Chapter 6: Fate's Favor

MARION

Before the unwelcome surprise…

“Fuck!” I exclaimed, stretching my arms above me before dragging my hands down my face. This week has been nothing short of a clusterfuck. Between visiting the site to oversee the casino’s construction and reviewing the latest budget reports from Whitfield Diamonds, my days have been swallowed whole. Neither of them made things easier.

Being the CEO of my empire and the CFO of my family’s was more than just a balancing act; it was a constant test of endurance. But my father insisted. He trusted no one else to handle the family’s financial reins but me, and so I carried the weight. The reason I’d gone through Yale, burning my twenties away in accounting and finance while my friends coasted.

Standing at the far-right corner of my office, I stared out through the floor-to-ceiling window. The Los Angeles skyline stretched before me, sharp and glittering in the late morning sun. I doubted anyone could see in, but I still liked the privacy this vantage gave me. A fortress above the noise.

My phone buzzed. My mother’s name lit up on the screen. I checked my watch,10:32 a.m.

“I’m already here, son,” her voice came, firm but warm.

“On my way,” I answered, loosening the knot of my tie. “But you’ve stolen my best driver, Mother. I’m too tired to drive myself.”

“Stephen is the best since our old one retired. You can’t blame me.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Then start recruiting a new one. I need him. Ask Marcel to help you.”

“If you say so. Hurry up.”

“Sure.”

By the time I arrived at Lido di Manhattan, one of Pasadena’s better-kept secrets and owned by a close friend of my mother, the exhaustion had faded into a cool mask of control.

The valet opened the door before I even asked. I straightened my jacket, slid my phone into my pocket, and made my way inside. The air was heavy with the aroma of roasted coffee beans and fresh brioche. Conversations hummed at every corner, hushed when eyes landed on me. Recognition flickered across faces, whispers trailing as I passed.

Who doesn’t know the Whitfields?

At the front desk, an Indian woman smiled too brightly, her accent thick enough that I caught only fragments of her words. Still, I nodded curtly, heading toward the elevator without wasting breath. Politeness was a luxury.

Stephen was waiting near the lift, broad as a mountain. He’s always ready and reliable.

“Is she in yet?” I asked, voice flat, referring to the baker. My mom is already here, punctual, always.

“No. She should arrive soon.”

“Good.”

The elevator dinged, and we ascended to the VIP floor. When I stepped out, I knocked once before entering the private dining suite. My mother sat elegantly, flipping through a glossy magazine, her coffee steaming on the table beside her. Too much cream, the way she always liked it.

I bent down, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “How are you, my queen?”

“I’m fine, son.” She gave me that sharp, assessing look of hers. “After this meeting, go home and rest. You’re not a robot. You carry too much weight; learn from your brother’s book.”

I laughed, lowering myself into the chair opposite her. “You want me to sit behind monitors all day like Marcel? My brain doesn’t work like that. I’d rather travel the world, take pictures, and vanish for a while.”

“You should do that, then.”

“I’ll head to Vegas soon, check how things are running in the casino there. Then maybe I’ll rest.”

“Are you going with your latest concubine?” Her eyebrow arched like a blade.

“Mother…” I groaned.

“Son…” she countered, never missing a beat. “She is who she portrays herself to be. Not my fault. You should cut her off. The earlier, the better.”

I had nothing to say to that. My relationships had expiration dates. Paula was no exception.

Glancing at my watch, I exhaled. “It’s eleven-oh-seven. She’s late.”

“She’ll come.” My mother’s tone was final, like scripture. Just then, her phone rang. She lifted it delicately, listening. “Hello?... Yes, let her come. She’s been here before.”

She set the phone down and gave me a pointed look. “Comport yourself, Marion. No sharp tone.”

“Mom, if I’m the one paying the bills, she’s hired help. She works for me.”

“Son…” she scolded. Maybe the baker is an old lady.

“I'll try my best.”

“Try harder.”

The Reveal…

The door creaked open, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled, curious to finally meet this baker my mother had spoken of.

I’d been warned about the tasting for days, since Sunday when she called.

Supposedly, this woman was talented, important, the linchpin for the gala’s dessert table.

Honestly, I expected some middle-aged woman in a flour-stained apron, nerves trembling as she tried to impress the Whitfields.

Instead… her.

The woman from Friday night.

She froze in the doorway as if struck by lightning. Her bag was clutched in one hand, a foil-covered plate held like a shield in the other. For a moment, neither of us breathed.

Looking at me furiously, she said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

My mother looked at me, confused, and said to her, “That’s my son, Miss Hernandez.”

Her eyes widened, her knuckles turning white around the handle of her tote. If she thought she could mask her recognition, she was wrong. I saw it. I felt it.

I smirked, savoring the moment, saying, “We meet again.”

Of all the people my mother could’ve hired, fate had decided to serve me this?

Fate had a twisted sense of humor.

And damn if it wasn’t entertaining. A part of me wished I’d brought my camera. Capturing her expression right now would’ve been art, pure, unfiltered art. The kind no gallery could ever truly frame.

She shifted her weight, caught between fight and flight, her breath uneven. I let the silence stretch, feeding on the tension, the way it prickled through the air between us. Her presence filled the room, uninvited yet magnetic.

The stranger. The baker. The complication I didn’t ask for, but suddenly couldn’t look away from.

Yes, this was going to be fun…