Chapter 2: Cinnamon and Chaos

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.”