RECIPE FOR HEARTBREAK

Chapter 6: A spoonful of poison

The bell above the heavy wooden front door chimed, cutting through the low hum of the morning rush.

I didn’t look up from behind the display counter. My fingers were trembling as I wiped down the glass case for the third time in ten minutes, the sharp scent of industrial glass cleaner doing nothing to wash away the lingering ghost of smoke and expensive cologne on my clothes.

I hadn’t slept. Not after running out of Gabriel’s penthouse at four in the morning, leaving his black silk sheets crumpled and my own dignity in shreds on his floor. My body still ached with a dull, throbbing memory of his hands on my waist, a reminder that every breath this bakery took was bought with a price I’d sold my soul to pay.

"Maya."

The voice was like warm honey poured over cracked glass.

I froze, the rag motionless in my hand.

Tristan Sterling leaned against the mahogany counter, looking like he’d stepped directly off the cover of a luxury lifestyle magazine. His cream-colored cashmere sweater fit his broad shoulders impeccably, and his sun-kissed hair was artfully windswept. He wore a faint, devastating smile, the kind that had made him the most feared, revered, and coveted culinary critic in the city.

"You look tired, mon chéri," Tristan murmured, his hazel eyes tracking the dark violet shadows beneath my eyes with an unsettling intensity.

"It’s five in the morning, Tristan," I said, my voice dry. I forced myself to pull back, tossing the rag under the counter. "The oven timer just went off. I don’t have time for a review today."

"I'm not here to write a column," Tristan said softly. He reached across the counter, his warm, manicured fingers lightly brushing the back of my hand. I flinched, but I didn't pull away. I was too tired to fight the current. "I’m here because I know what happened yesterday with Vance’s press release. He’s putting the screws to you, isn’t he?"

I sucked in a sharp breath. How much did Tristan know?

Before I could answer, the kitchen doors swung open with a bang.

Julian stepped out, carrying a heavy, steaming aluminum tray loaded with fresh brioche. He was in his black baker's apron, dusted in white flour, his dark hair falling wildly over his forehead. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the corded forearm muscles earned from five years of knead-work beside my father.

Julian stopped dead when he saw Tristan’s hand on mine.

The air in the bakery instantly turned arctic.

Julian set the heavy tray down on the counter with a loud, metallic CLANG that rattled the cake stands. His grey eyes, usually so soft and steady, flashed with a dangerous, dark storm.

"Can I help you with something?" Julian asked, his voice deceptively quiet, carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

Tristan didn't even flinch. Slowly, deliberately, he retracted his hand, offering Julian a patronizing, smooth smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just checking on the owner, Reid. A business as delicate as this needs the right kind of protection."

"She has protection," Julian replied, stepping forward until he was standing right beside me. The heat radiating off Julian was suffocating a familiar, grounding warmth that usually made me feel safe, but right now, under his piercing gaze, it made me feel completely exposed. "And we don't need high-society vultures circling the carcass before we're even dead."

"Julian, stop," I whispered, panic rising in my throat. I couldn't afford to alienate Tristan. If Tristan wrote a scathing piece about Vance & Co., or if he withdrew his media backing, the public foot traffic would plummet.

Tristan chuckled, a low, amused sound, though his jaw tightened. "Spoken like a man way out of his depth. Maya needs capital, Reid. She needs connections. She doesn't need someone whose only solution to an eighty-thousand-dollar debt is flour and prayers."

"Get out," Julian growled, taking a full step toward him.

"Julian! Please!" I grabbed Julian’s forearm. His muscles were locked tight as steel. Under my touch, I felt a shudder run through him, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes dropped to my hand on his arm, hurt, desperate, and suffocatingly deep.

Tristan adjusted his cuffs, his gaze lingering on me with a possessive, knowing smirk. "I'll leave you to your morning prep, Maya. But my offer stands. Dinner tonight at L'Étoile. Just the two of us. I can make Gabriel Vance’s lease problem vanish with a single phone call to my father’s board."

He turned and walked out, the chime of the doorbell ringing like a death knell in the silent shop.

The moment the door closed, Julian whipped his head around to face me. The anger in his eyes was instantly swallowed by a raw, bleeding pain that knocked the breath right out of my lungs.

"What was that?" Julian whispered, his voice trembling slightly.

"It was nothing, Jules—"

"Don't lie to me, Maya!" he snapped, the sudden volume making me jump. Julian never yelled at me. Never. "He touched you as he owned you. And last night—you weren't home. I stayed up until 4:00 AM waiting on the porch because you didn't answer your phone!"

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. "I... I had to handle things."

Julian took a slow step closer, his eyes searching my face, searching for a truth I was desperately trying to drown. He looked down at my neck, where the collar of my shirt had slipped slightly, exposing a faint, reddish bruise near my collarbone, Gabriel’s mark.

Julian’s face went entirely pale. The color drained from his lips, and he took a step back as if I had physically struck him in the chest.

"Julian, wait..." I reached for him, my voice cracking.

"Who are you letting hurt you, Maya?" he choked out, his voice breaking into a whisper that tore my heart out. "What are you doing to yourself?"