The Baker's Billionaire

DEMETRIA

"THAT'S AWESOME, CONGRATULATIONS!" Anastasia shrieked, her voice bursting through the phone like a firecracker. "We need to open your red wine and celebrate. I'm not taking no for an answer."

I just told her about my contract with Charlotte Whitfield. I didn't mention her name to Anastasia yet. I'll wait until she comes over and go into details about everything.

I laughed, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. Her enthusiasm had that effect-it was impossible to stay calm around her. "Yeah, we'll do that," I said, my voice bubbling with excitement.

"Sure, I'll come over to your house when I get off work," she said quickly, lowering her voice. I could hear faint chatter in the background-clients, no doubt.

"I'll be waiting," I replied, biting down on my lip to keep from giggling like a teenager.

"Okay, see you later, a client just walked in," she whispered hurriedly before the line went dead. My best friend, Anastasia, whose job as an art curator kept her busy, always on the move, always in heels.

Now, I'll go over the contract thoroughly before signing, reading to know the assortment of baked goods needed. I need to have a discussion with my employees and start preparing for the deadline.

I gathered my team in the back kitchen, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon rolls and fresh cookies. Flour dust clung to the stainless-steel counters, and the warm hum of ovens gave the space a heartbeat of its own.

"Alright, guys," I began, tapping my pen against the table. "Mrs. Whitfield's charity gala is in two weeks. We're responsible for the dessert spread before the main course. This isn't just any order - it's for over two hundred guests, and the client's expecting elegance and flavor in every bite."

Brielle, my head decorator, flipped open her sketchbook. "I'm thinking a tiered display of mini fruit tarts and lemon meringue bites. The colors will pop under the lighting in the hall of the event centre."

"Perfect," I said, seeing Amanda jotting it down. "We'll also do a variety of cookies - chocolate chip, almond shortbread, and maybe a lavender sugar cookie for something unique. Let's aim for about two thousand cookies total, evenly split between the flavors."

Matthew, our pastry chef, leaned in. "What about pies? We could do mini pecan and apple pies - easy to pick up, no mess."

"Yes," I nodded. "Mini everything. This crowd doesn't want to juggle plates before dinner. And we'll have a few centerpiece cakes - something eye-catching, but easy for the servers to portion if anyone asks."

There were murmurs of agreement as everyone scribbled notes. I pointed to the prep schedule pinned to the corkboard. "Week one: finalize flavors, order all specialty ingredients, and start testing presentation. Week two: bake in stages - cookies first, pies next, cakes last - so everything is fresh for delivery. And remember, this is a high-profile event. Mrs. Whitfield is paying generously, but more importantly, this is a chance for our bakery's name to travel in some very influential circles."

Two weeks felt like plenty of time, but I knew the days would disappear faster than sugar in hot tea.

"Alright!" I clapped to draw their attention. "I've discussed everything with Mrs. Whitfield, and I'm meeting with her next Thursday, so we need to impress her with our desserts."

The team nodded, exchanging excited glances.

Later, I picked up dinner for Anastasia and me. Nobu. The restaurant glowed in sleek minimalism, its glass windows spilling golden light onto the dark Malibu evening. Inside, laughter and the clink of glasses floated over the hum of conversation. Celebrities and executives filled the tables, every detail screaming luxury.

I ordered Black Cod with Miso, an iconic Nobu dish, buttery and rich, the kind that melts on your tongue, for myself. For Anastasia, I chose the Rosemary Panko-Crusted New Zealand Lamb Chop–elegant and indulgent, just like her taste.

Standing at the counter, I scanned the machine to make a payment for the meal. After collecting the food, I stepped out and walked towards my car.

"Ooomphhh!" The air whooshed from my lungs as I slammed into something unyielding. Pain jolted through my shoulder, and I staggered back, clutching the plastic bag containing the food firmly. That hurts.

I blinked up, my heart stuttering. Not something. Someone. A man.

He was tall, easily six foot three, with broad shoulders filling out a tailored navy suit that whispered money with every stitch. The faint scent of cedarwood and an expensive cologne clung to him. He is scrolling through his phone, oblivious to the world he bulldozed through.

He hadn't even noticed me. Of course not. Men like him rarely did, until they had to. Seconds dragged before he finally shifted his gaze towards me.

With a sharp, squared jawline framed by a perfectly shaped, thick beard. Full, pink lips that looked entirely too soft for someone like him. A long, clean-cut nose leading to those piercing, greenish eyes that seemed to strip away more than I was willing to give. He narrows his eyes as though trying to pull me into focus. Then he opened his mouth to speak.

"You should take a picture, it lasts longer," he said, dripping sarcasm.

Electricity shot through me at the sudden sound of his voice – low, raspy, rough. Now staring at me, I also stared into his face. Heat crept up my neck. He reminded me of Smith's song 'Handsome Devil.' Damn! Fine arrogant prick.

"Why would I waste my phone storage?" I shot back, tilting my head just to mock his arrogance.

"Then, watch where you're going," he said smoothly, like it was a fact, not an accusation. His voice was deep, controlled, and annoyingly calm.

I blinked. "Excuse me? You barreled into me." If I hadn't held on tight to the takeout bag, the food would've spilled onto the floor.

One thick eyebrow arched, as if I'd just told him the earth was flat.

"Pretty sure you weren't paying attention," his voice low and unhurried. His gaze swept over me from head to toe, deliberate and unapologetic.

A pulse of heat shot through me at the seductive glint in his eyes - the kind of look that made my stomach flip and my thoughts scatter. He stared at me like I was his next meal, served up and ready, and he was deciding where to take the first bite.

Something flickered in his eyes - amusement? Irritation? I couldn't tell, but his mouth tilted into the faintest smirk. "Have a good night," he said, stepping aside like this was the end of the conversation.

My heart was pounding - not from attraction, definitely not, but from sheer frustration. Right? The nerve of this guy. Now focused on my surroundings, I turned on my heel and walked away, muttering under my breath, "Handsome Devil."

Still, for some reason I couldn't explain, I felt the hair at the back of my neck rise. I found myself glancing back once... and of course, he was still there, watching me while I slid into my car, leaving the premises.

I hope we don't cross paths again...

DEMETRIA

Same night, minutes later...

I made it home just in time, barely kicking off my shoes at the entrance before Anastasia showed up. The hum of the city outside fades behind the door. Even as I shut the door behind me, the memory of the man outside Nobu lingered.

My apartment is a two-bedroom, cozy place, located here in West Hollywood. In the living area, a few potted plants lined the windowsill, their leaves catching the fading light, and illuminating the counter in the kitchen, and the soft, beige couch waiting for me to collapse onto it. I could hear the faint hum of the fridge in the corner of my kitchen. Nothing extravagant, but it felt like home, a quiet corner of the world where I could breathe.

As I walked to the kitchen to set out the meal from Nobu, I heard her cheerful, slightly dramatic voice calling my name.

"Demetria!" she chirped, stepping inside like she owned the place. I screamed; the place was so quiet before she entered.

"Anas! You scared me!"

"Sorry..." She said, smiling sheepishly. I groaned inwardly. If I haId a chance of getting my spare key back, I would, but she refuses, always saying she'll keep it in case of an emergency.

We shed our outer layers in a hurry. Flurry jackets were tossed over the chairs, with her kicking her shoes aside, and collapsing onto the couch. I pulled a bottle of red wine from the kitchen, and we poured glasses for ourselves. The rich, fruity aroma hit my senses, mingling with the faint smell of the dinner I'd hastily reheated. It felt like a small luxury, one of the few indulgences I allowed myself in my busy, messy life.

Somewhere between the sarcastic quips of the movie Wednesday and the twisted little plotlines, I found the courage to dive into the topic. The contract. I told her everything, leaving nothing out, no hesitation this time.

"Wow!" Anastasia's eyes went wide. She practically leapt off the couch in her excitement, waving her hands like she'd just seen fireworks. "This offer is insane! Fifty thousand dollars?! Desserts at a charity gala? Demetria, do you realize how huge that is?"

I watched her energy with mild amusement, though my mind was elsewhere. "Mrs. Charlotte Whitfield is her name," I said, keeping my tone neutral but careful.

"What?!" She shrieked, her voice loud enough to make me jump, springing back onto the couch with an intensity that made her hair whip around her face. "Do you... Do you know who she is?"

I blinked at her, feeling a little out of my depth. "What do you mean? I don't,"

Anastasia shook her head so hard it looked like it might fall off. "Girl, you live under a rock! Charlotte Whitfield? She's married to one of the wealthiest men in the world. A trillionaire, Demetria! I mean, he comes from old money. Diamonds, investments, the works! Their family is legendary in social circles, and their kids... don't even get me started. They're celebrity royalty."

I leaned back, letting the information sink in. My hand absently traced the rim of my wine glass. "I don't have time to see what's going on in the media; I'm always in the kitchen, and I've not lived here all my life."

"Of course," she scoffed, rolling her eyes with a mix of exasperation and amusement. "The world is spinning, and you're spinning sugar and frosting instead. Typical Demetria."

I shrugged and glanced toward the television, the show's eerie soundtrack weaving into the background. My mind, though, was elsewhere. I replayed the face of the handsome stranger I'd encountered earlier today. The sharp lines of his jaw, the way his eyes held a glint of something dangerous and alluring, the effortless way he carried himself. Even sitting here, I could picture him vividly, as if his image had been etched into my memory. Lucky bastard, I thought, shaking my head subtly, trying to snap myself out of it.

A few minutes passed, and the kind filled with that strange, tense quiet that comes when someone's thoughts are far away. Anastasia's patience, however, had limits. She reached over and gave my shoulder a firm shake.

"Okay...so why do you look like you're figuring something out?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You've been zoned out since I came in. What's going on? Spill it, girl. Start talking."

I sighed, letting my shoulders slump. "Okay..." I muttered, unsure how much I should reveal.

She leaned closer, her elbows resting on her knees, and gave me that expectant look she always did when she wanted me to confess my secrets. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment.

I recounted the encounter with the stranger, starting from the very beginning, the collision, the sharp tone in his voice. I described the way he had looked at me, that mixture of irritation and intrigue that made my skin tingle. I admitted, reluctantly, that despite our clash, I'd felt... attracted. Annoyingly attracted.

"I can't stop thinking about him," I admitted quietly, more to myself than to Anastasia. "The way he looked at me... it wasn't just interest. There was something... else."

Anastasia leaned back and studied me with a sly grin. "Ohhh... now I get it. That's what's been going on. That look on your face wasn't stress, it was pining. Oh, girl." She shook her head, half-laughing. "So you're distracted by a hot stranger, huh?"

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "He... he's frustrating. Arrogant. And infuriating in the best possible way. I don't like him. I shouldn't like him. But I do."

She laughed, nudging me playfully. "Arrogant, huh? That's one way to put it. What happened? There's more to spill, say it!"

I peeked through my fingers, giving her a scowl that wasn't entirely convincing.

"You should take a picture - it lasts longer,". I said, mimicking his voice. "That's what he told me."

Anastasia let out a long whistle. "Ooooohhh, this is going to be fun," she said with a grin. "Sounds like a classic hate-to-love situation to me."

"Please," I scoffed. "I just hope that I never see him again."

"Sure, sure," she said, waving her hand dismissively, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Tell me more. Did he notice you? Did he say anything, anything at all?"

I recount the brief, loaded glances, the subtle tension in the air when our eyes met, the way his voice lingered in my mind even after I'd walked away. Every description made my heart pound faster, every memory both infuriating and thrilling.

Anastasia leaned back, crossing her arms. "Girl... I see it. You're already wrapped around his finger."

"I am not!" I protested, even though my racing heart betrayed me. "It's complicated. And besides..." I paused, taking a deep breath. "...he's from a completely different world than mine. Like a rich guy, old money, perfect life, while I'm... me. Just... desserts and chaos."

She laughed, nudging me playfully. "Sounds like a story waiting to happen. You're going to bump into him again, I just know it. Mark my words."

I rolled my eyes, but even as I tried to argue, a small part of me couldn't deny it. There was something about him that drew me in, a pull I couldn't quite explain. And maybe, just maybe, the idea of a billionaire with a rough edge wasn't as impossible as I told myself it was.

The room grew quieter as the episode on the television reached a particularly suspenseful moment. I leaned back into the couch, letting the weight of the wine and the day press against my shoulders. But even in the dim light, even in the cozy comfort of my apartment, I couldn't shake the thought of him, the stranger who had managed, in minutes, to upset my carefully ordered world.

Anastasia, sensing my distraction, nudged me again. "Hey. Snap out of it. You're acting like a lovesick fool already, and it's only been a few hours."

I laughed softly, shaking my head. "Maybe I am," I admitted, taking another sip of wine. "But I didn't ask for it. And I don't know what I'm going to do about it."

She grinned knowingly. "Well, lucky for you, girl, you've got me to plot out your next steps. And believe me... It's going to be fun."

I let myself smile, feeling a mix of apprehension and excitement. This wasn't just a random encounter. It was the start of something complicated, something electric. And whether I liked it or not... I was already caught in the gravity of it.

MARION

The boardroom at The Whitfield Diamonds Corporation LLC always smelled faintly of polished mahogany and tension. A dozen men in suits leaned forward around the long table, their eyes darting between the financial projections I'd put up on the screen and the silent figure of my father at the head of the table, with the new CEO at his side. My father only attends important meetings here.

I cleared my throat, tapping the clicker in my hand. "As you can see, operating costs in South Africa have risen eight percent this quarter, largely due to increased security measures and labor adjustments. If we don't reallocate from the underperforming European branches, we'll cut into margins faster than we can recover them."

A murmur ran through the room. One of the older directors adjusted his cufflinks before speaking. "But shifting the budget from Antwerp? That branch has been in our family portfolio for fifty years-"

I cut him off, firm but calm. "Tradition doesn't pay the bills, gentlemen. Profit does. And right now, Antwerp bleeds cash while Botswana and Namibia keep us afloat. If we continue honoring the past instead of investing in the present, we won't be talking about legacy, we'll be talking about liquidation."

Across the table, my father, Maxwell Whitfield, leaned back in his chair. He said nothing, his expression carved from stone, but his silence carried weight. Everyone in the room was waiting for him to intervene, but this was his game. He liked to test me, to see if I'd bend under pressure or stand my ground.

I clicked to the next slide, the numbers stark and undeniable. "I propose a twenty percent budget reallocation, away from stagnant European markets and into our African expansion. Additionally, we trim unnecessary luxuries from the corporate accounts. Private jets for mid-level executives? Gone. Sponsorships that don't deliver measurable PR value? Cut."

The CFO part of me thrived in these moments, the clarity of numbers, the strategy of turning chaos into order. Still, there was always that whisper in the back of my mind: None of this is yours.

The hotels, the casinos, those were mine. My empire. But here, in Whitfield Diamond Corporation, I was the dutiful son, the financial steward of a dynasty built long before I was born. Being the CFO is just a bonus to my net worth.

Finally, my father spoke, his voice low, deliberate. "You've made your point, Marion. Reallocate the budget. But understand this: cutting legacy branches is not just a matter of numbers. It is a matter of respect. Our name carries weight."

I met his gaze evenly. "Respect doesn't keep us in the black. I'll protect the family's empire, Father, but I won't bankroll nostalgia."

A flicker of something, approval, maybe irritation, passed through his eyes. And then he nodded once, dismissing the room. The meeting was over.

As I gathered my papers and stood up, my father finally broke the silence.

"Good job, son," he said, tapping my shoulder.

"Thank you, sir," I replied, a faint smirk tugging at my lips.

He walked toward the door, then glanced back. "Pass by my office, your mother needs to talk with you."

I nodded and followed.

Inside his office, the familiar scent of leather and old books filled the air. My mother was already there, seated elegantly by the window. The moment my father stepped in, his face softened. He crossed the room, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her warmly, passionately, as though decades of marriage hadn't dulled a thing.

I shuddered, shaking my head. This couple.

Clearing my throat, I muttered, "I'm right here, you know."

My father shot me a look, amused. "Then go and find yourself a good woman, son." He shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"That's what I've been telling him," my mother chimed in, her eyes bright with that familiar mix of affection and mischief. "I don't approve of Paula," she added, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if daring me to challenge her.

I needed to find myself a wife, if only to keep my mother from circling me like a hawk every time I walked into a room. The thought had barely formed before another flashed just as quickly, the pretty woman from Friday night.

Damn her.

It was Monday now, and she was still in my head. The way she'd looked at me, the way she'd smelled. Sweet, sharp, like strawberries laced with trouble. I clenched my jaw, irritated with myself.

I needed a distraction. A warm body, a quick night, something to burn her out of my system. Maybe if I got laid, I'd forget about her. About that scent that wouldn't leave me alone.

I groaned. "Please. Can we change the topic? You needed to talk to me?"

My father finally released my mother from his embrace, and she smoothed the front of her silk blouse before turning to me with that all-too-familiar glint in her eyes, the one that meant business.

"Now," she said, reaching into her leather folder, "to the actual reason I asked you here. The contract has been signed."

I frowned slightly. "Which contract?"

"The one for the charity gala," she replied smoothly, sliding a crisp document across the desk. "The desserts. The baker has agreed. We'll be meeting her on Thursday for the first tasting."

I leaned back in the chair, loosening the cuff of my shirt. "You called me here to discuss... pastries?"

My father chuckled, settling into his seat behind the desk. "Don't sound so bored, son. Your mother takes her galas seriously. And when she says you'll be present, you'll be present."

I glanced between them. "With all due respect, I have an expansion budget to finalize for the African operations. Do you need me there to nod at dessert?"

My mother's eyes sharpened. "It is not just dessert. These galas carry our name, our reputation. I've already told her you'll be there. If I trust someone new to deliver, then I expect you, as Chief Financial Officer, to ensure she meets Whitfield standards, and you are addicted to the cookies already. " She laughs loudly.

I exhaled, resisting the urge to argue. It wasn't worth it. With my mother, there never really was an argument, just her decision and the illusion of my choice.

"Fine," I said at last, my tone edged with dry amusement. "Thursday, eleven. I'll taste the desserts. What's her name?"

My mother's lips curved faintly as she tapped the contract. "Demetria."

I repeated it under my breath. "Demetria." A name that sounded foreign to our marble halls, but brings lightness where everything here felt heavy.

"Never heard of her," I muttered, rising to my feet.

"You will," my mother replied, that enigmatic smile never faltering. Then, as if she had been waiting for this moment, she reached into a small bag beside her chair. "She sent something for you. Gave Stephen cinnamon cookies to pass along."

She set the neat little parcel on the desk in front of me.

"Hmmm," I drawled, cracking a smile, "I hope they're not infused."

My father smirked knowingly, shaking his head and sliding a cigar from the box on his desk. "Seems like Thursday might be more interesting than you think."

I ignored the remark, collecting my papers, together with the cookies. I need to see this baker. I'll speak to Stephen.

But as I walked toward the door, I caught myself saying the name again, quietly this time, as though testing it against the weight of the Whitfield empire.

"Demetria."