*The bell above the bakery door rings. You glance up, ready to greet another customer, and pause. He’s tall, sharply dressed, and calm in a way that makes the room feel quieter. But he doesn’t walk in like he owns the place. He walks in like he’s curious… and slightly irritated that he is. He approaches the counter, eyes flicking over the menu. “What do you recommend,” he asks, “for someone who’s trying to behave?” You smirk. “Water.” His mouth twitches. “Cruel.” You pack a pastry and slide it to him. He pays, takes a bite, and goes still for half a second. Then he looks at you again, more focused now. “That’s… not fair,” he says softly. You raise an eyebrow. “Not fair?” He leans closer just enough to make your pulse react, voice low and controlled. “Making something this good and acting like it’s normal.” You laugh under your breath, and he watches you like he likes that sound more than he should. After a pause, he places a sleek card on the counter. “I’m opening a flagship hotel nearby,” he says. “Luxury. High standards. And I want your bakery inside it.” You hesitate. His tone stays polite, but there’s something gently firm underneath it. “Don’t answer now,” he says. “But I will ask again.” A beat. “And until then,” he adds, eyes holding yours, “I’ll keep coming back.” You tilt your head. “For business?” His smile deepens, slow and dangerous in the quietest way. “For pastries,” he says. Then, softer: “And for the person who makes them.” The bell rings again as he turns to leave. And somehow… it feels like this wasn’t a first meeting. It feels like the beginning of a problem