Chapter 123 Alaric's Invitation
In an instant, Jasmine's pupils widened, her hand shooting out on instinct. The sweet almond roll crumpled in her grip, its delicate layers crushed into a sticky mess. She stared at the ruined pastry, her breath catching in a low, frustrated groan.
Bianca rested a hand on her shoulder, shaking her head softly. "We'll just have to start over."
The air was thick with the scent of fruitwood charcoal and the rich sweetness of almond filling—warm, decadent, yet not overly sweet. Bianca's gaze drifted toward the oven, where the rolls were slowly rising, their golden shells swelling with promise. Her expression softened as memories pulled her inward.
In another life, she had never made these for Terrence. Now, she wanted him to open a box and find this quiet, edible confession inside.
Leaving the pastries to bake, Bianca and Jasmine stepped out of the workshop. A breeze brushed over their shoulders, cool against the lingering warmth. The sun was lowering, spilling gold across the street. No voices, no interruptions—just an easy stillness that wrapped around them.
They didn't linger long. The chef's voice called them back, and they returned without noticing the black sedan parked discreetly by the curb.
Melissa sat inside, her eyes locked on the bakery door. A curl of hair fell across her shoulder, trembling with the rhythm of her quickened breath. Her fingers shook as she pulled a phone from her pocket.
She looked up again. Bianca and Jasmine's silhouettes appeared in the doorway, laughing as they stepped outside. The building's facade was sleek, modern, yet unmarked—no sign, no name. It had the quiet exclusivity of a private club.
Melissa's thumbs flew over the screen. But just as she was about to hit send, hesitation caught her. She wanted to climb into Terrence's orbit, wanted the doors his name could open. But the memory of their last encounter was still raw, the fear curling cold in her stomach. Her throat tightened, her face paling.
She deleted the draft. From her bag, she pulled out an older phone and typed a short, anonymous message.
It read: [Mr. Anderson, Bianca is at 108 South District. Acting suspicious.]
Almost at the same moment, Terrence's phone buzzed. He glanced down at an unfamiliar email, with an audio file attached. His brow lowered, fingers tapping lightly against the desk.
After a moment's pause, he opened it.
Static crackled, then Bianca's voice burst through—ragged, edged with tears. Every word cut sharp.
"Are you trying to destroy me? Why are you forcing me to marry someone I don't love?"
"Don't you know Terrence is insane? You're pushing me toward a madman... and you're not even ashamed?"
The recording ended abruptly.
The air around Terrence seemed to drop in temperature. His grip tightened on the phone until his knuckles blanched, his eyes darkening with a storm that threatened to break.
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, but it didn't touch him.
Another alert pulled his gaze back to the device. A second message waited. His fingertip hovered over the screen, unmoving, caught in hesitation.
He slid it open. The content flashed in his eyes, his lashes lowering just enough to shadow whatever emotion lay beneath. His thumb drifted to Bianca's chat window. Aside from a morning greeting, there was nothing.
Back at the workshop door, Bianca froze mid-step. She turned, scanning the street. It was empty—only a few cars parked along the curb, no movement, no sound. Yet her brows furrowed.
Something had brushed against her spine, cold and sharp, the kind of sensation that made every hair stand on end. A predator's gaze... or the ghost of one.
"Bianca? What's wrong?" Jasmine had walked several paces ahead before noticing she was alone.
Bianca's eyes swept the street one more time before she answered. "Nothing. Must've imagined it."
Jasmine came up behind her, squeezing her shoulder gently. "You're exhausted. Get some rest tonight."
Bianca rubbed at her temples. "Maybe you're right."
Time slipped by. Bianca rolled her shoulders, easing the ache in her neck, and turned to the chef. "It's getting late. We'll stop here for today."
They stepped outside. Bianca's phone buzzed. She glanced down—and her face changed instantly.
"What is it?" Jasmine leaned in to look.
Bianca locked the screen before she could see. "Nothing. You go ahead. I've got something to take care of."
Jasmine hesitated, wanting to ask, but finally nodded. "Alright. Call me if you need anything."
Once Jasmine was gone, Bianca unlocked the phone again.
A strange number had sent a single, unsettling text.
[Bianca, there's a man who's going to hurt me! His last name is Anderson! I'm at Emerald Crown Hotel, room 908. Please come. I'm scared!]
She didn't recognize the number, but she knew the sender—Alaric. No one else would address her like that. The boyish tone gave him away.
Her brows furrowed. Every line of that message screamed the same thing—trap.
Still as persistent as ever.
Fine. She would meet whoever was pulling his strings. They had better not let her down.
Following the address, Bianca hailed a car.
The hotel was a study in quiet opulence. Thick dark carpet muffled her steps. Abstract paintings lined the walls, their cool-toned frames catching the dim light.
She stepped into the elevator.
She knew she was walking into a snare, yet her pulse stayed steady, her mind unshaken.
Room 908.
Bianca checked her phone—no new messages. Alaric hadn't sent anything else, as if whatever he was enduring kept him silent.
She weighed her options, then chose neither knock nor bell. She kicked the door.
The thud reverberated through it, making it shudder. Footsteps hurried inside.
The door flew open. Alaric stood there, head bowed like a scolded child, guilt flickering in his eyes.
Bianca's gaze slid past him, scanning the room—curtains drawn, lighting dim. No sign of anyone else.
"You said there was a man named Anderson. Where is he?"