Luca Rhezan didn't sleep the night before.
He tried, God, he tried. He tossed, turned, kicked off the sheets. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Tani, framed in that bakery, her eyes locking on his, like she already knew him.
One look at her and he came undone.
He had given up sleep and tried to stay in today, away from work. Perhaps he could clock some hours in and get the much needed sleep.
When evening came, he couldn't sit still. He grabbed his coat and car keys, told himself he was going for a drive. The road led him where his mind already was – The bakery.
He had told himself not to come. More than once. He had driven in the opposite direction twice already tonight. And yet, somehow, he had still ended up here—parked across from her world, watching her through the glow of her shop window like a sinner outside a church.
He slowed when he saw the bakery lights still glowing, soft against the dusk. He parked down the block and sat there, engine off.
Inside the little bakery, the last light still burned. She was working, same as she always did when the world was already asleep.
God.
She looked exactly like the woman in the portrait. The kind of woman who could ruin a man with one smile and never mean to.
He stayed there, hidden in shadow, just watching. Every movement, every small gesture felt like something he'd missed for years without realizing it.
Since yesterday morning at the bakery, he hadn't stopped thinking about her. Every meeting, every report, every conversation had blurred into background noise. Her face had taken a firm root in his mind, blooming there with quiet, stubborn grace.
She moved inside, unaware of him. Hair tied up, sleeves rolled past her elbows, apron dusted in white. She was humming, he couldn't hear it, but he knew from the rhythm of her shoulders, the soft tilt of her head. She worked with a calm that made the rest of the world feel like noise.
He leaned forward, elbows on the steering wheel. She stretched, wiped a hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of flour on her skin. He smiled before he realized he was doing it.
"You're losing your mind," he muttered. His voice was rough, the kind that sounded better with a drink in hand.
But he stayed, the truth was simpler, rawer, he couldn't stop.
It felt like finding rain after years of drought. He hadn't even realized how dry he was until this.
Until her.
There had been so many years of nothing but glass towers, empty conversations, meaningless sex and the mechanical rhythm of meetings and deals. He'd forgotten what curiosity felt like. What wonder tasted like.
And then she looked up from her counter, eyes wide and startled, and everything inside him had shifted.
Now, he sat in the dark and watched her work, the way her hands shaped the world, patient and sure. She didn't move like the women he knew. Those polished, poised creatures of control. She moved like someone with purpose and she was real.
The clock on his dashboard blinked 10:45. He should have been home an hour ago. He should have been anywhere but here.
He tilted his head back, closing his eyes. For a moment, he could almost smell the dream again, the soft scent of dry sand and rain. He'd been chasing that smell his whole life without knowing why.
When he opened his eyes, she was closer to the window now, straightening the display trays, humming still. The light framed her, and for one wild heartbeat, he thought she looked like she belonged with him.
He let out a soft breath, a half-laugh that didn't sound like humor at all. "Yeah," he said quietly. "You're in trouble."
He watched her turn the Closed sign around. The motion was small, ordinary. But something in him clenched as if she had shut the door on him instead.
She glanced toward the window, eyes skimming the street. His pulse jumped. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. She looked right past him, then disappeared into the back room.
He exhaled slowly, chest tight.
He could control every room he entered, every conversation he had. He could predict markets, people, and reactions. That power had built him an empire. But this, this woman across the street, this feeling made a fool of him.
It wasn't love. It couldn't be. Love was a word for poets and dreamers, not men who lived by logic.
And yet…
He rubbed a hand over his face. His palm came away damp from the rain that had slipped in through the half-open window. He didn't care. The cool air steadied him, barely.
He thought of her laughter that morning, how it had caught him off guard. The sound of it had cracked something open inside him.
He remembered the soft tremor in his hands, when she had looked at him like she knew.
He'd spent the whole day trying to forget it. He'd failed spectacularly.
A man passed by on the sidewalk, peered through the glass, and she reappeared to hand him a small paper bag. He paid, smiled, said something that made her laugh. She tucked her hair behind her ear.
The sight twisted something in him he didn't want to name.
"This is bad," he whispered. "You've really lost it now."
The man left, and the shop went quiet again. She began turning off the lights. One by one, the warm glow dimmed until only the front lamp remained, spilling gold onto the wet street.
He didn't start the car right away. He stayed, staring at that patch of light, at the shadow moving inside it. The part of him that had spent years building walls and signing deals wanted to walk in there, say something simple.
"Can I buy a cupcake? Can I stay?"
But he didn't move. He didn't dare. Not yet.
Because the moment he stepped inside, it would stop being a fantasy. It would become real. And real things broke easier.
The rain picked up, soft but relentless. He finally reached for the ignition. The engine hummed low, headlights washing over the slick pavement.
He looked back one more time. Through the streaked glass, she was locking the door, umbrella in hand, stepping into the rain.
He watched her cross the street, his grip tightened on the wheel. Every rational instinct screamed to drive away to stop before he crossed some line he couldn't un-cross.
Then she was gone. He leaned back against the seat, chest tight, jaw set. The truth pressed down on him like gravity.
This, whatever this was, wasn't over. It was just the beginning.
He whispered into the quiet car, almost a confession, "She's going to ruin me."
The words felt too heavy, too true.
He pressed his foot to the pedal, and the car rolled forward, slow and smooth, blending into the flow of rain and light.
And that's when it hit him fully, without warning or grace.
He wasn't curious anymore. He wasn't haunted. He was done for.
Luca Rhezan was in trouble.
And for the first time in years, he knew exactly what kind.