The Plus-Size Baker Told the Mafia Boss to Stop Calling Her His Girlfriend—Then He Came Back Asking for Something Money Couldn’t Buy - Spotlight8
“Did you ever ask what she needed from you?”
Roman looked at her.
His silence answered.
Clare sighed.
“You can negotiate with half of Chicago, but you can’t talk to a grieving sixteen-year-old?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Maybe stop assuming there’s a correct thing.”
His expression tightened.
“You make that sound simple.”
“It isn’t. That doesn’t make avoiding it useful.”
Lily laughed again from the kitchen.
Roman looked toward the sound.
“Yesterday,” he said quietly, “she asked if we could come back here.”
Clare’s resistance weakened by exactly one inch.
Roman noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face did.”
“What did my face say?”
“That you think you’re winning.”
“Am I?”
Clare reached for the flour.
Roman raised both hands.
“Understood.”
She looked past him toward Lily.
Roman’s money had failed.
His reputation had failed.
His persistence had mostly made Clare consider changing her opening hours.
But the girl in the kitchen was different.
“Three weeks,” Clare said.
Roman’s eyes returned to her.
“Strict rules.”
“How many?”
“As many as I need.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Clare pointed at him.
“That expression is rule number one.”
“What expression?”
“The one where you think you’ve gotten what you wanted.”
His almost-smile vanished.
“Better.”
The next morning Roman returned at exactly 8:15.
Clare was waiting with a sheet of paper.
He glanced at it.
“A contract?”
“No. Contracts are negotiable. These are rules.”
Roman sat.
“Rule one. You do not interfere with my business.”
“I haven’t.”
“You tried to reserve the bakery this morning.”
“I wanted privacy.”
“My customers wanted pancakes and muffins. They won.”
Roman leaned back.
“Rule two. Your security stays outside unless there is an actual safety concern. Rule three. You do not tell me where to go, what to wear, what to say or whom I’m allowed to speak to. Rule four. No gifts that require insurance. Rule five. No arriving at my apartment uninvited.”
Roman nodded.
“Reasonable.”
“Rule six. You don’t touch me because somebody is watching.”
His eyes lifted.
“You’re supposed to be my girlfriend.”
“Pretending.”
“How do you propose we make that convincing?”
“Try having a personality.”
A laugh escaped from near the door.
One of Roman’s men immediately looked away.
Roman turned his head.
“Outside.”
“He was already supposed to be outside,” Clare reminded him.
Roman closed his eyes briefly.
Clare smiled.
“This is going to be fun.”
For the first time, he looked worried.
Their first family dinner almost ended the arrangement.
Roman arrived at Honey & Rye with enough white roses to decorate a wedding chapel.
Clare stared at them.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Men do not arrive with forty pounds of flowers when they’ve done nothing.”
“They’re for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my girlfriend.”
“Fake girlfriend.”
“The flowers can also be fake if that helps.”
Clare touched one.
“They’re real.”
“That was a joke.”
She looked at him.
“You made one.”
Roman appeared faintly insulted.
Then Clare’s eyes narrowed.
“Who told you to bring them?”
“No one.”
“Is Sophia outside?”
“No.”
“Lily?”
“No.”
“Anyone we’re trying to convince?”
Roman paused.
Clare’s smile appeared slowly.
“Oh.”
“There is no ‘oh.’”
“You brought your fake girlfriend real flowers when nobody was watching.”
“They support the arrangement.”
“Who are they performing for? The muffins?”
Roman took the flowers back.
Clare laughed.
“Oh, no. You don’t get to take them now.”
“You just criticized them.”
“I can criticize something and still want it.”
Roman looked at her.
“That explains your relationship with me.”
They both went quiet.
It was the first time one of his jokes landed somewhere neither had intended.
Clare took the flowers carefully.
“Watch yourself, Duca. That almost sounded charming.”
At dinner, Clare discovered why Sophia had been so desperate to drag Roman into something resembling normal family life.
The Duca house was beautiful without being warm. Everything was polished, expensive and restrained. Employees moved quietly. Roman sat at the head of the table, and conversation seemed to wait for his approval before continuing.
Clare hated it within ten minutes.
When Lily began explaining a problem at school, Roman interrupted to offer a solution.
Clare tapped his wrist.
“She wasn’t finished.”
The table went silent.
Roman looked at Clare.
Then at Lily.
“Sorry,” he said. “Go ahead.”
Lily blinked.
So did Sophia.
Clare continued eating.
Over the next week, something strange happened.
Roman began showing up at the bakery even when nobody from his family was there.
He claimed appearances mattered.
Clare pointed out that there was nobody present to observe them.
Then his security men began coming inside without him.
Not for protection.
For pastries.
“Coffee, no sugar, almond croissant,” Clare said when one of them entered.
The enormous man smiled.
“You remembered.”
Roman walked in behind him.
“He gets a smile?”
“He says thank you.”
“I say thank you.”
“You say it like you’re approving a quarterly report.”
The guard collected his pastry and escaped before Roman could respond.
Roman watched him leave.
“I regret introducing my employees to you.”
“You didn’t. They discovered carbohydrates.”
Roman stared at her.
Clare grinned.
Their arguments no longer felt like arguments.
That was dangerous.
Even worse, Roman appeared to enjoy losing them.
He began asking things unrelated to the arrangement. Why had Clare opened Honey & Rye? Why this neighborhood? Why had she turned down two offers to expand?
Eventually, she folded her arms.
“Are you interviewing me?”
“I’m learning about my girlfriend.”
“Fake girlfriend.”
“I require material.”
“For whom?”
Roman opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Clare laughed.
Again, there was no audience.
Again, Roman had no explanation.
Clare told him about her father teaching her to bake biscuits on Sunday mornings after her mother died. About spending years managing restaurants where owners treated employees like interchangeable parts. About borrowing money, working eighteen-hour days and opening Honey & Rye with six tables and one oven that overheated whenever it rained.
She did not tell him immediately about Derek, the man she had once planned to marry.
That story came later.
Derek had loved Clare privately and edited her publicly.
He had suggested darker clothes because they were “slimming.” Asked whether she wanted dessert in front of friends. Once told her before a company party that she was beautiful but would “photograph better” if she lost twenty pounds.
Clare had spent three years becoming smaller without losing an ounce.
Eventually, she had realized he was not asking her to lose weight.
He was asking her to disappear.
She returned the ring.
Honey & Rye opened eleven months later.
Perhaps that was why Roman’s first offer of money had enraged her so much.
Clare had rebuilt a life in which she belonged entirely to herself.
She would never again be purchased, managed or corrected into somebody else’s preferred shape.
One afternoon Lily appeared after school.
Clare gave her dough to portion and waited.
Eventually, the girl began talking.
“My mom used to bake when she was stressed,” Lily said.
“What?”
“Everything. Cookies. Bread. Terrible pies.”
“Terrible?”
“Like legally questionable.”
Clare smiled.
Lily’s hands slowed.
“She brought me here once.”
Clare looked up.
“When?”
“Last year. Before she died.”
That explained something Clare had not understood.
Lily touched the edge of the steel worktable.
“She bought a cinnamon roll and said yours tasted like the ones her grandmother made.”
Clare felt a small ache behind her ribs.
“Roman doesn’t know.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Lily shrugged, but her eyes had become wet.
“After Mom died, everybody kept asking if I was okay. I said yes because it made them stop asking.”
Clare remained quiet.
“Roman stopped asking completely.”
“He probably thought he was giving you space.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean it was what you needed.”
Lily shook her head.
“He disappeared too.”
That evening Roman arrived to collect her.
Clare blocked his path when he turned toward the door.
“You two need to talk.”
Roman glanced at Lily.
“Not here.”
Lily looked down.
Clare folded her arms.
“That’s exactly what she says you do.”
Roman’s expression hardened.
“Clare.”
“No. Don’t use my name like a warning. If you want me involved because I somehow help Lily, then don’t ask me to participate in avoiding the thing hurting her.”
Lily suddenly spoke.
“You disappeared too.”
Roman stopped.
Clare stepped away.
This was no longer her conversation.
Lily’s voice shook.
“Everybody acts like I lost Mom and you stayed to take care of me, but I lost you too. You stopped talking to me.”
“I thought you needed space.”
“You never asked.”
Roman looked genuinely shaken.
“I didn’t know what to say.”
“Anything.”
His face changed.
Lily wiped at her eyes.
“You kept acting like if you said the wrong thing, you’d make everything worse.”
Roman’s silence stretched.
Clare saw his first instinct clearly.
Retreat.
Then something inside him surrendered.
“I was afraid,” he said.
Lily stared.
Clare had never heard Roman Duca say those words.
Apparently Lily hadn’t either.
“Your mother was my little sister,” he continued, his voice roughening. “She called me whenever something broke because she believed I could fix anything. Cars. Bills. Problems with the house. People.”
Lily gave a broken laugh.
“Sounds like her.”
“When she died, I couldn’t fix it. Then I looked at you and I couldn’t fix what it did to you either.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
“I know that now.”
Roman moved toward her, then stopped.
He did not command.
He did not assume.
He simply opened his arms.
Lily crossed the distance.
When Roman held her, his eyes closed.
Clare quietly turned away.
That was the moment the arrangement should have ended.
Its real purpose had already been fulfilled.
Instead, it became harder to leave.
Two days later Daniel Hayes walked into Honey & Rye from the bookstore next door.
He was kind, divorced, funny and completely unthreatening.
“Still free Saturday?” he asked Clare.
“Seven works.”
Roman, who had been helping Lily with algebra at a corner table, looked up.
“Free for what?”
Clare raised an eyebrow.
Daniel smiled.
“Dinner.”
Roman stood.
“You have dinner Saturday?”
“I generally eat every evening.”
“With him?”
Clare slowly turned.
“Yes.”
“We have an arrangement.”
“A fake arrangement.”
“Which requires credibility.”
“Explain how sitting alone in my apartment improves credibility.”
Roman opened his mouth.
Lily looked between them.
“Uncle Roman.”
“What?”
“You’re jealous.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m concerned about consistency.”
Clare nodded solemnly.
“Terrible condition. Inconsistent fake dating.”
Daniel laughed.
Roman did not.
Clare went to dinner with Daniel.
Roman appeared at Honey & Rye three times before seven that evening.
The first time, he needed coffee.
The second, he supposedly needed to confirm Sunday dinner.
The third time, he had no excuse at all.
Clare checked the clock.
“Daniel gets here in seventeen minutes.”
“I wasn’t aware we were counting.”
“I am.”
Roman stood at the counter.
“What do you even see in him?”
The humor left Clare’s face.
“He’s kind. Easy to talk to. And he asked me out.”
Roman frowned.
“So?”
Clare met his eyes.
“You haven’t.”
The silence that followed was the first honest answer he gave her.
The weeks that followed changed both of them in ways neither had agreed to.
Roman learned to sit with Lily without trying to solve her.
Lily learned she could be angry with him without losing him.
And Clare discovered that beneath Roman’s control was something more complicated than arrogance.
Fear.
He knew how to protect people.
He did not know how to need them.
One night, after closing, he sat while Clare finished invoices.
Finally she put down her pen.
“Why do you keep coming here?”
“We have an arrangement.”
“Not tonight. Sophia isn’t here.”
“Lily likes the bakery.”
“She isn’t here either.”
Roman glanced around.
Clare leaned back.
“The flowers weren’t for Sophia. You don’t need four coffees a week. Yesterday you spent forty minutes arguing with me about whether independent bookstores have a sustainable business model because Daniel recommended me a novel.”
“I had concerns.”
“You have jealousy.”
“I do not.”
“Then answer the question.”
Roman looked toward the door.
Clare saw the instinct again.
Escape.
Finally he said, “I like talking to you.”
Clare laughed before she could stop herself.
His expression hardened.
“I’m glad my humiliation entertains you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you said it like you were confessing to tax fraud.”
“I don’t explain why I spend time with people.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Her laughter faded.
Roman stood.
He stopped beside her.
Close enough that she could feel the tension change.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.
Clare’s heart kicked.
“Rule,” she whispered.
His eyes returned to hers.
“No kissing without permission.”
“Yes.”
Neither moved.
Roman could have asked.
He didn’t.
And somehow his restraint affected Clare more than a kiss would have.
“Good night, Clare.”
“Good night, Roman.”
After he left, she remained motionless behind the counter.
The problem was no longer whether Roman Duca could convincingly pretend to be her boyfriend.
The problem was that she had begun wishing he would stop pretending.
Three nights later, Roman took her to a charity gala at a lakeside hotel downtown.
Clare wore an emerald dress that followed every curve she had once been taught to hide.
She noticed the looks.
Some curious.
Some dismissive.
Some openly confused when people realized the woman beside Roman Duca was not the polished, size-two socialite they expected.
Clare ignored them.
Then Evelyn Russo approached.
Evelyn was elegant, controlled and familiar enough with Roman to make it obvious she had once been part of the future other people imagined for him.
“So,” Evelyn said, “you’re Clare.”
“That’s usually what people call me.”
Roman’s mouth twitched.
Evelyn noticed.
“I’ve heard about your bakery.”
“You should visit.”
“How charming.”
The word landed like something sticky.
Evelyn looked at Roman.
“You used to have such predictable taste.”
Clare turned toward him.
“Should I be worried?”
“No.”
“Good. I hate competing with predictable women.”
Roman almost laughed.
Evelyn did not.
Twenty minutes later, she lifted a champagne glass before a small group of donors.
“I think we should congratulate Roman.”
Sophia frowned.
“For what?”
“For making everyone believe this.”
The room changed.
Clare’s stomach tightened.
“The girlfriend,” Evelyn continued. “It was convincing.”
Roman stepped forward.
“Evelyn.”
But Clare already understood.
Evelyn knew.
“It began as an arrangement, didn’t it?” she asked pleasantly. “Roman needed someone to play girlfriend for his family.”
Whispers moved through the room.
“And there was money involved.”
Roman’s voice became cold.
“That’s enough.”
Clare touched his arm.
“No.”
He looked at her.
She faced Evelyn.
“Finish.”
For the first time, Evelyn hesitated.
Then she did.
She mentioned Roman’s original offer while carefully omitting the fact that Clare had refused every dollar.
She described Honey & Rye as though owning a small neighborhood business were something Clare should apologize for.
Then came the cruelty Evelyn had been saving.
“It must have been exciting,” she said softly, “being invited into this world for a few weeks.”
Clare held her gaze.
Evelyn’s eyes traveled deliberately over Clare’s body.
“People do love a modern Cinderella story. They’ve become so… inclusive.”
Nobody misunderstood.
Roman moved before Clare could react.
“Apologize.”
His voice was quiet.
That frightened the room more than shouting would have.
Evelyn lifted her chin.
“Or what?”
Roman took one step forward.
People stopped smiling.
“I can make certain nobody in this room ever finds humiliating Clare amusing again.”
“Roman,” Clare said.
He ignored her.
“Anyone repeating what happened tonight will discover—”
“Roman.”
This time he stopped.
Clare stepped between them.
“I don’t need this.”
“She humiliated you.”
“Yes.”
“Then let me handle it.”
And there it was.
The mistake.
Not Evelyn.
Not the lie being exposed.
Roman still believed that when something hurt Clare, his job was to overpower it.
“I don’t need you to frighten everyone who insults me.”
His anger faltered.
“Then what do you want?”
Clare looked around the room.
Everyone was waiting to discover whether she had merely been a temporary woman rented for Roman Duca’s convenience.
She looked back at him.
“Tell them the truth.”
Roman went still.
Clare’s throat tightened.
“What am I to you?”
Seconds passed.
Too many.
She could see everything he wanted to say colliding with everything he had trained himself never to reveal.
But nothing came out.
That silence hurt more than Evelyn’s insult.
Clare nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Clare.”
“The arrangement is over.”
“Don’t make this decision because of her.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why?”
“Because somewhere along the way, this stopped feeling fake to me.”
Roman said nothing.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to look away.
“And I have no idea whether it ever stopped being fake to you.”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“It actually is.”
She swallowed.
“If nobody were watching, Roman, would you still come back tomorrow?”
For once the man who always had leverage had nothing.
No strategy.
No money.
No threat.
No answer.
Clare turned and walked away.
Roman did not stop her.
That surprised her almost as much as his silence.
For three days he gave her exactly what she had asked for.
Nothing.
No flowers.
No coffee.
No unnecessary visits.
No cars waiting outside.
Even his security men stopped coming for pastries, apparently deciding loyalty required carbohydrate deprivation.
Clare should have felt relieved.
Instead, every time the bakery door opened, she looked up.
On the third afternoon Lily came in.
“Before you say anything,” Clare warned, “I’m not discussing your uncle.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
“He’s miserable.”
Clare closed her eyes.
“Lily.”
“That is not discussing him. That’s reporting an observable condition.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with me.”
“I know.”
Clare almost smiled.
Lily became serious.
“He knows he messed up.”
“Knowing isn’t changing.”
“I told him that.”
Clare looked at her.
“You have definitely been spending too much time with me.”
The next morning, Roman walked through the bakery door at 8:15.
No flowers.
No gifts.
No Lily.
No Sophia.
He came alone.
Clare looked around theatrically.
“Who are we convincing today?”
“No one.”
“Family emergency?”
“No.”
“Charity dinner?”
“No.”
“Then you must be lost.”
“I’m not.”
She waited.
“You asked me a question three days ago.”
“I remember.”
“I didn’t answer because I didn’t know whether the answer I wanted to give was true or simply the one that would keep you from leaving.”
Clare’s sarcasm disappeared.
Roman looked around the bakery.
“I’ve spent most of my life knowing why people enter a room with me. Business. Money. Fear. Obligation. Family. There is always a reason.”
“And me?”
“I thought you were another reason.”
“For Lily.”
“Yes.”
“For Sophia.”
“Yes.”
“The arrangement.”
“Yes.”
He paused.
“But Lily doesn’t need this anymore. Sophia certainly doesn’t. The arrangement is finished.”
Clare’s heartbeat changed.
“So this morning,” Roman said, “I had no reason to come here.”
She barely breathed.
“I came anyway.”
“Why?”
There was nowhere left for him to hide.
“I wanted to see you.”
Clare stared.
Roman shifted his weight.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Are you nervous?”
“No.”
“You moved.”
“People move.”
“You’re nervous.”
“I came here to answer your question, not discuss my posture.”
Despite herself, Clare smiled.
Then she forced herself not to let him escape.
“Wanting to see me isn’t the same as knowing what you want.”
“I know.”
“I won’t pretend again.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I won’t be your girlfriend for Sophia.”
“I know.”
“Or Lily.”
“I know.”
“Or because you need a woman beside you so people stop asking questions.”
“I know.”
“And if you offer me money again, I’m switching from flour to something heavier.”
Roman almost looked offended.
“I learned that lesson.”
“Good.”
Clare folded her arms.
“Then why are you here?”
Roman held her gaze.
“To find out whether you’ll let me come back without an excuse.”
It was not a declaration of love.
Clare was glad.
She would not have trusted one yet.
It was smaller.
And because it was smaller, it felt true.
“You can buy coffee.”
Roman nodded.
“At full price.”
“I always pay full price.”
“You once tried to buy my entire morning.”
“I was inefficient then.”
Clare handed him his coffee.
“Progress.”
Roman came back the next day.
And the next.
Something fundamental changed.
He no longer pretended the visits were necessary.
Sometimes Clare was too busy to speak. Roman drank his coffee and left.
He learned that showing up did not entitle him to her time.
He learned that no meant no even when he disliked it.
And Clare learned that change, when genuine, was often less dramatic than apology.
It looked like repetition.
Choice after choice.
A week later Evelyn made one final attempt.
Clare attended a small fundraiser with Sophia and Lily. Roman arrived separately.
Evelyn approached.
“I see the performance survived.”
Clare opened her mouth.
Roman spoke first.
“No.”
Evelyn smiled.
“So it finally ended.”
“The arrangement did.”
Several nearby conversations quieted.
Roman looked toward Clare.
“Evelyn was correct about one thing the other night. Our relationship began as an arrangement.”
Evelyn’s smile widened.
“I asked Clare to pretend because my family responded to her in a way they hadn’t responded to me in years. I offered her money.”
Evelyn looked triumphant.
Roman continued.
“She refused it.”
The smile vanished.
“I offered more.”
Clare muttered, “That was the flour incident.”
Lily snorted.
Several people laughed.
Roman almost smiled.
“She still refused.”
Then his expression became serious.
“The truth Evelyn left out is that Clare established boundaries from the beginning while I repeatedly invented reasons to keep crossing back into her life.”
Clare stopped breathing.
“The flowers weren’t necessary,” Roman said. “The morning visits weren’t necessary. Most of the dinners weren’t necessary.”
He looked at Clare, not the room.
“I told myself I kept the arrangement because it helped my family.”
A pause.
“That stopped being true long before I admitted it.”
Evelyn crossed her arms.
“So what exactly are you saying?”
Roman finally looked at her.
“That Clare Bennett was never chasing access to my world.”
His gaze returned to Clare.
“I was the one who kept walking into hers.”
Silence.
No threat followed.
No warning.
No promise of revenge.
Roman simply told the truth and allowed people to think whatever they chose afterward.
That was the real surprise.
The feared man who once tried controlling every outcome had finally understood that defending Clare did not mean speaking over her.
It meant standing beside her while she remained entirely herself.
Evelyn left first.
When conversation returned, Clare approached Roman.
“That was better.”
“Better than threatening everyone?”
“Considerably.”
“I’ve received mixed feedback.”
“From whom?”
“Myself.”
Clare laughed.
Roman’s expression softened.
“Would you have dinner with me Friday?”
“For appearances?”
“No.”
“For Lily?”
“No.”
“For Sophia?”
“Absolutely not,” Sophia called from twenty feet away. “I heard that.”
Clare smiled.
Roman waited.
For perhaps the first time since she had met him, he had asked for something without attempting to control the answer.
Clare discovered she enjoyed making him experience uncertainty enormously.
“Ask me again tomorrow.”
Roman stared.
“Why tomorrow?”
“Because you need practice.”
“At what?”
“Not getting everything you want immediately.”
She walked away.
Behind her, Lily began laughing.
Roman Duca, who could intimidate almost anyone, had no choice but to wait.
At exactly 8:15 the next morning, he returned.
Clare checked the clock.
“You’re becoming predictable.”
“I prefer reliable.”
“That’s what predictable people say.”
Roman ignored her.
“Dinner Friday?”
Clare deliberately wiped the counter.
Roman waited.
She wiped it again.
“It’s clean.”
“I know.”
“You’re doing this deliberately.”
“Doing what?”
“Making me wait.”
Clare smiled.
Five more seconds.
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“Friday works.”
He exhaled.
Clare laughed.
The most feared man in Chicago had discovered an entirely new form of psychological warfare.
Asking a woman on a date.
Their first real courtship was imperfect.
Roman’s first dinner reservation involved a private room, a driver and enough planning to evacuate a government.
Clare tolerated exactly one evening.
“For the next date,” she told him, “I want something normal.”
“I require a definition.”
“That sentence is exactly why.”
He learned.
The enormous arrangements of roses became six sunflowers because Clare had once mentioned loving them.
“You remembered?”
“Yes.”
There was no audience.
No performance.
Just yes.
He waited for her after closing instead of shutting down the bakery.
He asked before making plans.
He listened when she said no.
Once Clare canceled dinner because Jenna called in sick.
Roman stood at the counter while Clare prepared for the evening rush.
“You’re not angry?” she asked.
“You own a business.”
“That has never stopped you from being annoying before.”
“I can be annoying tomorrow.”
Clare smiled.
“That’s surprisingly mature.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“With whom?”
“You.”
“Terrible choice.”
“The results have been significant.”
Weeks passed.
Lily still came to Honey & Rye, but she no longer needed Clare to act as a bridge between herself and Roman.
They argued now.
Sometimes loudly.
That was healthier than silence.
One afternoon Lily came in furious because Roman would not let her take a weekend trip without giving him an address.
“He’s impossible.”
“Probably.”
“You’re supposed to agree with me.”
“I did.”
“You’re supposed to fix him.”
Clare smiled.
“No, sweetheart. Nobody’s supposed to fix anybody.”
Lily stopped.
Then smiled too.
On another afternoon, she brought a small framed photograph.
It showed Lily beside her mother Elena at one of Honey & Rye’s tables.
A cinnamon roll sat between them.
Clare touched the frame.
“I found it in Mom’s phone backup.”
Roman stood behind her.
His face changed when he saw his sister.
For a moment nobody spoke.
Then Lily said, “She already knew Clare before we did.”
Roman looked at Clare.
“Apparently my sister had better judgment.”
Clare swallowed against the sudden ache in her throat.
“Don’t get emotional. It’s unsettling.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
Lily rolled her eyes.
“You two are exhausting.”
But she was smiling.
By spring, Honey & Rye had an extra chair near the back window.
Nobody admitted it belonged to Roman.
Everyone knew.
One evening after closing, he arrived alone.
No flowers.
No driver waiting at the curb.
No mysterious excuse.
Clare leaned against the counter.
“You’re losing your touch.”
“I wanted to ask you something.”
His tone made her straighten.
Roman had faced men who hated him without blinking.
He had entered hostile rooms calmly.
Now he stood beneath the warm pendant lights of a neighborhood bakery looking almost uncomfortable.
Clare understood before he spoke.
And suddenly she was nervous too.
“The arrangement ended months ago,” Roman said.
“Yes.”
“My family doesn’t need convincing.”
“No.”
“Lily doesn’t need you to make me speak anymore.”
“She might dispute that occasionally.”
His mouth curved.
“And there’s nobody watching.”
Clare glanced dramatically around the empty bakery.
“Unless you hid Sophia in the kitchen.”
“I considered it.”
She laughed.
Roman became serious.
“I spent a long time believing that if something mattered enough, I could control the outcome. Negotiate better. Pay more. Apply pressure. Find leverage.”
“You tried most of those on me.”
“You threw flour at me.”
“You deserved it.”
“I did.”
Clare blinked.
“That may be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
Roman stepped closer.
“But none of those things work here.”
“No.”
“I know.”
There was no certainty in his face now.
That mattered.
“I want a real relationship with you, Clare.”
Her heart hammered.
“Not an arrangement. Not something for my family. Not something I can define in advance so I know exactly how it ends.”
Clare studied him.
“You told everyone I was your girlfriend before you even asked me.”
“That was easier.”
“Than what?”
The faint humor disappeared from his eyes.
“Asking you and knowing you could say no.”
Clare went quiet.
There it was.
The one thing Roman Duca’s money could not buy.
The one thing his reputation could not intimidate.
The one thing power could never guarantee.
Her choice.
Clare let the silence stretch.
Roman’s expression changed.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ve been thinking for twenty-three seconds.”
“You counted?”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“This is cruel.”
“No. This is uncertainty.”
“I dislike uncertainty.”
“I know.”
“And that makes you happy.”
“Very.”
Roman laughed.
A real laugh.
The same kind Clare had watched Lily pull from him months ago, back when grief had filled every empty place between them.
Clare stepped closer.
Roman stopped laughing.
“Yes,” she said.
His entire face changed.
“That’s your answer. Don’t make me reconsider it.”
Roman lifted one hand toward her.
Then stopped.
Even now.
Even after yes.
Clare understood the question.
She smiled.
“You can kiss me.”
Roman did.
There was no family watching.
No audience to convince.
No arrangement requiring authenticity.
No woman in the room judging whether Clare’s body looked right beside his.
No aunt attempting to arrange a future.
No grieving teenager needing them to play a role.
Nothing fake remained.
When Roman eventually left that night, Clare stood at the window and watched him cross the quiet sidewalk.
The most feared man in the story walked away without having conquered anything.
He had not bought her affection.
He had not commanded it.
He had not frightened away another man or forced himself into her life.
He had done something far more difficult for someone accustomed to controlling outcomes.
He had changed.
He had asked.
And Clare had chosen him.
The next morning Roman returned at exactly 8:15.
Clare looked at the clock.
“You know you don’t need an excuse anymore.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
Roman placed a coffee beside the register and looked at her.
“I wanted to see my girlfriend.”
Clare narrowed her eyes.
For a moment Roman looked genuinely uncertain.
Then she walked around the counter, straightened the collar of his coat and smiled.
“At least you asked this time.”
Roman smiled back.
Behind them, Lily came through the door carrying her school bag.
“Oh, great,” she groaned. “Now it’s real.”
Clare laughed.
Roman reached for her hand, but even then he waited until she gave it willingly.
May you like
And perhaps that was why she held on.
THE END.
