The name Dylan Burke echoed in Nevaeh's head long after the laptop screen went black. The Scion of Toronto's Underworld. The phrase was a brand, searing itself into her mind, burning away the sweet denial she had wrapped herself in. She sat alone in the quiet, sterile darkness of her café, the digital horror on the screen illuminating the raw fear on her face.
Her sanctuary—a place built on flour, sugar, and sheer, exhausting dreams—was not a safe haven. It was a stone's throw from the heart of a notoriously powerful crime family. And the head of that family, the king in his expensive black suit, had just paid her a personal, calculating visit.
She tried to push the fear away, but it clung to her like a fine layer of flour that wouldn't brush off. Her mind raced, replaying every moment of the previous day: the way he had watched her, the casual authority of his men, the purposeful placement of that business card. It wasn't a coincidence. It wasn't a chance encounter. It was a calculated move.
But why? Why her? Why Sweet Kneads?
A deep-seated, desperate need to understand—to control this terrifying new variable—overrode her instinct to run. She couldn't call Willow and dump this on her friends. Not yet. She needed facts, not communal panic.
She turned her phone back on, the battery nearly dead, and began a more intensive, terrifying search. Articles and blogs, buried deep beneath the corporate announcements of Burke Capital, painted a portrait of the Burke family that was both terrifying and strangely vulnerable.
They ran legitimate businesses—real estate, construction, hospitality—as polished fronts for a criminal enterprise that was the worst-kept secret in the city. A blurred photo of Dylan's father, a grim-faced old man with an imposing, ruthless stare, appeared next to a headline about a recent police raid that had shaken the foundations of the organization. The Burke family, according to the articles, was a dying dynasty, an aging titan struggling to maintain its grip—a fact that Dylan himself, the Scion, was reportedly fighting to change.
But Nevaeh's eyes kept being drawn back to the simple, cold logic of business. She found a single line in a detailed finance profile: "Burke & Sons Real Estate recently acquired a prime strip of downtown properties for a new luxury condominium development."
Her heart jumped into her throat, a frantic, trapped bird. Could it be that simple? She scrolled through a list of addresses. The properties were clustered just a few blocks from her own burgeoning block. It was a terrifyingly simple explanation. Her bakery, situated on a prime corner of an upcoming block, was not a target because of her; it was a prime target for acquisition.
He didn't want her; he wanted her property.
The thought was a chilling, blessed relief. It wasn't personal; it was just business. And business, no matter how cold or criminal, was something she could understand, something she could fight with logic and a good lawyer, not pure, helpless terror.
The sun rose, painting the Toronto skyline in glorious shades of industrial pink and harsh orange, and still, Nevaeh didn't sleep. Instead, she put on fresh clothes—a professional-looking, dark blouse and slacks, attempting to project a competence she was far from feeling. She grabbed her keys and the crumpled Burke business card.
She wasn't going to let this man intimidate her into selling. If this was purely about her building, she needed to know everything about her lease, her neighborhood, and her opponent.
*~*~*~*
She drove the short distance to the address listed on the real estate firm's profile—a sleek, modern skyscraper of reflective glass and cold steel that stood in brutal contrast to the warm, old brick buildings of her neighborhood. Burke Capital occupied the top floors.
The lobby was a cathedral of corporate power, a symphony of chrome, polished marble, and hushed efficiency. The air smelled of money and sterile, expensive disinfectant—a world away from the warm, chaotic aroma of her bakery.
She took the express elevator to the 15th floor, her stomach twisted into a knot of nervous energy. The ascent was silent and terrifyingly fast, carrying her high above the streets she knew and into his domain.
The doors hissed open onto a reception area that felt like the bridge of a silent ship. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning, panoramic, unforgiving view of the entire city. The receptionist, impeccably dressed in a tailored dove-gray suit, sat at a minimalist desk carved from a single slab of obsidian.
Nevaeh approached the desk, the polished floor cold beneath her sensible shoes. "I have an appointment with Mr. Burke," she said, the lie feeling heavy and brittle on her tongue.
The receptionist's eyebrow arched slightly, her gaze assessing Nevaeh from her slightly flushed face to her determined posture. "Which Mr. Burke?" she asked, her tone polite but laced with a clear hint of suspicion and hierarchy.
"Dylan Burke," Nevaeh said, her voice shaking just a little despite her best efforts.
The receptionist's entire demeanor changed, the cold professionalism instantly melting into something subtle but recognizable: fear. The woman stared at Nevaeh for a weighted moment, her eyes questioning Nevaeh's sanity, before picking up the phone and pressing a single, dedicated button.
"Mr. Burke," she said into the receiver, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "A Miss Harper is here to see you. She... did not call ahead."
Nevaeh's blood ran cold. He was here. He wasn't some shadowy figure; he was here, in a polished office, at the undisputed head of his empire. This was his throne.
A heavy, dark-wood door opened soundlessly behind the receptionist's desk, and the man from her grand opening walked out. He looked just as imposing as he had in her cafe, but here, surrounded by the trappings of power and the silence of absolute control, he seemed ten times more dangerous.
He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons deliberately undone a calculated display of casual power. The sleeves were rolled up high and neat, revealing muscular forearms and a flash of black, serpentine ink she hadn't noticed before a tattoo that looked like coiling smoke rising from below the cuff.
His gaze, a familiar dark intensity that seemed to bypass her clothes and her composure to settle directly on her core fear, swept over her.
A slow, utterly predatory smile spread across his face, not reaching his eyes. It was a smile of a trap sprung. "Miss Harper," Dylan Burke said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that carried perfectly in the quiet space. "I wasn't expecting you to come so soon. I was just about to pay you a visit. I confess, I'm flattered by your eagerness."
He motioned her toward his office, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Please, come in," he commanded, gesturing with a hand that was deceptively gentle. "We have a lot to talk about, particularly regarding that contract I left with my men, and the future of your little bakery."
Nevaeh felt the full weight of her decision. She hadn't walked into a corporate office; she had walked into a spider's web, and the spider was waiting. The Sugar of her dream was about to meet the Smoke of his business, and she knew the outcome was already written. She took a single, slow step forward, the chrome floor suddenly feeling like unforgiving ice beneath her feet. She was entering the lion's den.