The air inside Bluebell Bakes was thick and warm, a comforting blanket woven from the scent of cinnamon, yeast, and melting butter. Elin, sleeves rolled past her elbows, was a whirlwind of practiced efficiency, but Sebastian was proving to be a whirlwind of disaster.
He stood beside her at the stainless-steel counter, supposedly assisting with a batch of delicate laminated pastry, but mostly succeeding in covering himself—and a good portion of the kitchen—in a fine, white dusting of flour.
"See, Elin? I told you I could do the folding," Sebastian declared with a flourish, holding up a square of dough that was meant to be neatly layered but instead resembled a crumpled map. His charming grin didn't quite cover the genuine bewilderment in his eyes.
Elin bit back a laugh, a small, weary sigh escaping instead. She nudged a bowl of egg wash out of his inevitable path. "Sebastian, the 'folding' part involves keeping the butter layers intact and the corners square. That looks like you wrestled it. You're losing the lamination," she explained gently, demonstrating the technique with her own flawless section of dough. Her movements were quick, efficient, and precise, a beautiful contrast to his clumsy attempts.
Sebastian leaned in, ostensibly to watch her technique, but his focus was clearly not on the dough. "It's too complicated. Honestly, how can you remember all the steps? My brain already has enough on it," he murmured, his voice softening into a low, playful tone that was just slightly too intimate for a professional setting.
He didn't move back when she finished her turn. He stayed close, and the faint, woodsy scent of his cologne mingled with the sweet bakery air. "Perhaps you could give me a private lesson?" he suggested, letting his eyes linger on her face. "I'm a very attentive student when the teacher is exceptionally motivating."
Elin straightened up, subtly stepping back to create a professional distance. The tension from the recent situation with Axton still clung to her, making her defences slightly lower than usual, but Sebastian's flirting was a familiar, if tiring, presence.
"I teach on the clock, Sebastian," Elin replied firmly, her hands already reaching for a dough scraper. "And right now, the clock says your pastry is going to be tough if you don't use less force. It's supposed to be light and flaky."
He only shrugged, completely unfazed by her cool demeanour. He picked up a lump of dough and began kneading it with enthusiastic aggression. "Light and flaky is overrated. I prefer mine with a little...resistance," he said, fixing her with a knowing look that made her skin prickle. He was hinting at more than just baking.
When she reached for the large roller, his hand shot out to claim it first.
"You know, for someone who spends all day making things sweet, you have a very sharp edge, Elin," he observed, his expression shifting to one of feigned admiration. "It's captivating. It makes me want to find out what it takes to soften you up."
The brush of Sebastian's fingers against hers when he grabbed the rolling pin had sent a small, unwelcome jolt through Elin. She immediately focused on the fine, silvery cloud of flour Sebastian had just managed to kick up, using the small inconvenience as a necessary distraction.
Elin finally allowed a genuine, exasperated smile to show, though it didn't reach her eyes. She leaned over the counter, meeting his gaze directly. "It takes focusing on the pastry, Sebastian. Not on me. If you make this batch unusable, you're paying for the ingredients," she warned, injecting a note of dry humour that quickly dissolved the lingering tension.
"Challenge accepted, my sweet baker," he'd said, and the possessiveness in the phrase made her jaw tighten subtly. He thinks he's charming, she thought, scraping the botched, over-kneaded dough into a discard bowl with quick, decisive movements.
Every low comment, every lingering look, felt like a small, unwelcome invasion of her space.
She had to maintain the illusion of being the approachable, sweet-natured baker who was just a little too naïve for the cutthroat world Axton inhabited, and who might just be vulnerable enough to be swept away by someone kinder or in this case, manipulative, like Sebastian.
This was the distraction that would keep Vivian and Sebastian focused on the wrong target—the emotional fallout of the Axton/Elin breakup—while Axton secured the corporate kill.
Elin forced her expression to remain open, her lips curled into a gentle, non-committal smile as Sebastian, blessedly, turned his attention back to his pastry.
She reached for a cooling rack, placing it between them on the counter—a silent, physical barrier that she desperately hoped he would interpret as innocent convenience, not rejection.
The rolling pin lay heavy in Elin's hands, the cool steel a grounding sensation against the growing warmth of her frustration. Sebastian, having abandoned the doomed laminated dough, was now attempting to help her package a batch of cooling blueberry scones. It was another opportunity for him to hover.
"You know, Axton always seemed like a very high-pressure guy," Sebastian observed casually, his eyes fixed on the neat way Elin tied the twine around a box. His voice had lost the playful edge and now held a manufactured sincerity. "Always moving too fast. He never appreciated the finer things in life, like spending a morning covered in flour, or simply taking a moment to breathe."
He leaned an elbow on the counter, his posture easy and inviting. "I imagine you must feel quite a bit of relief, now that you don't have to keep up with that pace." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air: You're free now, and I'm the alternative.
Elin didn't look up. Her focus remained solely on the knot she was tying—a tight, professional square knot. "Axton and I simply ran our course, Sebastian," she stated, keeping her tone light and utterly devoid of emotion. "It had nothing to do with pace or pressure. We just wanted different things."
"I find that hard to believe. Anyone who knows you, Elin, knows you're warm, grounded. You don't belong in a sterile skyscraper. You belong right here, where everything is real." He reached out and gently brushed a stray curl of hair from her cheek, his touch quick and surprisingly tender. "You deserve someone whose world doesn't threaten to eclipse yours."
This act, the intimate grooming and the pointed comparison to Axton, pushed Elin closer to snapping. The unwanted intimacy was escalating, and her carefully guarded composure was starting to fray.
She couldn't afford to push him away completely, or Axton's cover would be compromised.
She finished the knot, placed the box on the outgoing shelf, and finally met Sebastian's gaze. Her own eyes were cool, professionally polite, but entirely firm.
"I appreciate your concern, Sebastian, but I'm perfectly capable of deciding where I belong," Elin said, picking up a pastry brush and turning her attention to prepping the next tray. "And right now, I belong back in the kitchen. We have a catering order due in an hour, and I'm not going to be late."
His playful expression vanished for a fleeting moment, replaced by a subtle flicker of annoyance at her resistance. It was a brief, sharp crack in his charming façade. But he quickly recovered, transforming the annoyance into determined persistence.
"I understand," he said, taking a step back but not retreating entirely. He picked up the empty box she had just used. "Then let me at least take you out of the kitchen for a while. We can talk about... whatever you want. Dinner, just us. Tonight. My treat." He held the box out, a silent, insistent offering.
Elin knew she had to accept eventually, to keep the charade alive, but she wasn't ready to let him dictate the terms yet.
"Ask me again tomorrow, Sebastian," she replied, keeping the pastry brush moving with steady, rhythmic strokes.
He smiled—the charming, disarming smile she knew she had to tolerate. "Tomorrow it is, then. But I'm persistent, Elin. You know that, right?" He winked, the threat veiled in familiarity. "I always get what I go after."
Persistent, she thought, the word a bitter taste in her mouth. He's not persistent. He's entitled. He thinks that because I'm no longer with Axton, I'm some kind of prize to be claimed.
She hated this part of the game. Having to tolerate the casual invasions, the thinly veiled pressure, the endless, unsettling comparisons to Axton. Every time Sebastian leaned in, every time he manufactured a reason to touch her or lower his voice, a wave of discomfort washed over her. She felt like a lure, a piece of meat left out to draw attention away from the real target.
The thought was ugly, but it was accurate.
Just endure it, she told herself, the scent of vanilla and sugar suddenly tasting metallic in her mouth. Keep the smile light. Keep the distance professional. Just until Axton has what he needs.
Elin finished glazing the tray, setting the pastry brush down with a quiet, decisive click. She met Sebastian's determined gaze.
"Sebastian, I hear you," Elin said, her voice soft but level, making sure no defensive note crept in. "I know you're trying to be kind, and I appreciate the offer. Truly."
She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a casual gesture designed to soften the rejection. "But I really do have a mountain of invoices to sort tonight. Being late on a catering order is simply not an option for me right now." She gave him a small, sincere smile—the kind that conveyed regret, not resistance.
"If you want to be persistent," she continued, offering a brief, small olive branch that kept him engaged, "you could actually help me clean up this colossal flour mess you made. That would be far more impressive than a dinner invitation right now." She nodded towards the dusty counter, turning the conversation safely back to the practical realities of the bakery. "Let's save the invitations for when the floor isn't white, okay?"
She turned back to her work, effectively signalling the end of the conversation. She had kept him interested without accepting his terms, maintaining her control over the pace of their interaction while still giving him a reason to stay close.
***
Axton was standing by the large office window, the city lights reflecting in the cool glass, a stark contrast to the small, intense world held in his hand. He'd risked a call on his private, secure line, unable to face the endless wait for Vivian and Sebastian's move without hearing her voice.
"I miss you, Elin," he mumbled into the phone, the words escaping before he could filter them, raw and heavy with genuine fatigue and longing. He hadn't just been playing a role of exhaustion for Vivian; he truly was exhausted by the deception.
On the other end, Elin's voice, usually bright and melodic, was quiet, strained. "I missed you too. I hate this, Axton. How long do I have to keep this up?" The desperation was clear, tightly wrapped around the plea.
"Just a little while more, I promise," Axton assured her, the certainty in his voice betraying the uncertainty he felt deep down. He pushed the weariness aside, trying to project strength and control. He knew the emotional toll the charade with Sebastian was taking on her.
"Alright. Sebastian is pushing hard," she confessed, a note of fresh anxiety entering her voice. "He was in the bakery all morning. He's asking me to go on a dinner with him."
Axton's grip tightened on the phone. The mental image of Sebastian's easy charm and persistent pressure made the blood rush cold in his veins. He had to know the extent of the damage. "And what did you say?" he asked, his tone demanding precision.
"I delayed it. I don't really want to go with him, Axton." Her voice carried a palpable relief at the small victory of avoidance.
He sighed, the sound a low, heavy current of frustration and concern. "I know, Elin. I don't want you to go either. Not even for the act." The very idea felt like a deliberate concession to the enemy, an unneeded layer of contamination on their carefully constructed separation.
He took a slow, deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "I need you to maintain the veneer, just the public friendliness. Keep him focused on the chase, but no dinners. I'll—"
Axton's command froze mid-sentence. His eyes went wide, fixing on a point past the reflection in the glass. The conversation with his father earlier slammed back into his mind with the force of a physical blow.
Saturday. Bring her to the estate.
A low sound, a sharp intake of breath that was not a sigh but a reaction to pain, escaped him.
"Axton? What is it? What's wrong?" Elin's voice sharpened with immediate concern, sensing the sudden, absolute shift in his focus.
"It's my father, Elin," Axton said, the words strained, forced. "He wants to meet you. Dinner. This Saturday."
A beat of absolute silence hung on the line, thick with disbelief.
"Your father wants to meet me? Saturday?" Elin finally repeated, her voice brittle with shock.
"Axton, that's... that's not part of the plan. I'm supposed to be the abandoned woman who's moving on with the flirtatious rival of yours. If I go to your family estate for dinner, the illusion is completely destroyed."
The reality of the impossible conflict settled over Axton like a shroud. Elin was right. A private dinner at the patriarch's table was the antithesis of a public breakup. It would signal to the entire corporate ecosystem—including Vivian—that the relationship was still highly functional, merely disguised.
"I know," Axton admitted, the word a weary concession. "But this is not negotiable. When my father issues a summons, I have to comply. If I refuse, he'll escalate. He'll begin actively targeting you, making sure you are removed as a distraction by any means necessary. I need him to think he's in control, that he's getting his way."
He rubbed his forehead, the weariness returning tenfold. "I have to bring you to the estate. But we have to find a way to make it look like something else—something innocuous that doesn't contradict the public story. Maybe a quick, cold professional briefing. But we also can't afford to lose Sebastian's attention right now."
"So I have to juggle a flirtatious, persistent Sebastian for a public dinner, while simultaneously preparing to face your corporate overlord father in private?" Elin challenged, the heat of rising panic evident in her tone. "Axton, that's impossible. We're going to give everyone mixed signals, and someone is going to guess the truth."
"We won't," Axton insisted, his voice hardening with renewed resolve. "It's a risk, but it's a necessary one. I'll figure out the narrative for the estate. We'll spin it as a final, icy closure meeting he demanded. But you have to tell me: Can you manage Sebastian for one more day? Just delay him until Sunday. I need Saturday night for my father, and I need this takeover secured before the next work week starts."
He wasn't asking; he was desperately laying out the impossible parameters of survival.
"I can," Elin whispered, the sound a mixture of fear and determination. "I can delay Sebastian until Sunday. But Axton, you owe me a very big explanation for this dinner."
"You'll get it," Axton promised, his voice choked with gratitude and necessity. "I swear. Now, get back to the bakery. Be sweet, be exhausted, but don't commit. Call me the moment you hear from Sebastian again."