Chapter 4 A sweet poison

The dress Clara was wearing was borrowed. It still smelled of the floral perfume of Luísa, her friend, who insisted on going to the charity event.

"Go, Clara. If not to get donations for your Easter campaign, at least go get your face out of that oven."

She tried to refuse. She really did. But after another night of calculations, debts, and overdue bills, she didn't have the strength to say no.

So there she was: in the lounge of a five-star hotel, holding a glass of sparkling wine she didn't dare drink, with a polite smile, repeating the same phrases: "I'm from Confiteria Martins, yes, the one on Augusta Street... of course, homemade sweets, my grandmother's recipes..."

Around her, long dresses and impeccable suits. Suppressed laughter, flashing photographers, waiters floating around with silver trays. Clara felt out of place, like a chocolate lost in a jewelry display case. She scanned the room, looking for Luísa, but saw only unfamiliar heads. She clutched her purse to her chest and took a deep breath. Perhaps it was time to leave before she realized no one would donate a cent to save an old bakery.

"Lost, Clarita?" a low, almost amused voice asked behind her.

Clara's heart leapt, spreading warmth to her fingertips. She turned slowly, as if afraid of confirming her premonition.

Enzo Albuquerque.

Of course he'd be there. The unofficial host of any event where there was money to be shown or power to be negotiated. The tuxedo fit him like a custom-made suit of armor. A loose bow tie, a glass of whiskey in his left hand, a lazy smile on his lips. And those eyes, which seemed to light up every time they looked at her.

"I could ask the same thing," Clara replied, forcing a calm she didn't feel. "I didn't know of philanthropists like you mixed with small-time bakers." Enzo smiled, leaning in to speak. The scent of his expensive perfume almost made Clara close her eyes. Almost.

"You're no small fry, Clarita," he turned the glass over in his hand, without taking his eyes off her. "Besides, ever since college, you've always known how to stand out from a sea of classmates."

The mention of the university made her take a half step back. Not because it pained her to remember it, but because it pained her to admit that it still hurt.

The university halls flashed back like a movie on fast-forward: Clara arriving late to economics class, books weighing down her backpack. Enzo leaning against the wall, laughing with his arrogant friends, but only looking at her when he thought no one was looking.

He taught her how to play chess in the library garden. She taught him how to make coffee with the old machine in the student union. Amid the laughter, the forbidden kisses, the future seemed easy, until pride, the fights, the difference in worlds screamed even louder.

She left before he could tell her to stay. He let her go. And there they were again, as if nothing had changed and everything had changed at the same time.

"I don't have time to think about the past," Clara said, lifting her chin. "I came to ask for donations for community projects. Easter solidarity, candy baskets... those things you don't understand."

Enzo smirked. "Do you underestimate me that much?"

Clara took a step to the side, but he followed her like a shadow.

"I have nothing to say to you, Enzo. I already made that clear when you visited the bakery."

"Oh, Clarita..." he let out a short, almost inaudible laugh. "Do you really think you can escape me in a room like this?"

She felt a knot in her stomach as he leaned over and whispered in her ear,

"By the way, I thought it was... curious... that you were here without telling me. You could have asked me for help. I would have bought you all the Easter eggs, all the chocolate." His voice was sweet poison. "Or you could have asked for a blank check, like a lot of people here do." Clara gently pushed him away, feeling her blood boil.

"I'm not 'many.' And I don't accept handouts from Albuquerque."

He laughed again, taking a half step back, raising his hands as if admitting defeat; a defeat that's never real, just a rehearsal for the next attack.

"Tell me, Clarinha..." He raised his whiskey glass, gesturing to the crowd of office workers. "Have any of them signed the check for your Easter charity yet?"

She bit her lip, her grip on her purse tight. He noticed, of course he noticed.

"I thought," Enzo continued, his voice low, almost gentle, "that you were smarter. Begging for handouts from those rich people who laugh at you behind your back? You're worth more than that."

"Don't pretend to know me," Clara whispered fiercely. "You know nothing about who I am today." "Oh, but I already know, Clarita..." He leaned close again, so close that Clara felt a heat rise up the back of her neck. "I know you still dream of saving that place. I know you're still too proud to admit you need me. And I know that, deep down, you still remember."

She forced herself to look at him. So many memories, so many unspoken kisses, so many secrets. The desire to slap him mingled with the desire to pull him closer. And that infuriated her more than any debt.

"If you think you can destroy me just because you have money, you're wrong," she said through gritted teeth.

Enzo lowered his face, so close his lips almost touched her temple.

"What if I don't want to destroy you?" he murmured. "What if I want... to stay by your side?"

Clara held her breath. The room spun slowly, lights, flashes, music in the background. There, everything seemed still, just the two of them trapped in a bubble of the past and twisted promises.

That was when she heard Luísa's voice calling her from across the room. Clara blinked, as if waking from a trance. She pulled away from Enzo and took a deep breath. "Stay away from me, Enzo," she said, trying to sound firm. "And away from my business."

He raised his glass, toasting the air, with that smile that mixed defiance and desire.

"It won't be that easy, Clarinha. You know it."

She didn't respond. She simply turned, crossing the room, ignoring the curious glances, ignoring the tightness in her chest.

She knew he was right. Nothing would be easy. Especially with Enzo Albuquerque so close.

And, as much as she wanted to deny it, a part of her-stubborn, proud, still wounded-knew the war was just beginning.