Elara's POV
Her feet were moving. A strange, detached part of her brain watched them go, as if she were floating above the crowd, observing a lab experiment. Left, right, left. Toward the arch. The $2,000 wasn't a number anymore; it was a glowing, pulsing lure in the dark sea of her panic. A finish line. Just get to the finish line. Get the money. Save the bakery. The thought was a drumbeat in time with her steps. She just needed a target. Not friendly. Friendly could lead to conversation, to expectations, to complications, to him maybe wanting her number. She needed someone who looked like they'd want this bizarre interaction to be over as quickly and painlessly as possible. Someone who wouldn't try to follow up. Someone who would forget her face the moment she walked away.
Her gaze landed and stuck. A predator's focus is narrowing. Him.
He was an island. A dark, still point in the swirling stream of color and noise. Tall. A long, black wool coat that screamed restrained money and power. He wasn't watching the lights or the rides. He was simply… observing. His face was all sharp, clean lines and winter handsome in a way that felt cold, like a marble statue in a lonely gallery. He looked bored, impatient, and profoundly, deeply unapproachable. Perfect, she thought, the word a bitter pill. A grumpy, rich guy. He'll be annoyed, maybe insulted, and just want me to disappear. He won't see it as an invitation. He'll see it as a nuisance. Perfect. He was exactly what she needed: a means to an end, a transaction, not a person.
"Him," she heard herself say to Mia, her voice belonging to someone much braver, someone who wasn't shaking inside. It sounded flat, determined. A death row inmate names their last meal.
"Whoa. He's… intense. Okay. Go get your money, tiger!" Mia gave her a gentle, propelling shove.
The noise of the carnival funneled away into a distant, tinny tunnel sound. All she could hear was the roaring rush of her own blood in her ears. Five seconds. In and out. It's nothing. Less than nothing. A transaction. Like swiping a credit card. She walked toward him, a soldier marching to her own bizarre, humiliating doom. Each step felt heavy, like wading through mud. Don't think. Just do. Don't think about his eyes. Don't think about what you're about to do. Just do it and run. Her mind was a chant of instructions, a desperate attempt to override the screaming part of her that wanted to turn and flee.
He glanced at her as she approached. His eyes were a cool, distant gray, like the sky over the ocean just before a storm. No smile. No flicker of curiosity. Just a flat, assessing look. It was more terrifying than a scowl. A scowl was a human emotion. This was… an appraisal. Like she was a piece of furniture that had suddenly moved. Oh God, this is a mistake. Abort. Abort. But her body kept moving, locked on its mission. The $2,000 glowed brighter. The image of the painted gingerbread man, painted over by strangers, flashed in her mind. For the bakery. For home.
She stopped in front of him. He was taller up close, his presence seeming to block out the whirl of fairy lights behind him. He smelled like cold air and something expensive, like sandalwood and leather. Her mouth opened. She had a little speech prepared. It's for a bet, I'm so sorry, this is really weird, but her throat sealed shut. Fear was a physical thing, a clamp of ice on her vocal cords. The words died before they were born. She couldn't speak. She could only act.
So, her body took over. A survival mechanism: complete the mission, suffer the consequences later. Just get it over with.
She grabbed the lush, expensive wool of his coat lapels, stood on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.
For one endless, suspended second, nothing. He was perfectly, utterly still. A statue. His lips were surprisingly warm, a shocking contrast to the cold air and her own frozen fear. She started the frantic count in her head, a desperate mantra. One… two… Her eyes were wide open, staring at the sharp line of his jaw. Three… This was the longest five seconds of her life. Four… She could feel the slight stubble on his upper lip. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his skin. The world had shrunk to this point of contact, this terrible, intimate mistake.
Then the world detonated.
A vise-like hand of pure steel clamped on her shoulder, yanking her back so hard her teeth snapped together. Two enormous men in dark suits materialized from the shadows she hadn't even noticed. They were walls of muscle and silent menace, blocking the cheerful carnival lights, casting her in sudden, cold shade. Bodyguards. Oh my God, he has bodyguards. The realization was a bucket of ice water. This wasn't just a rich guy. This was something else. Something dangerous. The kind of man who needed protection in the middle of a Christmas carnival. What had she done?
The man, the statue held up a single, gloved finger. The two giants froze in place, but their hands stayed inside their jackets, their eyes, hidden behind sunglasses despite the night, locked on her with terrifying intensity. They have guns. They have guns under their jackets. Her breath hitched, panic screaming through every nerve. This was worse than she could have imagined. She hadn't just kissed a stranger. She'd kissed a king, a warlord, a monster. And now his monsters were staring at her.
He looked down. The bored ice was gone. Shattered. Replaced by something razor-sharp, terrifyingly focused, and utterly, chillingly calm. He wasn't angry. He was… calculating. His gaze scanned her face, her wide, frightened eyes, her parted, shocked lips like he was memorizing every detail for a police sketch. Or a hit list. He wasn't seeing a person. He was seeing a problem. A variable. A threat.
Time stopped. The carnival sounds the music, but the laughter they were gone. There was only the pounding of her heart, the cold fear in her veins, and the gray eyes that seemed to see right through her, down to the desperate, stupid girl underneath.
He leaned down. His mouth brushed her ear, and his voice was a low, quiet ripple that cut through the carnival din and froze the very marrow in her bones.
"You have no idea what you just started, Piccola."
The word was foreign, soft, and felt like the gravest, most dangerous threat she'd ever heard. It wasn't a question. It was a promise. A sentence. In that single word, she heard her future unraveling. The $2,000 felt like ash in her mind. The bakery, her home, her parents' legacy, it all seemed laughably small and far away, eclipsed by the cold, hard reality standing before her. She had tried to solve one problem and had instead unleashed a hurricane.
His breath was warm against her ear, a horrifying contrast to the ice in his voice. Piccola. Little one. It was demeaning. Possessive. Terrifying. It marked her as his, in some way she didn't understand but knew instinctively was true. She was no longer Elara, the baker. She was Piccola, the girl who made a mistake. And mistakes, with men like him, had consequences she couldn't even fathom.
She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She was trapped in his gaze, in the grip of his bodyguard, in the consequences of her own desperation. The world had tilted on its axis, and she was sliding off into the void.
He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. The warning was clear. The threat was implicit in his stillness, in the presence of his guards, in the cold calculation in his eyes. She had started something. And she had no idea how to stop it.
The moment stretched, thin and taut. Then, he gave a nearly imperceptible nod to the guard holding her. The pressure on her shoulder eased, just slightly. It wasn't freedom. It was a stay of execution. A chance to run.
And run she did.