"Kira, we haven't seen you in months," Sheila May, the bakery owner, said excitedly when Kira walked in. She beamed and hurried around the counter to give Kira a hug.
Sheila May was short and pleasantly plump, with unnaturally brassy red hair always thrown into a messy bun. She wore heavy makeup and had glasses perched at the tip of her nose. She had a habit of peering over them when talking to someone, making her look like a strict librarian. She hugged Kira tightly—despite Kira being only a couple of inches taller—enveloping her in a strong cloud of perfume.
Sheila May had been a talented pastry chef in her younger years before retiring and opening this bakery. Now, she ran baking workshops for kids and adults alike. She had often tried to get Kira to help out with some of the classes, but Kira had always resisted. Teaching felt like a final admission that she wasn't going to make it as a professional baker. And as she had told Becky, she didn't think she had the patience or passion to guide others in mastering the craft. That realization made her feel selfish.
Even though she hadn't worked in a proper bakery for over three years, she had never completely given up on her dream. But now, with the pregnancy, she had to face the truth. It was time to accept reality and move forward.
"I've been dealing with some personal stuff," Kira explained. "Can I rent some time in the kitchen?"
"Of course you can," Sheila May said with a wave of her hand. "It's quiet right now, and I've got no classes scheduled."
"Thanks, Sheila May."
Ten minutes later, as she started kneading dough, she could feel the tension easing from her muscles. The familiar rhythm of the process felt like a warm, comforting embrace. She cleared her mind and focused only on her movements—measuring, mixing, kneading.
She had brought her own playlist, and as soft piano music played in the background, she carefully shaped the dough. She worked slowly, respecting the fatigue that still lingered due to her pregnancy.
By the time she started rolling out the dough for pastries, she could feel a slight ache in her wrist, but she kept going. She wanted her child to grow up surrounded by the joy of baking, just as she had. If her child didn't love it as much as she did, that was fine too—she just hoped they would find something that brought them happiness.
She reached for a tray of cupcakes she had decorated earlier and carefully piped the final touches of frosting. As she switched to another tray, her wrist suddenly gave out, and the piping bag slipped from her fingers, smearing frosting all over the counter.
Frustrated, she let out an annoyed sigh and gripped the edge of the counter.
"Ugh! So stupid," she muttered. She should have known this would happen. It always did. Three years after her accident, and she still kept pushing herself too far. She was stubborn to a fault.
Shaking her head, she cleaned up the mess and moved on to simpler tasks, finishing earlier than she had planned. Her body felt unusually drained, another reminder that—even though she wasn't showing yet—the pregnancy was already changing her. Normally, she could bake for hours without feeling this exhausted.
Sheila May was reading a romance novel behind the counter when Kira left the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She frowned when she noticed Kira's tired posture.
"Have you been pushing yourself too hard again?" she asked, looking at Kira over the top of her glasses.
"No more than usual," Kira replied with a shrug, tossing the towel around her neck. She hadn't changed out of her baking clothes—just pulled on a hoodie to keep warm. Her apartment was only a few minutes away, and she would be home and in the shower soon. That was one of the reasons she had chosen to live there, despite all its other issues.
As she stepped outside, she was relieved to see that the drizzle had stopped, even though the wind had picked up. She tucked her hands into her pockets and lowered her head against the cold breeze, focusing on getting home quickly.
She was so lost in thought that she didn't see the tall figure standing at the entrance of her building until she was almost right in front of him.
Startled, she gasped and took a step back, her hand flying to her chest, ready to either scream or run—until she realized who it was.
Tesah Clover was standing there, looking down at her as if he barely recognized her.
"Miss Samia?"
God, why did he insist on calling her that?
"What do you want?" she asked, crossing her arms.
"I came to tell you that the paternity test results arrived today."
"I know."
"I want to assure you that you and the child will be taken care of."
"Just the child," she corrected him. His expression darkened.
"What?"
"You'll only be providing for the baby. I don't want anything from you."
"But the medical bills alone—"
"I'll handle it."
"Do you have a job yet?" he asked, his sharp gaze sweeping over her. Kira suddenly became very aware of how messy she must look—flour on her hoodie, her hair likely in disarray—but she refused to let it bother her.
"Not yet."
"The longer you stay unemployed, the harder it will be to find work in your…" He gestured vaguely at her stomach. "Your situation."
"I'll figure something out. It's none of your business." Kira brushed past him, hoping he'd take the hint and leave. But Tesah followed her up the stairs to the entrance.
"Maybe we should talk about these conditions of yours," he said. She turned to face him, feeling a little satisfaction that, standing a few steps above him, she could now meet his gaze directly.
"There's nothing left to talk about. For someone who prefers to keep his personal life simple, you're really being a nuisance."
"You don't know anything about me," he said, his voice tight.
"And you know even less about me," she shot back, leaning in until their faces were just inches apart.
"I know you're stubborn, pregnant, and unemployed. I know you're living in a terrible apartment and don't have the money to handle this pregnancy."
"Oh yeah? Then tell me my name, smart guy. Why do you keep calling me Miss Samia?"
"Not because I forgot your name, Kira," he murmured, his voice dropping lower as his eyes flickered to her lips. Kira cleared her throat, suddenly feeling warm and uneasy. She stepped back, but her heel caught the edge of the step, and she lost her balance.
She gasped, arms flailing as she tried to steady herself, but Tesah grabbed her elbows, keeping her from falling.
"I've got you. You're fine," he said.
Kira's hands gripped his forearms as she tried to catch her breath and shake off the shock. One of his hands moved up to cup her cheek.
"You've gone really pale. Are you okay?"
She started trembling slightly as the fear of falling faded.
"I'm fine," she said, though her teeth chattered slightly. "Just startled. Not like I was actually going to fall, right?"
"No," he agreed. "And even if you had, you probably would have landed on me. So you would've been okay."
"Falling freaks me out a little," she admitted, still feeling off balance.
"Because of the scar on your wrist?" he asked, as if he already knew the answer. She didn't respond, just stared at him in silence.
"I need to go," she finally said. "Let's not do this again anytime soon."
"Can I come up?"
She gave him a look of disbelief.
"What? No! You are not coming up."
"Then I guess we're having this conversation right here, in public?"
"Go ahead," she challenged. "You're the one who hates people knowing your business. I don't mind making a scene. I used to be a public performer."
He hesitated at that, but not for the reason she expected.
"You were? What kind of performer?"
She shrugged, uncomfortable with his sudden curiosity.
"Look, I just need five minutes of your time," he said. Taking a step down, he gave her some space, as if sensing she felt cornered. He raised his hands in surrender.
Kira looked past him, noticing his sleek black car parked by the curb. One of his bodyguards stood beside it, watching them silently.
"Hey, James" she called out, waving at the large, tattooed man in a dark suit and sunglasses. He lifted his hand in response.
"How's your new puppy? Still leaving surprises on the floor?"
"He's improving," James said, giving her a thumbs-up.
"Have you picked a name for him yet?"
"Piddles."
Kira laughed, aware that Tesah was watching the exchange with disbelief. His glare shifted to James, who simply stood with his arms folded, his stance shifting slightly to look more imposing.
"Can we focus?" Tesah said through clenched teeth.
Kira sighed. "Fine. You can come up. But only for five minutes. You're getting on my nerves."
"Noted."
Tesah followed her up the stairs to her fourth-floor apartment. His eyes stayed on her straight, narrow back, taking in the way she carried herself—still graceful, still elegant. It was one of the things he had always found so appealing about her.
He wasn't even sure why he was here. He had plans to meet someone later that evening, yet he couldn't stop thinking about Kira. Somehow, that had led him to her doorstep.
As they climbed, he started paying attention to their surroundings. The place was awful. The air smelled of damp and mold, the wallpaper was peeling, the stairwell light flickered, and the wooden steps creaked under their weight.
"Why don't you move in with Lexington?" he asked, puzzled. "Your cousin has a huge house. It's better than this dump."
She didn't respond, just kept walking.
"Why not take the elevator?" he asked when he noticed her beginning to limp. Her hand, which had lightly skimmed the railing earlier, was now gripping it tightly with every step.