Outside, parked half a block away in a discreet, tinted sedan, Axton watched through the subtle reflection of the car mirror as Sebastian emerged from the bakery, a faint smile playing on his lips. The successful execution of his plot—the ruined relationship, the emotional distress—was clearly evident in his arrogant stride.
Axton glared at him.
He only leaned forward in his seat, his posture suddenly rigid, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. He had received his final piece of data. Sebastian's attempt to comfort, and the brush of his hand, confirmed that the man's intentions were not just professional; they were also personal and predatory. The line had been crossed from corporate espionage into a direct, physical violation of Axton's territory.
A cold, deep-seated fury settled over him. It wasn't the kind of anger that shouted or raged; it was the kind that calculated and destroyed. He knew exactly how far Sebastian was willing to go to secure his objective.