Chapter 5 - The Baker's Heart
Life at the Riverdale estate was like stepping into another world.
For the first week, Clara didn't know what to do with herself.
She was used to waking up at five in the morning, running between double shifts, washing clothes in a laundromat, and eating cold soup over a sink.
Now, she had a massive, sunlit bedroom with a king-sized bed, a private balcony overlooking the Hudson, and an elderly housekeeper named Mrs. Gable who insisted on cooking her breakfast every morning.
Dominic was away during the day, handling his business, but he returned every evening at six.
He didn't demand anything from her. They ate dinner together at the long mahogany table in the dining room—not with guards, but just the two of them.
Slowly, the thick ice around Clara’s heart began to melt.
She learned that Dominic Hale was not the cold monster the neighborhood claimed. He was a man who had grown up an orphan in the rough streets of Belmont, who had built an empire to protect the people he cared about, and who carried his own heavy scars beneath his sharp suits.
One afternoon, feeling restless, Clara walked into the estate’s massive, commercial-grade kitchen.
Mrs. Gable was preparing dinner.
“Mrs. Gable,” Clara said politely. “Please... let me bake something. If I stay idle any longer, my brain is going to melt.”
Mrs. Gable laughed, handing her an apron. “Be my guest, child.”
Baking was Clara’s secret passion.
Before her mother had gotten sick, Clara had spent years learning how to make traditional pastries from her grandmother’s old handwritten recipes.
By the time Dominic returned home at six, the entire house smelled like heaven—cinnamon, warm butter, roasted pecans, and melted dark chocolate.
Dominic walked into the kitchen, stopping in his tracks.
Clara was standing by the marble island, wearing a flour-dusted apron over a simple sun-dress. Her hair was pinned up messy, her cheeks flushed pink from the oven heat, a warm, bright smile on her face as she pulled a tray of fresh pecan rolls from the oven.
She looked radiant.
Dominic stared at her, his dark eyes softening completely.
“What is all this?” Dominic asked, stepping closer.
“Pecan rolls and cannoli shells,” Clara said proudly, holding out a plate. “Try one. Before you tell me I shouldn't be working.”
Dominic took a pecan roll, biting into the warm, flaky pastry.
His eyes closed for a second.
“My God, Clara,” Dominic whispered, looking at the pastry in genuine shock. “This is better than anything in Little Italy.”
Clara flushed with pride, her heart doing a happy little flip.
“My dream... before everything happened,” Clara admitted softly, looking at her floury hands, “was to open a small bakery. A sweet shop with hot coffee, fresh bread, and tables where people could sit without feeling rushed.”
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Dominic looked at her—at her passion, her talent, and the bright light in her hazel eyes.
“A bakery,” Dominic repeated quietly, a subtle idea taking root in his mind.
