She didn't choose to fall.
She chose to survive.
But survival tastes like salt… and sometimes, sugar.
And when he tasted her croissant —
He didn't just eat it.
He remembered.
And for the first time…
She wondered if she'd sold her heart…
To the wrong man.
---
She woke up before dawn — not because she had to, but because she couldn't sleep.
Her fingers itched.
Her stomach growled.
Not for food.
For creation.
In the penthouse kitchen — sleek, sterile, untouched — she found flour. Sugar. Butter. Yeast.
And for the first time since signing the contract…
She smiled.
Not for David.
Not for the cameras.
For herself.
She rolled out the dough. I folded it. Layered it. Shaped it into croissants — delicate, flaky, golden — just like her mother used to make.
The smell filled the air — warm, buttery, nostalgic.
She placed them on a tray.
Left them on the counter.
Didn't say a word.
Because she knew.
He would notice.
---
He walked in — suit crisp, coffee steaming — and stopped.
His nostrils flared.
His eyes narrowed.
There — on the counter — sat a plate of croissants. Fresh. Perfect. Like something out of a Parisian bakery.
He didn't ask who made them.
He knew.
And for the first time…
He didn't suppress the feeling.
He let it sit.
Warm.
Real.
She baked.
Not because she had to.
Because she needed to.
Because this — this tiny act of rebellion — was her soul screaming through butter and dough.
He picked one up.
I turned it over.
Saw the faint imprint of her thumb — where she'd pressed too hard.
His chest tightened.
He took a bite.
The flaky layers melted on his tongue — buttery, sweet, familiar.
Like childhood.
Like loss.
Like home.
He closed his eyes.
And for a split second…
He wasn't David Loris, CEO of the empire.
He was just… a boy who once ate croissants with his mother.
When he opened his eyes, she was watching him — standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes wary.
"You liked it?" she whispered.
He didn't answer.
Just nodded.
And then — without thinking — he said:
"You're good at this."
She blinked.
No one had ever said that to her.
Not Aunt Beatrice.
Not the tutors.
Not even the man who hired her.
"You're good at this," he repeated — softer now, almost… proud.
Her heart fluttered.
Dangerous.
He's not supposed to notice.
He's not supposed to care.
But he did.
---
Later, she found him in his study — poring over documents, fingers stained with ink.
She stood in the doorway.
He didn't look up.
"Clause 12," she said quietly. "Termination may occur if the Bride exhibits emotional attachment to the Client."
He froze.
Didn't move.
Then, slowly, he turned.
His eyes met hers — cold, calculating… but something flickered behind them.
Fear?
Regret?
Longing?
"You're afraid," he said — voice low.
She nodded.
"I'm not allowed to feel."
"You're not allowed to act on it."
She stepped closer.
"I baked croissants today."
"I noticed."
"You ate one."
"I did."
"You liked it."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair — fingers steepled — and said:
"You're not just a contract, Jennifer."
Her breath caught.
"You're… a surprise."
She didn't know what to say.
So she whispered:
"What happens when the two years are over?"
His jaw clenched.
"You'll get your money."
"And then?"
"You'll be free."
She swallowed hard.
"Free to bake croissants… or free to forget you ever met me?"
He didn't answer.
But his eyes — they stayed on hers.
Too long.
Too deep.
Too human.
---
She couldn't sleep.
Not again.
So she crept downstairs — to the kitchen — to bake again.
This time, she didn't make croissants.
She made pain au chocolat — her mother's recipe — dark chocolate hidden inside golden dough.
She was licking melted chocolate off her thumb when he walked in.
Hair tousled. Shirt half-buttoned. Barefoot.
He didn't speak.
Just stared at the pastry in her hand.
Then at her lips.
Then at the notebook beside her — open to a sketch of a bakery sign:
"Benz & Co. — Where Every Bite Tells a Story"
He picked up the notebook.
Flipped through the pages.
Drawings of cakes shaped like hearts. Pastries with lace icing. A little girl blowing out candles.
Her childhood.
Her dreams.
Her soul.
He closed the book gently.
I looked at her.
"You're not selling your heart," he said — voice rough, raw. "You're hiding it. Behind flour. Behind sugar. Behind the smiles."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"I'm not allowed to feel," she whispered.
He stepped closer.
Reached out.
Brushed a tear away with his thumb.
His touch — warm, hesitant — sent shivers down her spine.
"You can feel," he murmured. "Just… not with me."
She bit her lip.
"But what if… I already do?"
He didn't answer.
But his hand lingered.
And for the first time…
She didn't pull away.
---
She woke up — alone — in her bed.
But the pillow beside hers smelled like him.
Cologne. Coffee. Something deeper.
Something human.
She dressed quickly.
I wanted to run.
But she didn't.
Because today…
She had a plan.
She found him in the dining room — eating breakfast — reading the newspaper.
He looked up.
Saw her.
Smiled — small, real — and said:
"Good morning, Jen."
Her heart stopped.
Not "Bride."
Not "Contract."
Jen.
She smiled back — trembling, hopeful — and placed a croissant on his plate.
"Eat it," she whispered. "It's the last one I'll bake for you."
His eyes darkened.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not selling my heart anymore."
She turned.
I walked away.
Left him with the croissant… and the question.
—