Bought For a Lie

A Taste of Trouble Fina's POV "You refer to this as a croissant? It tastes like cardboard. As the lady slapped the partially consumed pastry onto the counter, my heart fell. I faked a grin while holding on to the counter's edge until my knuckles were white. "I apologize," I murmured quietly. "Do you want a reimbursement?" Without saying another word, she sneered and rushed out. Behind her, the little bell above the door jingled pitifully. I gazed at the lone pastry, then at the vacant seats, the silent ovens, and the glass's flickering "OPEN" sign. All morning, there had only been two customers. One just asked for directions to the bus stop, while the other detested the croissant. I tried not to cry as I made my way back to the kitchen. Today, my apron felt heavier. Or maybe I was just carrying the burden of failure. I checked the refrigerator and used the handkerchief to clean my hands. Tomorrow was the cream's expiration date. The strawberries were, too. I had anticipated a rush. Something. Anything. But it was always the same: silent, icy, and without hope. "Come on, Fina," I said in a low voice. "You've experienced worse." Even my voice, however, sounded worn out. For me, the bakery was everything. I started from scratch while building it. I own every oven, every chair, and every spoon. When I left school early to pursue my passion, my parents thought I was insane. But all I ever wanted was to bake. I moved around to the front window and peered out. It was a fast-paced metropolis. People are hurrying, chatting, and purchasing. However, nobody even looked at my store. The sign could have been too tiny. "Fina's Flour" could have sounded too home-made. Or maybe a little bakery tucked away between imposing skyscrapers and boisterous coffee shops just didn't appeal to anybody. With a groan, I looked back at the counter. I ought to be baking. I had to be prepared even if no one purchased anything. I formed the dough into little cookies in the shape of hearts after rolling it out. My hands moved without my help. Shape, press, knead, and bake. The air was heavy with the scent of heated sugar, butter, and a faint trace of lemon. It smelled so nice, and no one else was there to smell it, that it made my chest ache. Once again, the bell jingled. My heart leaped. I hurried to the front after wiping my hands on my apron. With his shoes clicking on the floor, a guy wearing a black suit entered the room. He seemed out of place; he was too polished and tidy for this kind of setting. "May I assist you?" I inquired. Slowly, he glanced around before turning back to face me. He had piercing eyes that seemed to be able to see through every wall I had ever constructed. "You're Fina Rowe?" I gave a nod. "Yes." He slipped a card onto the counter after taking it out of his pocket. I grabbed it. Black paper with gold writing. The CEO of Claymore Holdings is Michael Claymore. I felt sick to my stomach. The billionaire is at my bakery, but why? "I want to talk to you about a business issue," he began in a composed but strong tone. I gazed. "You're here to invest, or what?" He c****d his head. It depends. Would you want to keep this site intact? My cheeks were burning. His way of saying it annoyed me. As if my failure was clear. I spoke a little too quickly when I stated, "This place doesn't need rescuing." "Time is all it takes." He looked at the dark corners, the cold coffee pot, and the almost empty shelves. It requires more than just time. It need funds. vision. Someone has the ability to transform dust into gold. I folded my arms. "I am capable of baking." This area just needs it. He grinned. It wasn't warm, however. When wealthy folks realize you're mistaken, they grin like that. Miss Rowe, I'm not here to make fun of you. I'm here to make you an offer. One that has the power to transform your life. I stopped. "What's the deal?" He bent in. "Let's have a private conversation." My pulse quickened. He was unknown. A strong one. Nevertheless, I followed him into the kitchen because of something in his tone. We took seats at the little table in the back, next to the flour sacks and unopened recipe books. He said, "I'll be honest with you." "I need a wife." I blinked. "Pardon me?" "Business," he said. "Not much more. In order to close a transaction, I must be married by the end of next month. You must have money. We can support one another. I gazed at him. Had I bumped into the oven? Was this thing really real? "You're not even familiar with me." "Enough reading," he said. "You don't have any debt, scandals, or family connections that cause trouble. You're straightforward. Secure. It almost made me giggle. Easy? Secure? Was that all he thought I was worth? "No." He arched an eyebrow. "No?" "I won't marry a stranger only to get money." Would you want to lose the bakery? The words hurt. I turned my head away. The reality weighed heavily on my chest. He set a folder down on the table and took it out. There were papers within. forms for bank transfers. An agreement. The line has already printed my name. He responded, "I'll pay off your lease." Give you enough so you can recruit employees. Invest in new machinery. I just want a year. Not a true marriage. Only a show. I gazed at the documents. "After that, you'd be free," he said. "No conditions." No conditions. But I immediately felt like I had a knot in my heart. I glanced up at him. As if this were just another encounter, his eyes were serene. Another bargain. For me, however, it went beyond that. My life was like this. I said, "I need time." He stood and said, "You have till tomorrow morning." "The offer then vanishes." Without saying another thing, he departed. My hands were trembling as I sat there, having already forgotten about the cookies in the oven. Despite the timer beeping, I remained still. I felt like my world was spinning. The air was heavy with the scent of burning sugar. A automobile engine boomed outside. I saw a black automobile drive away as I hurried to the window. A tall figure wearing a hood stood in the shadows across the street, watching me. My heart stopped beating. He wasn't Michael. He was aware of me, howev er. I sensed it. And at that very moment, I realized... I had just started something much worse than losing my bakery.