The boardroom was silent—oppressively so. Even the hum of the central air conditioning seemed to still in the presence of Zayden Yllanes, the man whose name alone could raise stock prices—or crush them.

He sat at the head of the long, obsidian table, his tailored suit untouched by even a wrinkle, a glass of untouched scotch on the table beside his tablet. His silver watch glinted beneath the sharp cuff of his sleeve. Unmoving. Unforgiving.

The presentation had ended five minutes ago. No one had spoken since.

Across the table, executives from a mid-level tech firm—three of them, all sweating through their collared shirts—shifted uncomfortably. Their numbers were solid. Their projections promising. Their growth, evident. They had rehearsed this for weeks. Yet none of that mattered.

Because Zayden’s expression didn’t change. Not once.

He tapped the screen in front of him, closed the portfolio file, and finally lifted his eyes. Slate-gray. Icy. Sharp enough to cut through steel.

“Mr. Yllanes, if you have any questions—” the tech firm's CEO began, his voice cracking from the weight of the room.

“I don’t,” Zayden said simply.

The room seemed to grow ten degrees colder.

“Then... can we assume your interest in the acquisition remains?” one of the younger execs dared to ask.

Zayden leaned back slowly, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. He looked at them—not like people, but problems. Temporary, irritating, solvable.

“This merger,” he said coolly, “was a waste of my time. Your valuation is inflated, your data security is laughable, and your projected reach is delusional at best.”

“But—”

“I don’t do ‘but,’” he cut in. “You’re lucky I stayed this long.”

The lead CEO tried again, desperation slipping into his voice. “Our algorithm—”

“Can’t even protect itself from third-tier breaches. My team hacked your beta version in under seven minutes.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just stunned. It was shattering.

Zayden stood, buttoning his coat with a snap of fabric and finality. “You came here thinking I was another investor desperate to buy innovation. You were wrong.” He paused. “I don’t buy ideas. I buy dominance. Yours doesn’t qualify.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the room.

Just like that—deal dead.

The heavy glass door shut behind him like a guillotine.

He strode down the marble-floored corridor of Yllanes Tower, eyes forward, expression unreadable. Employees parted for him instinctively, murmuring respectful greetings under their breath.

“Mr. Yllanes.”

“Sir.”

He didn’t acknowledge a single one.

Only Yula, her composed and sharp-eyed executive assistant, dared to fall in step with him.

“They're calling it a disaster,” she said calmly, tapping her tablet. “Three news outlets already leaked your decision.”

“Good,” Zayden replied.

“Stock prices are shifting. Y-Tech just dropped six percent.”

“Should’ve dropped ten. They’re overvalued.”

Yula gave a small nod. She’d long since learned that Zayden didn’t need compliments. Only results.

She tried again. “The board wants to schedule a follow-up on the Roces deal.”

“Declined.”

“And the governor’s daughter’s engagement party? Are we confirming attendance?”

Zayden stopped walking.

He turned his head slightly. “Why would I confirm attendance to a party I never agreed to?”

Yula blinked. “Her father is… expecting it.”

“I don’t entertain expectations. Especially not sentimental ones.” He looked away. “Send a fruit basket.”

“And what would you like the card to say?”

Zayden didn’t miss a beat. “Condolences on the death of your daughter's standards.”

Yula tried not to smile. She failed.

When Zayden entered his private office—more a glass citadel than a room—he finally loosened the knot of his tie.

Outside, the skyline of the city stretched endlessly. Gray buildings. Gray sky. A world that suited him.

He didn’t believe in distractions. Or emotion. Or love.

All of those had failed him once. And once was enough.

He sat at his desk and swiped open a new file.

Another company. Another deal.

Another mountain to crush.

Until—

Crash.

The sound came from just outside his office door. A loud thud. Muffled shouting. Papers? Maybe something broken.

Zayden frowned. “Yula?”

No answer.

Then—

The door swung open, wide and without warning.

And in came a girl covered in coffee, hair a mess, apron stained with frosting, clutching a broken tray and the handle of a fallen catering cart. Her eyes wide. Panicked. Absolutely horrified.

She froze when she saw him.

He froze when he saw her.

Time hung awkwardly between them.

“…This isn’t the kitchen,” she whispered.

Zayden’s eyes narrowed.

“No,” he said, rising slowly from his chair.

“This is the top floor, isn’t it?” she asked with a small, nervous laugh.

He said nothing.

“I… I swear I was just trying to find the executive lounge to deliver the— Oh god, your floor is like a maze.”

Still nothing.

“…Are you—” she pointed at him carefully, “Mr. Yllanes?”

Zayden took one slow step forward.

“You’re trespassing.”

“I swear I’m not! I’m the pastry supplier—Sweet Crumbs! I brought croissants! There’s just—”

His gaze dropped to her tray. Half-broken. Smeared with chocolate.

“—been a small accident,” she finished.

He looked back up at her. The frosting on her apron. The hair stuck to her forehead. The nervous flush in her cheeks. The absolute absurdity of her even being on this floor.

And yet, for the first time in a long while…

Zayden Yllanes didn’t feel cold.

He didn’t smile, not even a twitch of one.

But something in his world shifted.

And she—whoever she was—had just become his next problem.

"Out!!!"

Zayden had been known to stay calm through crises that made seasoned executives break into sweats.

But this?

This was ridiculous.

“The tycoon rejected the deal?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Yula, standing a safe distance from his desk, gave a small nod. “He’s decided to work with Ramos & Co. instead. The chairman… values family representation. The CEO’s son just got engaged last month.”

Zayden leaned back, the glass of scotch untouched beside him. “So, because I’m not married, I’m suddenly unfit to lead a multinational partnership?”

“I believe his exact words were… ‘I prefer investing in men who understand commitment.’”

Zayden’s jaw clenched. He stood, turning his back to the skyline. The windows reflected his form — crisp, sharp, unreadable.

“Get me a list of every asset Ramos & Co. owns in the next two hours. If I can't buy the deal, I’ll buy everything around it.”

Yula opened her tablet with a nod. “Understood, sir.”

He stared out at the city like it was a chessboard. Marriage. What a ridiculous requirement. As if a ring on a finger proved competence. He had built Yllanes Industries from a legacy built on ruin. He didn’t need a family. He didn’t need love.

He needed control.

And now that control was slipping. Because of sentiment.

Because of marriage.

He turned sharply and grabbed his jacket. “Clear my calendar. I’m going down to the investors’ branch.”

Yula blinked. “Now? But the press—”

“They want a husband?” he said tightly, “I’ll remind them what power looks like—ring or not.”

Downstairs, in the glittering executive lounge on the 23rd floor, waiters in white gloves moved in smooth efficiency. Crystal glasses chimed. The air smelled of floral arrangements, overpriced wine, and—

Cinnamon.

Too strong.

Too sweet.

And then—

Splash.

Crash.

A gasp rang out.

The crowd parted slightly as a silver catering cart lurched sideways, a paper cup flying from its top in a perfect arc. It soared—

And landed.

Right on Zayden’s chest.

The splash was instant. Scalding. Brown. Sticky.

His crisp, custom charcoal-gray suit soaked with spiced cinnamon coffee.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then he looked up.

Her again.

Frosting girl.

This time she wasn’t just holding a broken tray. She was holding an empty cup, her apron dusted in powdered sugar, and her eyes full of horror.

“I—I—Oh no.”

Zayden did not speak. His hands remained at his sides. His expression unchanged.

But his aura?

Lethal.

“Sir, I—let me just—” Anya reached instinctively for a napkin. “It’s just cinnamon latte! The house blend! Not very acidic, so it shouldn’t stain too—”

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” His voice was quiet. Frigid. Laced with restraint.

“I didn’t see you there! You were just—your suit—look, I can—”

“You’ve now ruined my day twice.”

Anya winced, shrinking in on herself. “I really didn’t mean to—”

“Security,” he said sharply, eyes locked on hers. “Remove her.”

Her jaw dropped. “What? Wait—no, please—I'm not even done setting up the pastry table—"

“Then consider it your final delivery.”

The room buzzed with murmurs. Executives whispered. Reporters took discreet photos. Anya felt like she was being swallowed whole.

“I’m just the baker,” she whispered, almost to herself.

He turned fully toward her, coffee dripping from his collar.

“No,” he said icily.

“You’re the disaster that won’t go away.”

She was escorted out ten minutes later, her head down, humiliated.

But she didn’t cry.

Not until she reached the service elevator and let the door shut behind her.

And Zayden? He returned to the mirror-polished ballroom, a fresh jacket on, face unreadable—but mind burning.

He couldn’t focus on the speeches.

He couldn’t enjoy the applause.

Because the scent of cinnamon clung to his skin.

And for some reason, so did her voice.

Anya didn’t come to the city to get married.

She came to save her bakery.

Her grandmother’s legacy. Her childhood haven. The only thing she had left after her parents passed and the debts piled high.

Sweet Crumbs wasn’t just a shop—it was her heart. And lately, that heart had been slowly caving in.

Rent increases. Expired ovens. Fewer customers.

Now, after spilling cinnamon latte on a man who looked like he could buy the entire building and still consider it a bad investment, she might’ve just made things worse.

The delivery contract she’d landed for Yllanes Tower was supposed to save her for at least a few more months.

Now it was gone.

Because of him.

She was still wiping tears off her cheeks when her phone rang.

Unknown number.

She hesitated, then answered, her voice a tired whisper.

“H-Hello?”

“Basement parking. Service elevator. Five minutes. Alone.”

Click.

She stared at the phone.

Was that—?

No. It couldn’t be.

But something told her it was.

A loanshark..

Five minutes later, Anya stepped into the cold, gray basement of the tower, goosebumps running down her arms as the chill crept in. She was still wearing her sugar-dusted apron, her curls tied messily back, and the faint smell of cinnamon clinging to her skin.

No loanshark but there someone here.

Zayden Yllanes stood beside a sleek black car, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Clean suit. Hair combed. Same steel eyes.

As if her earlier coffee disaster had never happened.

“I—uh…” Anya looked around. “Should I be worried that you’re calling me to parking lots now? Or is this where you dump the bodies?”

He didn’t laugh. Of course, he didn’t.

“Get in the car.”

“I—what?”

“You want your bakery saved, don’t you?”

Anya hesitated. Her heart thumped.

She slid into the passenger seat.

The doors sealed with a soft click.

Zayden didn’t look at her as he spoke.

“A year.”

“…What?”

“One year. That’s all I need.”

“For what? I’m not catering again, if that’s—”

He finally turned to face her. And something in his voice dropped—low, firm, final.

“To be my wife.”

Anya blinked.

Laughed.

Waited for a punchline.

There wasn’t one.

“…You want me to—be your wife?”

He nodded once.

“Are you—are you insane?” she blurted.

“No.”

“Then why would you—why me?”

Zayden's jaw ticked. “A business partner backed out of a billion-peso deal. He values ‘family men.’ Wants proof of stability. I don’t have time for courtship or games. I need someone believable.”

“And I’m believable?”

“You’re forgettable,” he said flatly.

She flinched.

“But you’re also real. Local. You blush in front of cameras. You’ve got a bakery people love. You’re the kind of story the media eats up.”

Her lips parted in disbelief. “You’re trying to spin this like a PR fairytale?”

“I’m offering you win win situation.”

“No, you’re offering me a cage.”

He leaned closer. “It’s a deal. Nothing more.”

“…What’s in it for me?”

“Your bakery’s rent. Your grandmother’s debt. New equipment. A second branch if you behave.”

Anya stared at him, blood pounding in her ears.

“And if I say no?”

“Then your contract with my building remains canceled. I can’t promise the surrounding businesses will continue working with you either.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“That’s blackmail.”

“That’s negotiation.”

She turned away, heart racing. “You can’t just control people like that.”

“I can,” he said simply. “And I do.”

Silence filled the car.

She should say no. She should run. She should call a lawyer or scream or throw cinnamon in his face.

But then she remembered the cracked tiles in her kitchen. The bills stacked on her counter. The photo of her grandmother holding a ribbon on opening day, smiling so proudly.

One year.

It wasn’t forever.

“You won’t touch me,” she whispered.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t kiss me. No—no real wedding night stuff.”

Zayden’s lips quirked into something that could’ve been a smirk—or a warning.

“Not unless you beg.”

She glared. “I won’t.”

“Then it won’t be a problem.”

Anya looked at her hands. Trembling. Flour still dusted her nails.

“I want everything in writing. I want to keep my last name. I get to leave after a year without strings. And I swear, if you ever humiliate me in public, I will burn your empire to the ground with buttercream.”

Zayden nodded once.

“Deal.”

That night, Anya went home with a signed contract.

And Zayden?

He went home with something more dangerous:

A fake wife who smelled like cinnamon…

…and a plan that had just gotten complicated.