THE MIDNIGHT BAKER

Chapter 2: The Lion’s Den

His office was bigger than her entire apartment. Floor-to-

ceiling windows framed the whole Manhattan skyline like it

belonged to him, but Ava barely noticed the view — her

eyes went straight to the man behind the desk.

Damian Vance looked like a predator who’d been forced into

a suit. He didn’t glance up when she came in, just kept

typing, hard and fast, like his fingers were angry at the keys.

The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind her, cutting

off the noise from the executive floor, leaving only the hum

of the AC and the sound of him working.

“Put the files on the left,” he said. His voice was low and

deep enough to send an involuntary shiver down her spine

“And tell me why Q3 projections show a four percent deficit

in our pastry division.”

Ava walked forward, her cheap flats silent on the plush rug,

and set the thick folder exactly where he’d pointed. “I

wouldn’t know about the deficit, Mr. Vance,” she said, her

voice coming out smooth and professional, none of the anger

in her chest slipping through. “I’m just the new admin

assistant. It’s my first day.”

At the sound of her voice, his fingers stopped. Slowly, he

lifted his head and looked right at her.

His grey eyes locked on hers, and it felt like being scanned

— like he could see straight through the blazer and the bun

and the cheap blouse to whatever she was hiding. Up close

she could see what the secretary meant: faint dark circles

under his eyes, a tightness around his mouth. Exhausted in

the way black coffee doesn’t fix. A man running on

willpower and fumes.

“The new temp,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair, his

eyes flicking down over her oversized blazer and the too-

tight bun — dismissive, but not unkind. Just assessing.

“You’re late. Five minutes in this building can cost us

millions.”

“The files had to be cross-referenced, sir,” Ava replied

calmly, holding his gaze even though every instinct told her

to look away. “I was told accuracy was your highest

priority.”

His eyebrows lifted, just a fraction. Most assistants

stammered under that tone, or apologized too much, or

stared at the floor. She looked him dead in the eye instead.

He pulled the folder toward him and flipped it open, clearly

hunting for a mistake — a typo, any reason to be annoyed.

But as he turned the pages his expression shifted from

irritation toward something closer to surprise. The files

weren’t just organized; they were color-coded by

department, tabbed, with sticky notes flagging exactly where

the numbers didn’t match.

“Who told you to format it this way?” he asked, eyes still on

the paper.

“No one, sir,” Ava said. “I noticed the pastry division’s

overhead was overlapping with marketing in the last quarter,

so I separated them so you could see it faster.”

He closed the folder with a soft thud and looked at her again,

his gaze dropping to her hands — perfectly still in her lap,

no fidgeting, no nervous twisting.

“You’re overqualified for a temp.” It wasn’t a compliment; it

sounded more like an accusation. “What’s your

background?”

Her heart jumped into her throat. Dangerous question. She couldn’t say pastry chef. She couldn’t say your brother stole

my recipe, fired me, and ruined my life. If Damian Vance

knew who she really was — Marcus’s ex-line-cook with a

grudge — he’d have security walk her out before she got

anywhere near the archives.

“Just general administration, Mr. Vance,” she lied smoothly,

giving him the tight, polite smile she’d practiced in the

mirror. “I enjoy organizing chaotic environments.”

He let out a short, cynical breath that might have been a

laugh if he hadn’t looked so miserable. “Well, you’ve come

to the right place. This company is a circus right now.” He

pressed two fingers to his temple, and a sharp spike of pain

flashed across his face.

Ava noticed — she couldn’t help it. As a baker you learn to

read people: are they comfortable, are they in pain, do they

need sugar, water, air? He was in agony. For half a second

she felt a stupid pang of sympathy.

Then she reminded herself: he’s a Vance.

“Bring me a cup of black coffee,” he ordered, eyes closed,

massaging his brow. “No sugar, no cream. And find out why

the head chef of our flagship still hasn’t answered my emails

about the Paris menu rollout.”

Ava took a small step back. “By head chef, do you mean

your brother, Marcus Vance?”

His eyes opened, and just like that the ice was back — cold

and sharp. “In this office, he is a chef, not my brother,” he

said, flat. “And you are my assistant. Go.”

“Right away, Mr. Vance.”

She turned and walked out, her jaw clenched so tight it

ached. Marcus wasn’t answering emails because he was

probably still drunk on champagne from his stolen trophy.

She pulled the heavy door shut behind her, and only then did

she let a small, dark smile touch her lips.

She was inside. She had his attention. Now she could start

building her empire in the dark.