Chapter 16 016
Rhea's POV
I stood in the center of the mansion's kitchen, a space so cavernous it could have swallowed my old apartment whole.
Morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the gold-veined marble countertops into a sea of light.
Everywhere I looked, there was proof of a life I didn't belong to: the soft hum of the Sub-Zero fridge, the professional-grade Wolf range, and cabinets filled with artisanal spices I couldn't even name.
The air smelled of lemon polish and, now, the warm, yeasty aroma of rising dough.
As the rolling pin glided over the island, flattening the dough into a smooth, pale sheet, my mind drifted back to the middle of the night. I could have sworn I felt him.
I'd been half-submerged in a dream, but I felt the mattress dip, felt a gaze so heavy I believed it was real.
Had he actually sat there, watching me? Or was my subconscious just playing cruel tricks, weaving my loneliness into a shape I used to love?
I sighed, dusting more flour onto the marble. It was just a dream, Rhea, I scolded myself. Dwelling on him was a trap that changed nothing.
I'd practically begged Catherine, the housekeeper, to let me handle the kitchen this morning.
I needed to do something with my hands, something that didn't involve thinking about depressing life.
Baking had always been my quietest escape. Long before my life fell apart, I used to spend hours sketching out a life where I owned a small sun-drenched bakery—nothing grand or industrial, just a corner with warm wood, mismatched chairs.
A place that smelled like cinnamon and yeast, where I could make people happy with something as simple as a warm croissant.
I wanted to make things with intention, things that felt like home. But life happened.
Instead of flour and sugar, my life became about the 9-to-5 hustle just to keep the lights on, and now, I am a contract wife.
The irony was so glaring it made me let out a dry, hollow laugh.
When the timer buzzed, I pulled the rolls from the oven—perfectly golden and sweet.
I set them out on a platter with fresh fruit and yogurt, finishing the spread with a pot of coffee I had brewed earlier.
I carried the tray into the dining room, another luxurious space that seemed useless. A mahogany table stretched out long enough to seat twenty, while crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen rain.
On the walls, abstract paintings stared back at me—pieces that likely cost more than I would earn in a lifetime.
Alejandro wasn't there.
A small breath of relief escaped me. I hoped he'd already headed to the office; I wasn't sure I could digest a single bite with him sitting across from me, watching my every move.
The silence of the house was heavy, but it was still better than his brooding gaze. I sank into a chair at the far end of the table, ready to disappear into my own work.
The cinnamon rolls were still steaming, the icing melting into gooey, translucent pools. It was exactly what I needed: a bit of sugar to coat a complicated life.
But then the silence broke. It was the sound of his heavy, measured steps; a rhythm I could recognize in a crowded stadium.
The sound echoed through the hall, preceded by his scent drifting into the room like an approaching storm.
He entered the room looking infuriatingly perfect. He was in a bespoke charcoal tuxedo, his hair styled back with not a single strand out of place.
He looked every bit the billionaire titan the news portrayed him to be.
My empty stomach did a nervous flip, and my heart clenched anyway, trapped between a sense of dread and that traitorous, unwelcome flutter I still couldn't kill.
He stopped at the entrance, his eyes sweeping over the table before landing on me.
Our gazes locked, and the world narrowed until there was nothing but that charged, suffocating silence.
Seconds stretched between us, heavy with the wreckage of our history, until he finally broke it.
He gave a slight, stiff nod toward the spread on the table.
"You made breakfast."
It wasn't a question; it was a flat observation that carried a trace of surprise he wasn't quick enough to hide.
It was as if he hadn't expected a single domestic touch from me, the woman he'd stripped of her pride and reduced to a mere line in a contract.
Truthfully, I hadn't made it with him in mind—at least, not consciously. Baking was my therapy, and I'd just... made enough. For two.
He pulled out the chair at the head of the table, far enough to maintain a cold distance, but close enough for his presence to dominate every inch of the room.
He sat and helped himself to a roll and some fruit without another word.
He ate with a slow, methodical precision while I merely poked at my plate, my appetite vanishing under the pressure of his presence.
I focused on the steam rising from my coffee, but in my mind, a projector was playing the life we had planned years ago.
This was the dream, wasn't it? The morning light, the scent of fresh bread, the two of us together before heading out for the day.
It was eerily close to the life we'd once sketched out on napkins and whispered about in the dark.
We'd envisioned lazy mornings in a home like this, parting with a kiss—him off to conquer his empire, me to my bakery.
Our evenings were supposed to be for reuniting over dinner, sharing the day's small victories before tumbling into bed for nights filled with euphoric pleasure.
We'd planned it all, down to the silly details: weekend getaways, kids someday, growing old with that unbreakable bond. Now? The reality was a hollow imitation.
Instead of a lingering kiss at the door and a flurry of "I love yous," there was only this thick, suffocating silence. Instead of planning a future, I was counting down 235 days like a prisoner scratching lines into a cell wall.
I didn't even know if I'd be allowed past the front gate, let alone back into his heart.
"So, how do you want my life to look now, Alejandro?" I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I finally met his gaze.
"Am I meant to be a ghost in your sprawling mansion? Should I just spend the next 235 days gliding around in silk robes and expensive lingerie until the clock runs out?"
He didn't answer immediately. He took a slow, deliberate bite of the bread I'd made, chewing thoughtfully while he stared at me with a blank, unreadable expression. It made me shudder.
"Technically," he said after a slow, deliberate swallow, arrogance bleeding into his tone, "that's what I want, Rhea. Do you have a problem with that?"
I glared at him, my chest tightening with a hot, roiling rage. "I'm not a doll, Alejandro. I'm not something you can just put on a shelf."
"But," he continued, cutting me off before I could launch into a tirade. "I don't have the luxury of time to find a replacement for an assistant. It's a sensitive position, and I need someone who already knows the filing systems of the firm I just acquired."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, peering into my eyes as if trying to read my thoughts.
"I hate to admit it, but you're... manageable. You're efficient. Even though I have yet to determine if it was your hard work or your body that kept you in Harlan's good graces for so long."
The insult stung like salt in a fresh wound.
I slammed my palm on the table hard enough to rattle the dishes.
"Stop with the accusations!" I hissed, my voice shaking with humiliation. "I never slept with Harlan. I never slept with any of the board members. I worked my ass off because I had nothing else!"
I hated that I was explaining myself. I hated that I cared what he thought. But the look of pure, cold judgment in his eyes was more than I could bear.
He just stared at me, his face an impenetrable iron mask. There was no hint of belief, no softening of his jaw, and certainly no apology.
He simply let the truth hang in the air between us until it withered, discarded in favor of his next command.
"You'll resume work at the office once the media storm settles," he said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. He didn't look at me again.
"Until then, stay inside. Don't answer the door. Don't check the news."
Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room. I sat there in the sudden, crushing silence, the cinnamon roll in my hand finally turning to lead.
I took a bite, but it was useless. The sweetness was gone, and the bread cloyed in my mouth like dry sawdust.